A Christmas to Dismember

if it’s a man or woman prattling on. It all sounds a little androgynous at that point.
“Bizzy!”
I turn to find my sister, Macy, heading this way. We’re both in our late twenties, but she’s older than me by a year and sassier than me by a million miles. She dyes her black hair blonde and wears it in a short bob. She looks dressed to kill tonight in a skintight red pantsuit that looks as if she’ll have to peel herself out of.
“I want you to meet a friend.” Macy pulls a tall brunette with a cranberry smile this way. The woman is wearing the most gorgeous brocade gown I’ve ever seen. It’s black and purple and has just a hint of navy in it. She wears the same hairstyle as Macy—short, blunt bob—her eyes are perfectly almond-shaped, and she has gorgeous olive skin that I would die for. “Bizzy, this is Eve French. She owns that hot new boutique out in Rose Glen, Elora’s Closet.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Nice to meet you, Bizzy.” Eve holds out her hand and I shake it. “I met your sister a couple months back at the Businesswomen of Maine Expo, and we’ve been fast friends ever since.” Her eyes flit toward the tree, and her entire body seizes. There he is, the rat that ruined me. My goodness, if he isn’t as handsome as ever. Oh my heart, how I love him. Oh my heart, how I can’t wait to see him suffer.
Her chest vibrates as she huffs, and I follow her gaze to see her staring intently in the area where Quinn stands.
Another man has joined Quinn and Warwick, a tall, younger man, mid-thirties to early forties. His dark hair is shaved in the back and a little longer in the front, and he has matching dark stubble on his cheeks. The three of them seem to be laughing and having a good time. I wonder which one Eve was talking about?
“Do you know Quinn?” I ask without hesitating. This is his event, after all.
Eve gives a few blinks as if coming to. “You could say I know him.” Intimately for that matter. Frankly, I’m shocked he had the nerve to show his face after what he did to me.
So it’s Quinn she’s pining for—and equally loathing. I can see how that could be a pattern in Quinn’s life. He’s as adorable as he is deplorable.
Eve nods my way. “It was nice meeting you, Bizzy. I’d better get inside that ballroom. I’ve got a teenager roaming around in there with her friends.” She rolls her eyes to Macy. “Be glad you’re not saddled with kids who aren’t afraid to talk back.”
Macy nods. “Oh, I thank my childless stars every day.” She links arms with Eve as they start for the ballroom. “Here’s hoping we find some wealthy hot men. That’s not too much to ask for this time of year, is it?”
Eve cackles at the thought as they disappear.
Georgie Conner, an eighty-something-year-old hippie that I regard as family, runs into the foyer wearing one of her signature wonky quilt dresses. Ever since Georgie’s quilting mishap has taken off, she and my mother have been peddling them like crazy. In fact, they’ve recently rented a space on Main Street right across from my sister’s shop in hopes to hock their wares.
“Bizzy Baker Wilder.” Georgie stalks my way with her wild gray hair—think Einstein, but longer—and her lavender-blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Your mother is going to be the death of me,” she bleats my way as she takes Fish from me. “The cat is mine for the rest of the night. I’ll need her as my emotional support kitty.” She drops a kiss to Fish’s furry forehead, and Fish mewls back with approval. “You too, fuzz face.” She plucks a few pieces of bacon from her pocket and drops them to the floor for Sherlock.
“Georgie, your wonky quilt dress is gorgeous,” I muse as I take in the red and green wonder. It’s pieced together in large triangular sections with frayed edges and all sorts of fabrics. I can see everything from snowmen to reindeer in them. “But aren’t you burning up in that?”
Georgie’s wardrobe staple has pretty much been flowing kaftans ever since I’ve known her. And I’ve known her since I was a kid. Her daughter Juni, aka Juniper Moonbeam, was married to my father for a short spate of time.
My father collects ex-wives the way some men collect sports cars or hunting trophies. And Juni was simply one in a long line of many women who came after my mother.
Speaking of which, my mother trots up behind Georgie. Mom is petite, still feathers her hair circa 1980-something, and has on a forest green dress embellished with lots of gold jewelry. She’s not typically so flashy, but seeing this is turning out to be the flashiest event of the season, it’s well warranted.
Mom makes a face at Georgie. “There you are. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to lose me.”
Georgie snarls my way. “It didn’t work, did it? And you’re right, Bizzy. I am burning up in this wonky quilt dress. Because I’ve got a fire-breathing dragon after me.”
Mom’s mouth falls open. “Who are you calling a dragon? We just went into business together, and might I remind you, I fronted the capital to do so.”
“Oh, you’ve reminded me, all right, Toots. You remind me in the morning. You remind me in the afternoon. You remind me before I go to bed at night so I can have nightmares of you reminding me.” She hitches her thumb my way. “Have you heard? News on the preppy street is your mother wants to name the shop Wonky Quilts and Things. It’s boring, Bizzy! If I wanted to die a yuppie death, I would have worked as an accountant and paid my taxes a long time ago.”
Mom balks at her old friend, “And get a load of this.”