Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,100

I said.

Morticia snorted.

“Hey, Cindy Lou!” I called to the cat. “You want a snack?”

Cindy Lou Who, however, was ignoring me in favor of giving Salem the third degree. She did not appreciate having another cat in her domain.

“If I had known you were bringing Salem,” I told Morticia, “I would have dressed Cindy Lou up. She’s only wearing her Christmas collar.”

Morticia peered at the cat. “Wait, is she wearing a Tiffany collar?”

“Yep!” I said proudly. “And it’s Christmas themed.” I picked up the cat. Her tail twitched as she glared at Salem. “See?” I said, unfastening the collar. “It has rubies and emeralds and diamonds for Christmas and little charms. I have a whole closet of clothes for her, too, but I don’t think she likes them.”

I went to the bedroom that I had converted to Cindy Lou’s room and pulled out the Santa hat and sweater I’d bought for her. It took me a minute to wrestle her into the garments before returning to the kitchen. “Behold!” I announced. “My cat in her Christmas finery.”

“You are so extra,” Morticia said. She wiped her hands and took out her phone. “Look pretty,” she ordered. “The entire world needs to witness this insanity.”

When the photos were complete, I set Cindy Lou down then tossed a few of the cat toys out onto the floor. Both cats pounced. “I can’t wait to have kids,” I told Morticia. “I want to have a bunch of daughters and spoil them rotten.”

“Define a bunch,” she replied as she fed the dough through the pasta maker.

“Like, five, but I’m open to suggestions,” I told her, waggling my eyebrows.

“That’s a no from me, dog. The Christmas toy shop is going to close after two.”

“You only want two kids?” I asked her.

“Kids are expensive.”

“Money,” I said magnanimously, waving the tomato sauce–covered spoon, “is no object.”

“Fine. Three,” she replied.

“You know what would be funny?” I asked, nudging her. “If we had kids, but they came out with half white hair and half black hair like Cruella de Vil and one blue eye and one…” I stared into her eyes. “You know, I thought your eyes were brown, but they’re actually a very, very dark gray.”

“They’re brown,” she said.

“They’re beautiful,” I told her, tipping her head back and kissing her brow.

We watched the cats play tag with the toys while we assembled the lasagna, which actually meant that Morticia meticulously directed the assembly, and I was allowed to carefully place the noodles.

“You’re serious about your pasta,” I remarked as I slid the pan into the oven.

“I’m Italian,” she replied. “Pasta is life.”

We sat on the couch, and I opened a bottle of expensive red wine. “It’s French,” I admitted, “but hopefully you can survive.”

She laughed and curled up like a cat next to me on the couch.

Our cats had decided that they were actually friends and were now lying next to each other on the rug in front of the fireplace. It was cozy—the fire going, soft Christmas music playing in the background, the lights and ornaments twinkling on the tree, and the spell of cheese, garlic, and tomato sauce wafting from the oven.

“So what are your Christmas plans?” Morticia asked me. “I’m going to guess that your family goes all out. Is it one big, happy, festive occasion? Your parents are still married, right?”

I stared into the flames. “Yeah still married. Not a happy holiday though.”

“Why? Didn’t you grow up in Connecticut in a nice house?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“What?” she said. “I let you come all over me. Of course I’m going to internet stalk you a little bit.”

I laughed bitterly. “I grew up in a beautiful house that was always impeccably decorated for Christmas. My parents would go all out, throw holiday parties, dress us in matching Christmas outfits, give lots of presents, the works.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Funny thing about appearances—they can be deceiving. My parents were actually very cold people, only concerned with how we made them look and not how they made us feel. They wanted a bunch of successful kids for the status symbols, but they were too busy to raise us. My mom didn’t want people to think she was a bad mother, so instead of hiring a nanny or three, which was what she really needed for me and my brothers,” I admitted, “she foisted us all on Belle. Which didn’t end well. Now three of my siblings refuse to even talk to them. We haven’t had a really happy Christmas in fifteen years, probably,