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Chapter Text

The new house still smelled like fresh paint and cardboard the day the Christmas tree tried to kill Brenda Leigh Johnson.

Well…technically the tree wasn’t trying to kill her. But it was leaning aggressively, swaying like a drunk uncle at a wedding, and Brenda was holding onto it with both arms like she was trying to prevent a homicide. Hers.

“RUSTY!” Brenda hollered from somewhere inside the branches. “Baby, get over here and put your foot—no, your other foot!—on the stand before this thing crushes me!”

From the kitchen, Sharon Raydor—now legally Sharon O’Dwyer again, though everyone still called her Raydor out of habit—closed her eyes and counted silently to three before stepping into the living room. Rusty was dutifully trying to help, the twins were in the corner arguing over a plastic Big Bird ornament, and Brenda…well, Brenda had apparently lost a fight with ten feet of Douglas fir.

A real Douglas fir. Shipped from Oregon.

Special order.

All because Brenda had said, “Your mama and daddy know real Christmas trees, Sharon, and I want them to see we can do this right.”

“Alright,” Sharon said softly, hands on her hips, surveying the disaster. “What am I looking at?”

Brenda’s head popped out from behind the branches like a panicked woodland creature. “An emergency!”

“It’s not an emergency, it’s a tree,” Sharon said, but she was already staring at the thing with renewed intensity.

“No it is not just a tree,” Brenda insisted, wrestling the trunk back upright. “This is a full-bodied, Kennedy-approved, Massachusetts-authentic Douglas fir. Betsy O’Dwyer grew up with these! She’s gonna walk into our new house, Sharon, and I want her to say, ‘Oh, Brenda, what a lovely tree. How traditional.’ I want her to feel at home!”

Rusty looked up at Sharon with a miserable, sympathetic expression. “The tree’s from Oregon,” he muttered under his breath. “And I tried to tell her the eight-footer was big enough.”

“And I told you, Rusty,” Brenda growled, “that Aunt Kathy is comin’, and she is not the type of woman impressed by a skinny little tree that looks like it’s been on a hunger strike.”

Sharon sighed but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. Brenda was flushed, frazzled, and covered in pine needles. She looked radiant.

“Brenda, my sister does not care what this tree looks like. She’s too busy lecturing her staff about policy drafts to bother decorating. Last year she set up a tiny fake tree she bought at an overpriced Cambridge pop-up and announced it was ‘Scandinavian-inspired minimalism.’ It was basically a twig with lights.”

“Sharon, please understand,” Brenda begged. “I want to make a statement. I want this to be perfect.”

“Okay then,” Sharon said calmly. “Let’s stabilize the base.”

Penny, toddling across the rug with a candy cane in her fist, announced, “Mama! Tree go boom!”

Christian proudly echoed, “Boom!”

Honestly, they weren’t wrong.

Rusty repositioned his foot on the metal stand. “Brenda, let go on three. I’ll hold it while Sharon tightens the screws.”

Brenda sucked in a breath. “Okay. Count us off.”

Rusty nodded. “One, two—not yet,” he scolded as Brenda started to move, “THREE!”

They shifted. The stand scraped. The tree lurched left—then right—then tipped forward…

…straight toward Sharon.

“Oh, for—”

Sharon reached up, caught the entire top half of the tree in both hands, and leaned back to counterbalance the weight.

The twins applauded. Brenda shrieked. Rusty made a noise that sounded like a dying cat.

“Somebody,” Sharon grunted through clenched teeth, “tighten the stand.”

Brenda scrambled across the floor.

Rusty tightened the screws.

Sharon breathed.

The tree finally held still.

Brenda sat back on her heels and wiped her brow like she’d just negotiated a hostage situation. “There,” she said, breathless. “Perfect.”

Sharon tilted her head. “It’s listing to the right.”

Brenda screamed in frustration and flopped dramatically onto the rug.

Rusty gently stepped over her body. “I’ll get the leveler from the toolbox.”

As Rusty disappeared down the hall, he called back, “Hey, are we finally changing the names on the stockings this year, or am I still hanging up the ones that say Raydor and Johnson?”

Brenda groaned. Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose.

Penny crawled into Brenda’s lap. “Mama sad?”

Brenda sat up, hugging her. “Mama’s fine, baby. Mama’s just…” She glanced helplessly at Sharon. “…invested.”

Sharon knelt beside her and brushed a pine needle from Brenda’s hair. “Brenda Leigh…my family will love whatever you do. You don’t need to impress them.”

Brenda stared at her like she had just said the most naive thing on Earth. “Sharon, your mama was the head of nursing at Mass General Hospital for twenty-five years. She ran her house like a Level I trauma center. I need this tree to look…respectable.”

“It’s a tree,” Sharon repeated.

“It’s a symbol,” Brenda whispered urgently. “Of preparedness. Of taste. Of quality. Sharon, look at it—does it say quality to you?”

Before Sharon could answer, Christian toddled over and pressed a foam reindeer antler onto the lowest branch. It drooped immediately like a sad, melting question mark.

Sharon covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “It says something.”

Brenda groaned into her hands.

Rusty came back with the leveler, kneeling down to make an announcement. “Bad news…according to this thing, your tree is leaning like nine degrees to the south.”

Brenda wailed.

Sharon gently touched her arm. “Honey…why don’t we take a break? I’ll put the twins down for their nap, and you can—”

“No.” Brenda sat up suddenly, eyes blazing with determination. “We are not bein’ defeated by a tree. Not today. Not in my brand-new house. Not when Betsy O’Dwyer is gonna be walkin’ through that door tomorrow with her cardigan and her pearls and her Yankee judgment.

And my parents and Bobby and Joyce and Charlie are drivin’ all the way from Atlanta in Daddy’s RV,” Brenda added in rising panic. “That thing takes up half a neighborhood. We’re gonna look like we’re hostin’ a Georgia Tech tailgate party instead of Christmas!”

Rusty blinked. “Yankee judgment?”

“You’ll know it when you see it!” Brenda cried.

Sharon finally burst out laughing. “Alright. Alright.” She leaned forward, kissed Brenda’s cheek, and brushed another pine needle out of her hair. “We’ll fix the tree. Together.”

Brenda sighed, leaning into her. “Thank you.”

Christian plopped into Brenda’s lap. “Mama boom.”

Penny climbed into Sharon’s lap. “Tree ouch.”

Sharon stroked her daughter’s hair. “Yes. The tree almost went ouch.”

Rusty smirked. “So did Brenda.”

Brenda pointed at him. “Rusty Beck, if that tree had killed me, you’d be the one explainin’ it to your Atlanta grandparents.”

He turned pale.

Sharon laughed again.

The house was a mess of boxes, pine needles, extension cords, scattered ornaments, and one triumphant Douglas fir listing gently toward the kitchen…but it was theirs.

Their first Christmas in their new home.

Their first time hosting.

Their first holiday as a full, stitched-together Johnson-Raydor-Beck family…(even if, on paper, they all technically answered to O’Dwyer these days.)

