“Unless you have a mute button for your cousin’s whining, I doubt it,” Serena muttered.
Even little Leo, the agent of chaos, was quietly stacking his mashed potatoes into a serene, lumpy mountain, humming “Jingle Bells” in perfect, tuneful calm.
Chloe stared, bewildered, then looked at the yams. She smiled. “You know what? They are. Mark, try one.”
“And now,” Cora murmured, the pendulum coming to a stop in her palm, “when I count down from three to one, you will all feel a deep, abiding sense of peace. The perfect, simple peace of a silent night. No arguments. No resentments. Just the quiet joy of being together. Three… two… one.” Mistress Of Hypnosis Holidazed
For the first time in seventeen years, the Joule family had a wonderful, peaceful, genuinely happy Christmas Eve. They played charades without cheating. They complimented each other’s gifts. Mark only had one more scotch, and he sipped it thoughtfully, telling Chloe how much he appreciated her.
Mark snorted. “Oh, for God’s sake, Cora—”
Mark, who had been staring at the ceiling fan with a blissful, empty smile, obediently took a bite. “Wow,” he breathed. “It’s like… a yam from a dream.” “Unless you have a mute button for your
Lila blinked, then looked at Serena. Her eyes welled with real, uncomplicated love. “Darling,” she said, her voice soft. “I’m so sorry you’re hurting. He was a fool.” She reached across the table and squeezed her daughter’s hand.
Dinner was, predictably, a car crash. Lila praised Serena’s ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s Instagram. Mark accused Chloe of burning the yams (she hadn’t; he was just drunk). The toddler, Leo, began a sustained, high-decibel meltdown because his mashed potatoes were “too lumpy.”
In the ensuing chaos, Cora simply sat back, swirling a glass of water. She watched them all with a small, serene smile. The family was a symphony of discordant notes, and she was the only one who could hear the silent, simple melody underneath. She smiled
Cora leaned forward, setting her water glass down with a soft, deliberate clink . “Actually, Aunt Lila,” she said, her voice as smooth as the eggnog no one was drinking. “I think I can help with that.”
She kissed her aunt on the cheek and walked out into the snowy night, the Mistress of Hypnosis, already looking forward to the New Year’s Eve party. She’d heard Uncle Paul had a bit of a rage problem with the champagne cork.
