“Trixie!” I ran to her. “No, no, no!”
She scrambled to jump off the table in haste.
I reached for the phone and called the vet, who confirmed that eating unbaked yeast dough was an emergency, and told me to bring Trixie in immediately.
My next call was to Mr. Huckle. I kept it very brief. “I have an emergency, Mr. Huckle—”
He interrupted me. “I’m on my way.”
My panic was spreading to Trixie who watched me with fearful eyes. I stashed the remaining dough in the fridge so no other dogs could reach it, picked Trixie up, and ran through the hallway to the reception lobby, where I picked up a golf cart key. Clutching Trixie, I ran the best I could to the golf carts parked outside. I placed her on the front bench with me, backed out, and gunned the golf cart.
If I hadn’t been so panicked, I might have enjoyed the Christmas lights as I drove. But Trixie no longer sat up. She lay on her side and whined.
I couldn’t remember having been so afraid. By the time we arrived at the animal hospital, Trixie was wheezing as though she couldn’t breathe properly.
The veterinarian waited for us outside. She took Trixie into her arms and walked into the hospital very calmly, asking me detailed questions about what had happened.
My heart raced as I spewed the story to her. She disappeared into the back with Trixie, but a veterinary technician arrived and, in the same calm manner, asked me more questions. I repeated the tale, quivering inside.
She promised the doctor would be out to talk with me shortly.
Lights on a tree in the corner of the waiting room and little statuettes of dogs and cats in Santa hats did nothing to cheer me up. It was dark outside the windows. I stood in front of one, looking out at nothing and thinking about the day I had rescued Trixie. Someone had abandoned her at a gas station, and the sweet little girl had waited there in hope that the despicable person would come back to pick her up. A wet and muddy mess, she had jumped into my boyfriend’s car, spilled coffee, and made a wreck of the carpet by tearing open a bag of cheesy chips.
The truth was that she had rescued me. If it hadn’t been for Trixie and Twinkletoes, I might not have moved to Wagtail. I loved my life now in a way that I hadn’t imagined possible.
How could I have been so stupid? I knew she was always ravenous. It was my fault. All my fault. Trixie was such a sweet little girl. She’d been through a terrible time early in her life. She deserved to have a good long life.
“Holly?”
I turned around, a lump of fear in my throat.
The veterinarian smiled at me and held out a plastic sheet with a pile of dough on it. “Does this look like what she ate? We gave her something to make her throw up.”
Bits of cherries and apricots dotted the dough. “That’s a lot!”
“It’s a good thing you brought her in right away.”
“I was worried about it expanding in her stomach.”
She nodded. “Unbaked yeast dough can be deadly. Not only does it rise from the heat in their bodies, but it causes bloat. Plus, as the yeast ferments, it produces alcohol, which can poison the dog.”
It was worse than I had thought. A chill ran through me.
She smiled at me reassuringly. “I think she’ll be okay. But I’d like to keep her overnight so we can monitor her for alcohol poisoning.”
“Thank you so much. Do you have someone here all night?”
“We’re an emergency center and hospital, open around the clock. You don’t have to look so worried, Holly. Some of the top specialists in the country work here. Trixie won’t be alone. We have a few other dogs and cats whom we’re monitoring. You go on home and relax. I’ll call you in the morning.”
I thanked her again and walked toward the door. I paused and turned around.
“Go home!” said the doctor. “I promise we’ll do our best for Trixie.”
She hadn’t come right out and said there was nothing I could do for Trixie, but I got the message. Still, part of me wanted to camp out in the waiting room, just in case. I dragged myself out the door and into the golf cart. It seemed oddly empty without Trixie by my side.
On the way back, I noticed that someone had decorated a small pine tree with lights in the middle of nowhere. It stood alone in a field. I stopped the golf cart and said some fervent prayers for Trixie.
Feeling glum and lower than low, I headed home. When I walked into the lobby, Mr. Huckle jumped up from his seat in front of the fire in the Dogwood Room. “Miss Holly! What happened? Is it your grandmother?”
I told him the story.
“What a scamp that Trixie is! Don’t worry, I’m certain that she will be fine. The veterinarians in Wagtail are excellent. Besides, ’tis the season of miracles, you know.”
Miracles? I hoped Trixie wouldn’t need a miracle!
“Now then, I should like to try this fabulous stollen that your grandmother loves so much. May I help you make it?”
“That’s very sweet of you, but I think I’ll pass on it this year. I don’t really have the heart to make it now.”
“You would disappoint your grandmother?”
“It’s not as though she knows.”
“I should very much like to bring her a slice with her morning coffee tomorrow.” He cocked his head at me.
It wasn’t as though I had anything else to do. I agreed. He accompanied me to the kitchen, where Twinkletoes stretched out in front of the fire. Mr. Huckle made hot chocolate while I threw out the cursed batch and started all over again.
He regaled me with tales of his childhood Christmases, including one just after World War II that was particularly sparse, but was made special because his father brought home a lost kitten he found on the street.