Sharon looked around at the cozy chaos, the twins babbling, Rusty trying to straighten the tree, and Brenda brushing dirt off her jeans. Her heart felt full.

She leaned close to Brenda’s ear and whispered, “It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas.”

Brenda exhaled, relieved.

“Lord, I hope so, ’cause this tree’s already tryin’ to kill us.”

And with a soft laugh and two toddlers climbing all over them, they set back to work together.

Chapter Text

The first sign that the Johnson clan had reached Los Angeles wasn’t the usual rumble of Clay’s RV engine. It was the horn.

A long, blaring, celebratory honk that echoed through the neighborhood like someone had just won a tractor pull.

Brenda froze mid–tree adjustment.

Sharon froze mid–wiping pine needles off Penny’s sweater.

Rusty froze mid–untangling multiple extension cords.

The twins didn’t freeze at all and instead shrieked “HOOOONK!” and tried to imitate it.

“Oh Lord,” Brenda whispered. “They’re here.”

Sharon blinked rapidly. “Already? They weren’t supposed to arrive for another hour.”

“That’s Daddy,” Brenda said, hands fluttering. “He makes good time when he wants to.”

A second honk blasted through the street—longer, and somehow prouder.

Rusty peered out the window like a terrified meerkat. “Uh…the RV is…big. Very big. Monumentally big.”

Brenda marched toward the door, muttering, “It ain’t that bad.”

Rusty opened the curtain wider.

Brenda saw and gasped.

“Oh my dear God.”

Clay Johnson’s RV was enormous, gleaming, and covered—covered—in all kinds of festive magnetic decals. Reindeer. Snowmen. A cross. A Falcons sticker. A faded “Merry Christmas Y’all!” bumper magnet curled at the corner.

And tied to the roof in bungee cords were…

flamingos. Christmas flamingos wearing Santa hats.

Then the RV hissed and let out a mechanical whirrrr as Clay opened an exterior storage compartment.

Sharon leaned in closer, squinting. “What is he…”

Clay reached in and then something colossal rose out of the compartment like a monster emerging from the sea.

“Oh no,” Rusty whispered.

Brenda clutched the doorframe. “Daddy didn’t.”

Oh, but he did.

Clay Johnson triumphantly heaved out a seven-foot-tall animatronic Frosty the Snowman—the kind of garish, glowing lawn decoration that could guide low-flying aircraft. The kind that almost assuredly could be seen from space.

Frosty’s eyes lit up. Bright blue. A much too bright blue.

Then his whole body lit up in sections, like some kind of malfunctioning carnival ride.

“Darn battery’s goin’. Gonna need to plug him in right away.” Clay’s gruff grumbling could be heard from inside the house before Brenda could open the door.

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAAY!” Frosty shouted into the previously quiet night.

Rusty recoiled. “WHY DID IT TALK LIKE THAT?”

Brenda’s entire face lit up with childhood joy. “Frosty!”

Then, instantly, terror washed over her.

“Oh no. Oh no. Sharon, your family cannot see Frosty!” She ran outside to greet her Daddy, followed by Sharon and the twins.  

“Hi Daddy! Maybe you should leave Frosty in the RV!” she called to Clay from the portico.

But Clay was already dragging the enormous glowing snowman across the lawn.

He waved at his daughter. “MERRY CHRISTMAS, BABY GIRL!”

Then he turned and grinned at Sharon, proud as can be.

“Like him?” He nodded his chin toward the snowman in his arms that was much bigger than himself.

Sharon stared into Frosty’s pulsing LED soul.

“…He’s…very bright.”

Frosty jerked his mechanical arm in a stiff, unsettling wave.

Penny squealed, “FOSTEEEEE!”

Christian waved back.

Rusty muttered, “I refuse to sleep in view of that thing.”

Behind them, Willie Rae hurried down the RV steps, waving a dish towel like she was greeting navy soldiers returning from war.

“Oh, Brenda Leigh! Look at the house! Look at these palm trees! Oh I love it!”

“Willie Rae!” Sharon said warmly—before being hugged so hard she almost levitated.

The rest of the Johnson parade spilled out.

Bobby, holding three duffel bags and an extension cord.

Joyce, balancing a huge tin of cookies and a blanket.

Charlie, stepping out last with the exhausted hostility of a girl forced to travel across the country with her family in an RV covered in tacky holiday décor.

Charlie looked at Frosty.

Frosty blinked at her aggressively.

Charlie muttered, “Absolutely not.”

Rusty whispered, “She just might be my soulmate.”

Bobby greeted Sharon then clapped Brenda on the shoulder as he passed. “Hey, sis! RV made it in one piece, if you can believe it.”

Joyce leaned in to kiss her sisters-in-law on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, ladies. I brought cookies. Three kinds.”

Brenda’s sugar-seeking antennas perked up and she blinked. “Three?”

“Well, I didn’t know what y’all were in the mood for,” Joyce said, already bustling past her into the house. “So I made all of ’em.”

Sharon bit back a smile. “Southern hospitality at its finest," she giggled.

Charlie paused long enough to give each of her aunts a quick, perfunctory hug—still refusing to make actual eye contact—then trudged past with her backpack, muttering about the heat, the flamingos, and whether any of this was even legal.

*

Inside the house, mayhem immediately bloomed.

Clay insisted on plugging in Frosty right away. When he did, the snowman lit up so brightly this time the entire yard glowed blue and white.

A neighbor across the street looked out the window in horror, shielded her eyes, and closed her blinds.

Brenda squeaked, “Daddy, maybe—maybe we don’t turn him on yet? Just until the O’Dwyers get here?”

Clay frowned. “Why? Frosty’s festive!”

“He’s…enthusiastic,” Sharon offered delicately.

Frosty’s arm began waving again, stuttering like an animatronic having an aneurysm.

Rusty flinched. “It’s moving in slow motion now. Why is it moving in slow motion?!”

Christian toddled over to Clay with his arms lifted high.

“Gampa up!”

Clay pulled him up into his arms with a proud grunt. “There’s my boy! You wanna help Gampa fix Frosty’s arm? He’s got a case o’ the wobbles.”

Christian nodded gravely, like this was a sacred responsibility.

Penny tugged on Willie Rae’s apron. “Gamma! Fostee sick!”

“Oh, honey, he ain’t sick,” Willie Rae soothed, bending to scoop Penny into her arms. “He’s just…overstimulated. Like your mama gets when she has too much sugar.”

Brenda groaned. “Mama does not get overstimul—”

Clay poked a button on Frosty’s control box and Frosty abruptly lurched sideways, his arm flapping like he was hailing a taxi during an earthquake.

Christian shrieked with delight. “FOSTY DANCIN’!”

Penny squealed, “DANCE! DANCE!”

Clay puffed up in pride as though he had just parted the red sea. “See that? Gampa knows his machines.”

Willie Rae rolled her eyes fondly. “Then why is it when I ask you to fix the dish washer the only thing you know how to fix is a ham sandwich?!”

Christian gasped at her. “No, Gamma! Gampa hero!”

Clay looked directly at Brenda with a triumphant smirk. “Hear that? Hero.”

Brenda shook her head. “Lord, give me strength.”

Sharon whispered, “They adore him.”

“They adore chaos,” Brenda sighed, straightening up—just in time for the next dose of it.

Before Brenda knew what was happening she watched as Joyce picked up a candle, sniffed it once, shook her head at the smell of eucalyptus, and swapped it for a Southern Spiced Bourbon one she’d brought from home.

Charlie wandered the living room with profound disappointment.

Bobby was searching for an outlet for—something. Something large and buzzing.

Clay stood proudly next to Frosty, hands on his hips like a man gazing at Mount Rushmore.

Brenda shook her head in disbelief. “You’d never know that man beat cancer only a year and a half ago,” she muttered to Sharon. “He’s as strong as an ox and twice as stubborn.”

“Yes, he looks…remarkably healthy for someone who should be taking it easy and absolutely isn’t,” said Sharon.

Brenda pressed her hands to her temples. “Sweet baby Jesus, please help me.”

Sharon touched her shoulder gently.

“They’re happy to be here,” she murmured.

Brenda sighed. “I know. And can you believe Jimmy and Frank passed all this up for borin’ old Puerto Rico?” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Brenda looked at the RV, the family, the blinding snowman, the twins dancing to Frosty’s glitchy singing.

“My crazy family,” she whispered. “They made it.”

Sharon smiled.

“Yes,” she said softly. “They did.”

A soft buzz came from Sharon’s pocket. She checked her phone.

A text from ‘Mom’:

We’ve landed. Dad insists on renting a sedan. Pray for me.

Sharon closed her eyes. Round Two was coming.

 And this was only the beginning…

Chapter Text

By the time the O’Dwyers were due to arrive, Frosty was unplugged.

This had been the subject of a small, whispered, marital negotiation on the front walk.

“Just until your parents get here,” Brenda begged, fingers twisting in the hem of her sweater. “Once they’re inside and we’ve all settled in, Daddy can light him up again. I just—I don’t want Betsy and Kathy steppin’ outta that sedan, seein’ Frosty glowin’ like a nuclear reactor.”

From the porch, Frosty leered silently at them in all his shiny plastic glory.

Sharon regarded the giant snowman with the thin patience of a woman who loved her wife very much.

“Brenda,” she murmured, “my family isn’t going to judge you for a lawn decoration.”

Brenda stared at her.

Sharon sighed. “Alright. Fine. We’ll…leave him off. For now.”

“Thank you,” Brenda exhaled, squeezing her hand. “You are my Christmas miracle. Honestly, Sharon O’Dwyer, my Duchess of Burbank, preserver of sanity…I don’t deserve you.”

Sharon just smiled, basking in the praise from the woman she loved.

Brenda brushed Sharon’s shoulder lightly, then leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You get Frosty turned off for me, and I promise you’ll be more than turned on once I get you alone tonight.”

Sharon’s ears went pink and she swatted her gently. “Stop it. I’m trying to be a respectable homeowner,” she said with all the dignity of a woman maintaining appearances—then flicked Brenda a tiny, conspiratorial wink.

Rusty stuck his head out the front door and looked in Sharon’s direction. “Your sister texted. They’re five minutes away…which, based on Kathleen math, means they’re already on the street.”

Inside, the Johnson clan was in various states of readiness. Willie Rae was in the kitchen “helping” Sharon by getting ready to offer unsolicited seasoning advice. Clay was at the window watching traffic like he owned the block. Bobby and Joyce were arguing about where the best outlet was for plugging in a second crockpot. Charlie sat at the edge of the sofa, scrolling on her phone with an expression that could’ve curdled milk.

The twins were doing laps around the coffee table with stuffed animals clutched in their hands.

“Okay,” Brenda muttered, smoothing her hair, then smoothing Sharon’s, then trying to smooth invisible wrinkles out of the couch. “Okay, y’all,” she announced. “The O’Dwyers are almost here, so remember—let’s all just be—”

“Normal?” Rusty offered.

“Presentable?” Sharon suggested.

“Southern,” Clay grunted.

Brenda pointed at him. “Daddy, do not start.”

He lifted his hands. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

A compact silver rental sedan glided up to the curb, the polar opposite of Clay’s lumbering RV. It parked neatly, precisely between the driveway and the neighbor’s Prius.

“There they are,” Sharon breathed.

Brenda reached blindly for her hand and squeezed.

The car doors opened with calm efficiency.

First out was Attorney Patrick O’Dwyer—tall, trim, still in his suit despite the flight, coat draped over his arm, looking impressively put-together for a man in his mid-seventies. He took a measured look at the house, at the palm trees, at the quiet street, and nodded as if accepting a motion in court.

Then Betsy O’Dwyer emerged on the passenger side, cardigan perfectly buttoned, gray bob immaculate, her expression that of a woman who had seen everything and approved of maybe half of it. She adjusted her scarf, looked up at the house, and smiled in a small, precise way.

“Well,” she said. “She’s very pretty.”

Brenda let out a sound that was one-third laugh, one-third gasp, one-third sob.

“Hello Brenda, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Betsy! Uh…” she stuttered. “I mean my Betsy—no, I mean—Betsy. Just Betsy. Sorry. Nerves.” Brenda grimaced and turned seven shades of crimson. “Merry Christmas, Betsy.”

“If you think this is bad, you should have heard her the Christmas she introduced me to her parents.”

Betsy blinked once, the faintest flicker of amused confusion crossing her face.

“Please let it die,” Brenda begged.

“It will live in infamy,” assured Sharon.

Betsy stepped forward and kissed Sharon’s cheek.

“Hello, darling,” she said, squeezing her daughter’s shoulders. “You look tired. Are you sleeping?”

“Between FID, a double homicide Brenda’s squad just closed, and two toddlers?” Sharon replied dryly. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Brenda winced as she watched her wife’s expression fall.

 “And it’s nice to see you too, Mom,” Sharon added, but her eyes were still bright.

Patrick shook Brenda’s hand, then pulled her into a quick hug. “Brenda. Good to see you. The neighborhood’s very…charming. No snow, but charming.” He grinned.

“Well, we can see Frosty from here when he’s on,” Clay called helpfully from the doorway.

Brenda made a strangled noise. “Daddy.”

Betsy stepped forward beside Patrick, squinting up at the house then smiling at the display in front of her.

“Oh, I do like the white lights along the exterior,” she said with a small, approving nod. “Very classic. Very clean.”

Then her gaze drifted downward…to the bushes.

…which were currently glowing in unapologetic cheerful rainbow bedlam—bright reds, greens, blues, yellows and pinks; and one rogue blinking strand Christian had helped Brenda plug in.

Betsy paused. She didn’t frown. She didn’t comment. She simply pressed her lips together in a way that communicated volumes.

“The white lights were my suggestion,” Sharon said lightly. “But Brenda loves the colorful ones, so we compromised.” She grinned at Brenda lovingly.

Betsy tilted her head. “Ah. Yes. I can see…everyone’s contributions.”

Brenda’s shoulders sank half an inch.

She forced a bright smile anyway. “It’s festive!”

“Yes,” Betsy said. “Festive.”

Suddenly, the back doors of the sedan opened, and Kathleen O’Dwyer unfolded herself from the driver’s side rear seat. Long brown hair neat, coat sharp, phone in her hand even as she glanced up. She inhaled California air, assessed the house in one sweeping glance, and nodded.

“Cute,” she said. In Kathleen-speak, that was almost a compliment.

Out from behind her climbed her son Sebastian—tall, lanky, dark curls a little too long, backpack slung over one shoulder. He squinted at the RV, then at Frosty’s dormant form, then at the flamingos, then at the palm trees.

“This is…different,” he murmured.

Rusty opened the front door wide and gave an awkward wave. “Hi. Uh—come in. Watch the flamingo.”

They filed inside, shedding coats and luggage with polite chaos. Betsy paused only long enough to straighten the doormat with the heel of her shoe. Patrick looked around the entryway like he was mapping exits. Kathleen immediately clocked the boxes still tucked against the hallway wall.

“You’re still unpacking?” she asked, not unkindly, just observant.

“We, um, moved in a couple months ago,” Brenda said quickly. “With the twins and work and everything, it’s been…an adventure.”

“They’re toddlers, and we both manage two very busy divisions of the LAPD,” Sharon added. “We’re lucky we’ve unpacked half of anything.”

As if on cue, Penny toddled into the hallway clutching a stuffed penguin, with Christian hot on her heels dragging some tinsel garland. They stopped dead at the sight of the new arrivals.

Penny blinked. Christian blinked.

Then both shrieked, “NANA!” at Betsy for no discernible reason except that she was female, gray haired, and over forty.

Betsy’s entire face softened. “Oh my little babies!” she said, then scooped Penny up. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Patrick scooped Christian into his arms, and Christian immediately patted his face as if checking for structural integrity.

Willie Rae swept in from the kitchen, apron already on. “Y’all made it! Oh, look at you, flyin’ all the way across the country,” she said, pulling Betsy into a hug that slightly lifted her off the ground.

“Mama!” Brenda protested. “You’re supposed to be takin’ it easy, remember?”

Betsy laughed. “You’re as strong as ever, Willie Rae.”

Willie Rae waved her off. “It was a mild heart attack, Brenda Leigh. My cardiologist said I’m fine.”

“Your cardiologist did not say ‘go around liftin’ other grandmothers,’” Brenda muttered.

“Still got a good grip,” Willie Rae said proudly. “Now, you let me feed you before you say somethin’ like that again.”

Kathleen set down her bag and took in the scene: her mother in a Southern kitchen hug, her father with a toddler on his hip, Sharon’s wife looking like she might faint from hosting anxiety, and an RV visible through the window like a parked cruise ship.

“This is…” Kathleen started.

“Loud?” Charlie supplied, suddenly appearing at the edge of the room like a sulky apparition.

Everyone turned at once. Charlie met Sebastian’s gaze for the first time.

He took in her eyeliner, her bored expression, her band t-shirt, her posture like she’d been forced into this house under protest.

“You must be Charlie,” he said with a slight hint of haughtiness.

“You must be Harvard,” she replied, crossing her arms.

“It’s MIT,” he said automatically, then grimaced at himself.

Rusty winced.

Betsy cleared her throat. “Well, if everyone’s done with the territorial display, perhaps we can sit.”

They drifted into the living room. The tree loomed—still a bit crooked, but valiantly decorated. The boxes had been pushed aside (mostly). The twins claimed their corner pile of toys, and Frosty waited outside like a sleeping demon.

They made polite small talk. Sharon explained about Ricky being stuck at work, Emily spending Christmas with Jack. Betsy nodded, neutral.

“‘Scuse me,” said Brenda as she passed in front of Betsy to join mother and daughter on the sofa. “Move over a little, Duchess,” she pleaded as she plopped herself down next to Sharon.

Betsy’s eyebrow arched. “Duchess?”

Sharon flushed pink. “Just a pet name Brenda likes to call me.”

Brenda took Sharon’s hand in hers and kissed it. “I call her the Duchess of Burbank ’cause she’s the most sophisticated thing in this whole zip code.”

Betsy nodded. “Well…she is very put together.”

Sharon covered her face with one hand. “Oh my God.”

Betsy turned back to her daughter.  “It’s good Emily’s trying with her father,” she said. “She’ll regret it if she doesn’t.”

Sharon looked down, relieved by the lack of sharpness in the comment. Brenda squeezed the hand she was holding.

Patrick turned over in their direction. “And how’s work, Brenda?”

She sighed. “Major Crimes is holdin’ it together without me for a few days. If anybody commits a murder before New Year’s, I’m gonna be real offended.”

“She made them swear they wouldn’t call unless a body literally fell through the ceiling,” Rusty said.

“That only happened once,” Brenda shot back.

Patrick chuckled. “Well let’s pray the city stays quiet.”

Sharon lifted an eyebrow at Brenda. “You hear that? The world has been instructed not to murder anyone until after the holidays.”

Brenda huffed. “It’d be real considerate.”

Everyone laughed, and the cluster of conversations began to scatter.

Soon Clay and Pat found themselves in a conversation about gas prices. Betsy wandered to the mantle and began unconsciously straightening the framed photos there. Willie Rae pretended not to notice, then followed behind her straightening Betsy’s adjustments.

Kathleen surveyed the room, then stepped toward the bookshelf, eyeing Sharon’s carefully arranged spines.

Just as Kathleen reached for the first bookend, Clay cleared his throat and spoke.

“…I’m just sayin’,” Clay grumbled, “folks in Washington don’t know the first thing about runnin’ a real business. Too many regulations stranglin’ the little guy.”

Patrick sipped his tea calmly. “Regulations keep the bridges from collapsing, Clay.”

Clay snorted. “My RV could drive over any bridge in this country and be just fine.”

Patrick gave him a polite, tolerant smile. “Yes. That’s what concerns me.”

Brenda made a small sound like a squeaking balloon. Sharon braced herself. Rusty mouthed, Oh no.

Clay leaned back. “Country’s changed too much. Too fast.”

Patrick nodded thoughtfully. “And not fast enough in the right places.”

Clay’s jaw clicked. Patrick remained serenely unbothered.

Betsy cleared her throat sharply from across the room. “I think that’s enough infrastructure talk for the moment, gentlemen.”

Both men instantly fell silent.

Willie Rae appeared with a plate of Joyce’s cookies. “Who wants somethin’ sweet?”

Patrick took one politely. Clay took three.

“Just half,” Betsy said, then ate the whole thing.

Sebastian tried to decline, but Penny pushed one into his hand and stared at him until he took a bite. 

Satisfied with her victory, Penny toddled off, crawled into Brenda’s lap, and started rubbing her cheek against her shoulder, purring like a cat.

Brenda laughed softly and smoothed her daughter’s hair. “She thinks she’s a cat…See? They love cats. I think they’d do great with a real kitty.

…Kitty. I miss her. And little Joel, poor thing off livin’ with Fritz’ loon of a sister. Someday soon we should—”

“Honey,” Sharon said gently. She brushed her knuckles along Brenda’s arm. “We talked about this. We’re barely keeping up with the humans we already have. Adding claws to this situation feels…medically unwise. Maybe when things calm down a tiny bit.”

Brenda sighed dramatically. “So…never.” She slumped down, defeated.

Sharon just smiled—a secret, tiny smile Brenda didn’t catch.

Across the room, Clay polished off the last of his cookies and brushed the crumbs off his shirt. Suddenly his face went soft with memory. He reached for a small, worn cardboard box on the coffee table that he’d brought out earlier—one he’d carried every Christmas since Brenda was little. “Got somethin’ for ya, Brenda Leigh.”

Brenda froze. Then Sharon froze. Then Rusty. Even Penny paused mid-bounce.

“Oh my gosh,” Brenda whispered. “Daddy, you didn’t bring—”

“I sure did.” Clay handed her the box with a proud little nod. “Wouldn’t be Christmas without him.”

Brenda took the box like it was humming with sacred energy. Her eyes went soft immediately.

Rusty leaned in. “What’s…in there?”

Brenda carefully lifted the lid.

An emotion-soaked “Keith!” sprung from her lips.

“Keith?” repeated Rusty.

From the box Brenda carefully extricated what looked to be a lopsided paper angel made from construction paper and a toilet-paper roll. It had a halo made from a pipe-cleaner, and two googly eyes—one slightly lower than the other. Glitter was glued in a blob on the chest. Yellowed tape stuck to its back. Its wings were crooked. It’s smile more than a little deranged.

Penny gasped. “KEEF!”

Christian clapped. “Keef up!”

Rusty squinted. “Wow. Keith’s really committed to being himself.”

Betsy peered over Sharon’s shoulder. “What on earth is that?”

Brenda swallowed. “He’s my tree topper. I made him in the fifth grade.”

“He looks like he saw some stuff in fifth grade and never recovered.” Rusty was laughing now.

Brenda bared her teeth at him then continued sweetly. “Daddy’s brought him along every Christmas they’ve been here.”

Clay sniffed. “Tradition.”

Bobby, leaning in the doorway, added, “Back home Brenda used to cry if we didn’t put him up every year.”

“BOBBY,” Brenda hissed, cheeks flushing.

Sharon stepped closer. “May I?” she asked softly.

Brenda nodded and handed Keith over.

Sharon held the angel like he was made of glass, taking in each crooked edge, each smudge of old glue. Her features softened into something so tender Brenda felt her insides melt like warm sugar.

“He’s perfect,” Sharon whispered.

She glanced up at the towering Douglas fir.

“Rusty? Can you get me the ladder?”

Rusty fetched the tall step ladder they’d dragged out for decorating earlier. He set it up beside the tree and held it steady as Sharon climbed.

Clay moved to the other side, hands ready. “Hold it tighter, son. Don’t let her fall.”

“I’m not gonna let her fall,” Rusty muttered.

Penny pointed upward. “Mama up!”

Christian bounced. “Up! Up! Up!”

The room quieted almost without anyone meaning it to. Even Charlie and Sebastian drifted closer, watching as Sharon reached the top step, one hand on the tree for balance, the other holding Keith like a crown.

“Okay…” she murmured, eyes on the highest branch. “Careful…steady…”

Brenda hovered below the ladder, arms half-raised like she might catch her wife and the angel both if gravity decided to betray them.

Finally, with a slow breath, Sharon placed Keith on the tippity top of their ten-foot Christmas tree.

He leaned dramatically. His googly eyes stared in two different directions. His halo sat askew like it had been through hard times.

But he stayed.

Clay cleared his throat, blinking fast. “Now it’s Christmas.”

The room stayed quiet for several moments.

Willie Rae dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her apron. Betsy’s expression mellowed into something warmer than her usual New England reserve. Patrick nodded once, like a judge approving a heartfelt closing argument. Even Kathleen’s lips curved into a faint smile.

“He has character,” Betsy said at last.

“I guess that’s one way to put it,” Sebastian muttered under his breath.

Charlie snorted. “I kinda love him.”

Rusty stepped back from the ladder, satisfaction on his face. Penny and Christian chanted “KEEF! KEEF!” like it was a spell.

Sharon climbed down and Brenda caught her in a quick, impulsive hug.

“Thank you,” Brenda whispered into her shoulder. “For makin’ him official.”

“He always was,” Sharon murmured back. “We just had to get him up there.”

For a moment, the house felt perfectly full.

Johnson and O’Dwyer.

South and North.

Old traditions and new ones, stitched together under a crooked angel.

They all stood there—the two women of the house holding their twins in their arms now—looking up at Keith—the ridiculous, precious fifth-grade tree topper presiding over the fanciest tree Brenda had ever owned.

Warmth spread through Brenda’s chest until she thought she might float.

This, she thought, was what she wanted. All of them here. All at once. Somehow, miraculously, in the same room.

She’d never felt this complete. Not with Fritz when things were good. Not ever.

Only Sharon, only this life shared with their beautiful children (toddlers and teenager) had ever made her feel like she’d finally landed where she belonged.

“Alright,” Willie Rae sniffed, clapping her hands once and knocking Brenda from her blissful daze. “Now that that’s settled, who wants somethin’ to eat?”

A chorus of yeses followed. People drifted toward the kitchen, into smaller conversations. The spell didn’t break exactly—it spread out, settled into the corners with the smell of pine and cookies and too many people sharing one space.

Sharon hung back for a second with Brenda, Rusty, and the twins, all still gazing at Keith.

“I told you Brenda Leigh, it’s going to be a wonderful Christmas,” Sharon said quietly.

Brenda nodded, eyes shining. “I think so too.”

Just then, from outside, a faint click sounded.

And then…

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAAY!”

The front yard lit up blue and white through the window like an alien invasion. The snowman’s voice boomed against the glass, mechanical arm lurching to life.

Everyone in the living room jumped.

Kathleen blinked. “What was that?”

Clay’s voice floated proudly from the porch. “Timer on Frosty! Forgot he was set for six o’clock!”

Brenda covered her face with both hands.

Sharon choked on a laugh.

And the O’Dwyer-Johnson-etc. household plunged, once again, into noisy, ridiculous, perfect holiday chaos.

Chapter Text

Christmas Eve morning looked deceptively peaceful.

The dining room was full—every chair taken, every plate piled high with cinnamon rolls and waffles dusted with powdered sugar and berries. Sharon had done most of the cooking. Brenda had supervised with the enthusiasm of someone who believed she’d contributed equally by placing the whipped cream in the correct spot on the counter.

The long mahogany dining table stretched from wall to wall, packed with family. Brenda and Sharon sat side by side, with Betsy and Patrick just beside them. Across the table, Clay, Willie Rae, and Rusty formed the opposite row, while further down Kathleen and Sebastian tried to politely navigate the chaos. At the far end, Bobby, Joyce, and Charlie claimed their corner. And at the head of the table—situated proudly in their booster seats—sat two delighted little breakfast goblins, already sticky with syrup and berries, resembling their Mama B at the same age.

Everything was blissfully normal for approximately eight seconds.

Then Willie Rae, smiling brighter than the Christmas star, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and said something that would haunt Brenda for the rest of her life.

“Brenda Leigh, you look just wonderful this mornin’.”

“Why thank you, Mama.” Brenda flashed her mother a cheerful smile. In that moment she knew it was going to be a great day.

Willie Rae tipped her head, studying her a little closer. “Mhmm…a whole 180 degrees from last night. You had me worried.”

Brenda blinked. “Last night? What about last night? What are you talkin’ about?”

Willie Rae waved her fork. “Oh, honey, last night you sounded just awful. You woke your father and me up with all that moanin’…”

Sharon’s throat seized and she coughed, inhaling her orange juice.

Patrick paused mid-sip, eyes widening in horror. Betsy’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.

Brenda went white as the whipped cream.

Rusty looked like he’d just aged ten years.

“…I thought your stomach was givin’ you fits again. Not surprisin’ with the way you eat. I almost got out of bed to check on you, but by the time I got my robe on you’d settled right down. I figured your lovely Sharon was takin’ good care of you.”

Brenda wanted to crawl into the waffle iron and die.

Clay, grinning cheerfully, chimed in.

“Not gonna lie, it sounded rough, sugar—but your mother’s right.” Clay nodded toward Sharon with fatherly approval. “I’m sure Sharon had you sorted out in no time. You’re in good hands there.”

Charlie did her best to stifle a laugh, which finally broke through and manifested as a snort masked as a combination sneeze-cough.

Sebastian looked down at his plate and refused to make eye contact with anyone.

Patrick muttered something that sounded like a prayer for swift death.

Brenda tried to speak but only a hollow squeak pushed its way out.

Finally, Sharon stood abruptly—her chair scraping the floor, silverware clattering from the sudden movement.

“Brenda,” she said in a too-bright, too-calm voice, “could you help me in the kitchen?”

Brenda leapt up like she’d been sprung from hell itself. “Rusty, watch the twins for a minute, please. We’ll—we’ll be right back.”

The two women escaped into the kitchen like fugitives then crept into the pantry and closed the door behind them.

The moment the door swung shut, Brenda pressed both hands to her face. “Sharon. Oh my God. I am never going to be able to look your father in the eye again.”

Sharon sagged against the counter and shook her head. “You and me both.”

Suddenly, with renewed vigor Sharon stood straight up and glared daggers at her wife. Brenda could see the fire in her eyes and braced herself.

“Brenda Leigh Johnson O’Dwyer, you promised me last night you wouldn’t make noise!” Sharon hissed.

Brenda threw her hands up. “Well, it ain’t my fault you’re so good you have me forgettin’ every promise I ever made!”

“Oooh don’t you try to sweet talk your way out of this one… God, I knew something like this was going to happen! I knew it! I told you!”

“Well if you wanna play the blame game, Sharon…it was YOU who insisted everyone sleep under one roof! Mama and Daddy wanted to stay in the RV but you said, and I quote, ‘no, Brenda Leigh, we’re creating memories.’ Well congratulations! We made one!”

Sharon covered her face with her hand. “My mother will never look at me the same way again.”

“Sharon,” Brenda said, stepping closer, voice softening, “I love you. But all o' this is a risk you took the second you married me.”

Sharon cracked—just barely. A reluctant laugh escaped. “My God, I married you.”

“And you’re welcome,” Brenda said with a self-satisfied smirk.

Before Sharon could say anything else, Brenda leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to the corner of her mouth—just a soft brush of lips, a tiny apology and a victory lap all at once.

Sharon tried (and failed) to glare at her again. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here you are,” Brenda murmured, bumping her nose against Sharon’s in a fleeting little nuzzle.

“And there's nowhere else I'd ever want to be. You may be a disaster. But you’re my disaster.”

Brenda grinned, smug and tender all at once. “Well, Duchess, somebody has to keep your life excitin’.”

She pulled back just enough to breathe. “While we’re in here, let me ask—What do we need to do first so I can prove I’m capable of cookin’ one decent Christmas Eve dinner in front of your entire family?”

The air shifted just then.

Sharon’s eyes dropped briefly to Brenda’s mouth, her hand sliding to her hip, fingers curling with an intent that made her wife’s pulse skip. The brunette stepped in close, closer than before, her thigh brushing Brenda’s just enough to make her spine tingle.

Sharon’s eyes met hers now, still exasperated but warming.

“We start,” she said, “by not moaning loud enough to alarm your mother again.”

Brenda smirked as she slid her hands underneath Sharon’s shirt.

“No promises.”

*

That afternoon the kitchen had entered its danger zone phase—the point in every holiday where hope still technically exists, but the odds of survival are rapidly dropping.

Brenda was in the kitchen with Rusty, standing in front of an open fridge like it was a suspect she meant to break.

“Where is the butter?” she demanded, half inside the fridge like she might crawl through it to another dimension. “I bought three sticks yesterday. Three. They were right here.”

Rusty shifted a carton of eggs and a bag of shredded cheese in a hopeless attempt at detective work. “Maybe your mama used it?”

From the stove Willie Rae called, “I used one stick for the sweet potatoes. One, Brenda Leigh. Not three. I’m NOT lookin’ to give myself another heart attack—or anyone else for that matter—by cloggin’ everyone’s arteries!”

On the other side of the kitchen island, Betsy stood like a general at a field station, calmly chopping celery with small, authoritative clacks of the knife. “If you kept the butter on the same shelf every time, this wouldn’t happen,” she said mildly.

Brenda took a deep breath. “If I kept everythin’ on the same shelf every time, I’d be livin’ in a pantry dictatorship.” She stuck her head all the way into the fridge and muttered under her breath, “…but if I decide to do that, I know who to call to run it.”

Finding no evidence of the missing butter’s whereabouts—or its captors—Brenda shut the refrigerator door with the finality of a detective shelving a cold case.

Sharon slipped into the kitchen, tying back her hair with that quick, efficient motion that made Brenda’s stomach do backflips. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re down two sticks of butter and up three supervisors,” Brenda mumbled.

Sharon kissed her cheek. “You’re doing fine.”

Brenda wasn’t. And she knew it.

The blonde let out an exasperated sigh. Desperate to help, Sharon’s eyes peeked past her wife and over to the oven door.

Brenda followed her eyes then pointed her spoon at Sharon. “Don’t you dare try to take over. You promised to let me do Christmas dinner myself unless I begged for help.”

Sharon lifted her palms. “Unlike you, I’m honoring the terms of yesterday’s agreement.”

“Well I’m reconsiderin’ my life choices,” Brenda grumbled quietly, glaring at the oven like it had personally wronged her. It probably had. It almost certainly would.

Before Sharon could respond, Rusty yelped. “Uh—smoke?!”

They all turned. The oven door was fogged with a faint gray haze.

“I told you, you filled the casserole dish too high,” Willie Rae directed at Betsy.

“You told her it was too full,” Betsy said, pointing at Brenda. “You told me it was ‘fine, sugar.’”

The oven door gave a faint wheeze, then a sad hiss of smoke puffed out around the edges like it was trying to escape its own fate.

A familiar whine of hydraulics sounded from outside. Clay’s RV door slammed, followed by the heavy thump of boots on the walkway.

“Sharon,” Brenda groaned, “please go intercept Daddy before he plugs in Frosty again.”

Sharon opened her mouth to answer when her phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up.

Penny Warrington

Sharon’s entire face softened. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.

“Oh!” she breathed, reaching for it. “It’s Penny.”

“Tell her I said hi and that I’m trapped in a butterless hellscape,” Brenda said, already moving toward the oven.

Sharon grinned and swiped to answer. “Penny! Hi.”

“Sharon!” Penny’s voice came warm and bright through the speaker. “Please tell me I didn’t catch you knee-deep in toddlers and in-laws.”

Sharon looked around the kitchen: smoke seeping out of the oven, Betsy and Willie Rae in a standoff over salt, Rusty hovering with an oven mitt and no plan, Brenda trying to decide whether to open the oven or perform a culinary exorcism.

A tiny, helpless laugh slipped out of her. “You did, actually.”

In the background, Penny chuckled. “Well, then I called at exactly the right time. I just wanted to wish you and Brenda a Merry Christmas. I’ve been thinking about you and the kids. I miss my favorite chaotic family.”

Sharon leaned back against the counter, clutching the phone a little tighter. “We miss you too. The twins saw a pretty redhead in a commercial last week and your mini namesake yelled ‘Penny!’ at the television.”

Penny laughed. “Smart girl. Good taste.”

A loud clang erupted behind Sharon as Brenda dropped a baking sheet in the sink.

“Brenda Leigh, let me help!” begged Willie Rae.

“Mama, you’ve already done way too much. You just need to sit there and relax. I’ve got this under contro—

“RUSTY, DON’T OPEN THAT!”

A puff of smoke billowed out as Rusty cracked the oven door an inch too far.

He stumbled back, coughing. “I thought we were supposed to ventilate!”

“Not like that,” Betsy scolded. “Step aside.”

“Everything’s fine,” Sharon said into the phone, voice higher than normal. “Nothing is on fire.”

“Yet,” Penny said cheerfully. “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Fragile.”

Brenda shouted over her shoulder, “Tell her I said Merry Christmas and I’m makin’ her a pie next time she comes over, even if it kills me!”

“Kills you, Brenda Leigh? Let’s think of poor Penny!” Sharon teased while Brenda stuck her tongue out in mock-annoyance.

“Brenda sends her love and a death-defying pie.” Sharon relayed.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Penny replied. There was a smile in her voice. “Listen, when the madness dies down, we should do dinner. I’d love to see you all. Maybe after the new year?”

“I’d like that,” Sharon said softly. She meant it more than she could say. “I really would. We’ll call you when the dust settles.”

“Promise,” Penny said. “Merry Christmas, Sharon.”

“Merry Christmas, Penny.”

Behind her, Clay bellowed from the doorway, “WHO UNPLUGGED FROSTY?!”

Sharon winced. “I have to go,” she said quickly. “I’ll call you soon, I promise.”

“Go,” Penny laughed. “Save Christmas.”

Sharon hung up just as Brenda spun around, cheeks flushed, hair frizzing at the edges.

“Did she say she misses me?” Brenda demanded.

“Yes,” Sharon said. “And she wants to do dinner after the new year.”

Brenda beamed. “Good. At least someone believes I can feed people without poisonin’ ’em.”

From the stove, Willie Rae said, “Well, we’ll see about that once this gravy is done.”

Betsy sniffed. “Gravy isn’t supposed to have that much flour.”

“Gravy is supposed to have taste,” Willie Rae shot back.

Sharon pressed her lips together to hide a smile. Chaos. She was steeped in total familial, holiday chaos. Her heart felt full to bursting.

*

With the sweet potato spill smoking on the bottom rack and Rusty opening the oven every twelve seconds like a panicked prey animal, the internal temperature kept dropping. And every time Brenda checked the ham, it looked exactly the same as before—too pale, too soft, nowhere near dinner-ready. And with a majority of the family sitting around the living room talking about food, the clock was not her friend. The ham needed hours. Hours Brenda no longer had. She cranked the heat up to high and prayed to the gods she wasn’t about to give her entire family the gift of Trichinosis this Christmas.

The afternoon began to slide by in a blur of half-finished tasks and overlapping conversations.

Joyce had found just about every candle in the house now and swapped them out with ones she unpacked from her bag that smelled strongly of pine and spiced apple Brandy.

“Joyce,” Brenda said carefully, “Why does the whole house smell like a Christmas tree passed out in a saloon?”

Joyce waved a hand. “Trust me. It’s festive.”

Distantly, from the loveseat, Charlie muttered, “It’s a hate crime.”

Christian toddled past dragging a dish towel. Penny trailed behind him trying to wipe the floor with a paper plate. Both then took turns using their makeshift weapons to whack the Christmas tree. At one point, Sebastian rescued a rogue ornament from rolling under the couch with a quick reflex that made Rusty raise his eyebrows.

“Nice catch,” Rusty said.

Sebastian shrugged. “I’m used to things falling apart.”

Charlie rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her skull. “What a line. Do you practice those in the mirror?”

Sebastian hesitated. “Sometimes.”

She stared at him, thrown for a second despite herself, then shook her head. “I can’t with you.”

Rusty watched the exchange with the wary fascination of someone viewing a small, localized storm evolve into a full-blown tornado. “This is gonna end in disaster,” he whispered to Brenda.

“Well, it beats someone gettin’ murdered before dessert,” she whispered back.

Clay was forced to take a break from his efforts to salvage a Frosty filled Christmas when he was dragged away by Patrick, who had decided that, of all the crises available to him this week, an electrical fire on Christmas Eve was beneath his dignity.

“I’m just sayin’,” Clay muttered as they stepped back inside, “man can’t even plug in his own snowman without someone shoutin’ about permits. Nobody can mind their own business in this darn city!”

Patrick patted his shoulder. “I have to tell you, Clay…In Boston, plastic snowmen aren’t typically encouraged to light up like small nuclear events either.”

“That sounds un-American,” Clay replied.

Rusty passed Sharon in the hall and whispered, “They’re getting along. Should we be worried?”

Sharon peeked into the living room later and saw them on the sofa together, glasses of iced tea in hand.

“…so when the doctor told me thyroid cancer, I figured that was it,” Clay was saying. “But Willie Rae kept after me with that low-sodium nonsense. Thought I was gonna die of boredom first.”

Patrick’s expression was earnestly kind. “From what I’ve seen, you’re stronger than ever. You look good.”

Clay shrugged but his chest puffed a little. “Well. Cancer didn’t get me. RV maintenance might,” he grumbled. “And the whole family keeps tellin’ me not to lift things.”

In the doorway, Brenda sighed under her breath and beamed as she watched her father. “Look at him, he’s got that ‘I’m the most interestin’ man here’ look on his face.”

Sharon laughed as she whispered back, “He might just be. Dad seems enchanted.”

Clay noticed them hovering and lifted his glass. “Hey! Deputy Chief. Captain. Y’all done arguin’ over butter?”

“Not even close,” Brenda said.

*

Brenda made her way back to the kitchen to check on the ham again when she noticed her phone buzzing on the counter. She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

She stared at it as if it was looking to harness what was left of her battered soul.

Sharon came up from behind and nudged her. “You should check. Just in case.”

Brenda answered with her best deputy chief voice. “This better be Santa confessin’ to breakin’ and enterin’.”

There was a moment of panicked silence.

Then Michael Tao’s voice burst through the speaker.

“Chief! Thank God. We just need to confirm whether the Hernandez file was archived under H or filed with the supplemental gang intel index because—”

“Lieutenant,” Brenda said, pressing a hand over her eyes, “I have not taken one—not one—proper day off since the twins were born, and somehow this—alphabetical mixup—is the emergency y’all save for me when I decide to take a few days off for Christmas?”

“It’s technically alphanumerical order,” he said earnestly. “There’s a date stamp involved—”

“Lieutenant Tao!”

Her voice went flat enough to iron clothes on. “Listen, I love you dearly. But unless someone is actively shootin’ at you right this second, hang up the phone, put the file down, and walk away.”

On the other end, Mike exhaled like a condemned man granted clemency.

“Yes ma’am. Right away, Chief. Merry Christmas.”

“Uh-huh.”

Click.

Sharon grinned at her across the room with unmistakable pride.

Brenda muttered, “I swear, the LAPD smells weakness.”

And weak was just how Brenda felt at that moment. Weak and helpless. She could feel herself beginning to sweat. Sharon could tell something was wrong.

“Honey, you look pale. You need to relax. Everything is going to be fi—”

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAHHHH—” Frosty screeched, his voice lowering to a demonic octave as his power source failed mid-greeting.

Sharon pressed both palms to her eyes. “I swear to God that snowman is possessed.”

Brenda pointed at her. “YOU SEE IT TOO?!”

Willie Rae, still in the kitchen, sighed. “I’m goin’ to find your father and drag him in here myself before that snowman wakes the dead.” She marched out.

This left Betsy. Sharon. And Brenda.

Three women. And one increasingly deranged ham.

Brenda opened the oven again.

The ham looked…wet.

And angry.

“Oh no,” Brenda whispered. “Oh no. Why does it look like it’s breathin’? This is far more disturbin’ than anything I’ve ever seen on the job.” Her face contorted into a look of terror.

“It’s…steaming,” Sharon said, stepping back.

“It’s swelling,” Betsy corrected.

“It’s—”

BOOOOOM.

A concussive, meaty explosion rocked the oven door.

Brenda shrieked so loudly the neighbors probably called 911.

She flung herself backward—straight into the kitchen table, which sent Willie Rae’s entire bowl of collard greens crashing to the floor.

The twins, who had wandered in during the commotion, screamed with delight.

“HAM GO BOOM!” Christian shouted.

Little Penny clapped. “BOOM HAM!”

Sharon wiped brown sugar glaze shrapnel off her sleeve. “Brenda Leigh…did you…did you turn the oven to broil?!”

“I PANICKED!” Brenda wailed. “I THOUGHT MAYBE IT WOULD HURRY THINGS ALONG!”

Betsy stared at the oven like it had committed a crime. “That ham died violently.”

Brenda’s eye began to twitch and she spun toward the blender. “Okay—cranberry sauce! I can still salvage the cranberry sauce!”

She lifted the lid. Tasted it. “Not bad!” But it was still too thick. She put the spoon down.

…But forgot to put the lid back on.

She reached out and smashed the button down…

WHIRRRRRRRR—SPLOOORCH.

A geyser of cold cranberry sauce shot upward like Old Faithful, then whipped around ferociously, splattering everything within a ten-foot radius…including Patrick and Kathleen who had just come around the corner to refill their wine glasses. Patrick was hit square in the chest. Kathleen’s hair took a full hit like she had been baptized in an Ocean Spray bog.

Sharon, standing closest, took the brunt of the blast. Cranberry dripped down her glasses. Into her shirt. Across her cheek.

Penny screamed with laughter.

Christian rubbed cranberry onto Penny’s cheek.

Then into his mouth.

Then onto his sister’s forehead.

“It’s SNOW!” Penny shrieked as it fell from the ceiling, smearing more.

“It’s JUICE!” Christian insisted.

“It’s EVERYWHERE,” Sharon said flatly.

Brenda covered her mouth in horror. “I…I…Sharon, I’m so sorry—Oh my God, I’ve murdered your father!!!” Brenda exclaimed in a daze.

Patrick dabbed his face with a napkin, tasting what had managed to splash over his lips. “It’s…not half bad.”

And because the universe was not done…from outside the kitchen window came a familiar, dreadful cry.

“HAAAAPPY BIRTHDAAAAAY!”

Frosty lit up in violent blue strobe, illuminating the entire smoke-filled, sauce-splattered kitchen like a nightclub for people who hated joy.

Kathleen blinked slowly. “Is this…NORMAL?”

Betsy sighed. “It’s an improvement over the ham.”

*

Somehow, miraculously, after multiple showers and several wardrobe changes, they all made it to the table.

Almost all the side dishes had been destroyed along with the main course.
The mashed potatoes were pink.
The cornbread was mush.
The sweet potatoes were charcoal.

And Willie Rae’s collard greens, having met their tragic end on the linoleum, were now being gleefully worn by Penny and Christian who’d decided they made excellent sea-monster hair.

The only surviving item was a large pot of Boston baked beans Brenda had dumped from a can and warmed up in the microwave to serve as a symbol of cultural solidarity.

While each family member pitifully scooped up their portion of beans like sailors’ rations, one sad solitary tear slipped down Brenda’s cheek as she passed out instant ramen in Styrofoam cups.

Brenda stood at the table in defeat.
“I’m so sorry. I swear I tried—”

Sharon squeezed her hand. “Honey…it’s fine.”

Rusty sniffed the air. “It’s…mostly fine.”

Sharon cleared her throat. “I’m just going to say it. Since half of dinner is beans, we’re going to have to keep all the windows in this house open tonight. Otherwise Santa won’t make it out alive. He’ll never see another Christmas.”

Clay cackled. “NOW that’s the Christmas spirit!”

Everyone dug in—grateful, amused, cranberry-stained.

And Brenda, despite everything, felt her heart loosen.

They’d survived dinner. Somehow.