As I placed two stollen loaves in the oven to bake, Mr. Huckle casually said, “This must be a difficult holiday for you what with Mr. Holmes bringing his fiancée to Wagtail.”
I tried to keep my cool. “I’m very happy for Holmes,” I lied.
“Umm-hmm. And how happy are you for his bride-to-be?”
At exactly that moment, Holmes barged into the kitchen. “Smells great in here! Hey, do either of you know how I can join the elves?”
“It’s a highly guarded secret,” teased Mr. Huckle.
“Ask Oma,” I suggested, playing along.
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Really? I think half the town knows by now,” I said.
“Not anyone I know.” Holmes turned his head just a little and watched me out of the corner of his eye.
“If you want them to do something special for someone, just write it on a slip of paper and stick it in the box in the lobby.” I busied myself melting butter.
“No, no. You don’t get it. I want to join them,” Holmes insisted. “I want to be an elf.”
I thought I had been handling the whole Norma Jeanne thing so well, but more than anything else, that cut me to the core. That was the Holmes I knew and loved. I turned my back to him so he wouldn’t see my face and asked, “Where is Norma Jeanne?”
“She went to bed. She’s a stickler about getting eight hours of sleep. Hey, did you ever find Mistletoe Cactus Dew for her?”
I gasped and flung my hand over my mouth as I turned to face him. “I forgot all about it!”
“Not to worry, Miss Holly.” Mr. Huckle poured hot chocolate into a mug and offered it to Holmes. “She asked me for it as well. I called around town today. No one had ever heard of it. I stocked her room with Wagtail Springs water.”
“Thank you, Mr. Huckle. I’m so sorry that it slipped my mind. Sorry, Holmes, but if it’s that hard to find, maybe she should bring it with her when she travels.”
“Aw, she’ll live. We all drink Wagtail water. I’m sure she’ll manage for a few days. Now about those elves . . .”
“You’d better talk to Oma. She’s in charge.”
“Argh,” Holmes groaned. “You Miller women are so difficult. I feel like I’m going in circles.”
I heard the door swing behind him as he left.
“It’s not too late, you know,” said Mr. Huckle.
I knew exactly what he meant, and he wasn’t talking about elves. I pulled the stollen out of the oven and turned to face him. My eyes met his. “I respect your opinions, Mr. Huckle, but this time I fear you are wrong. It’s far, far too late.”
• • •
Just before midnight, dressed in my elf outfit, I tiptoed down the stairs. The Thackleberrys must have retired to their rooms. The Dogwood Room lay silent. But when I reached the bottom step, I heard murmuring voices.
I peeked in the library and spied Tiffany and her step-grandfather Dale. They sat in comfy chairs before the fire, their backs to me.
I hurried past them, left the inn, and walked through the snowy green to Rose’s garage to collect our sleigh. Lights twinkled on houses as I drove through the streets to the inn. The Grinch loomed like an ominous dark cloud. Rupert must have figured out a way to turn off the lights and the music. I parked outside the registration lobby and stepped out of the golf cart.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t one of Wagtail’s secret elves.”
I shrieked in momentary shock and peered into the darkness because I had recognized the voice. It came from behind bushes that glistened with lights.
And now I heard chuckling. Holmes. “You sneak!”
He stepped out into the light. “I knew it!”
“You’re wearing elf clothes.” I looked closer. His shoes even had turned-up toes.
“I try to dress appropriately. Where are we going tonight?”
There wasn’t a good reason in the world that he couldn’t help us. “We’re delivering Christmas dinner packages.”
“Great! Where are they?”
“Inside. You’re just in time to help us load them.”
We entered the registration lobby and walked through the inn. No guests lingered on the first floor. I noted that even Tiffany and Dale had gone to bed. Shelley and Zelda met us at the inn’s big freezers.
They teased Holmes mercilessly about his elf outfit. We loaded carts with boxes filled with turkeys, fresh cranberries, bags of potatoes and sweet potatoes, marshmallows, green beans, elbow macaroni, cheese, milk, butter, heavy cream, pumpkin pies, and gingerbread cookies. Even though the outdoor temperature was freezing, the items that could spoil were packed in coolers.
We rolled the carts through the silent lobby of the inn, with Twinkletoes riding on top of my cart, her tail twitching with anticipation.
Holmes suddenly stopped. “Hold it! Where is Trixie?”
I told them briefly what had happened.
“But she’ll be all right, won’t she?” asked Holmes.
“I hope so. Come on, let’s get this done.” I was already worried enough. I didn’t want to discuss what could happen to her. She had been on my mind since I left her at the animal hospital. We loaded the sleigh, left Twinkletoes at the inn, and set off in the night, admiring the lights that sparkled in the dark.
Our first stop was a tiny bungalow close to the Wagtail Springs Hotel. We carried packages and a cooler up to the house and left them on the front porch.
When we climbed back into the golf cart, Holmes laid a hand on my arm. “Just a second.”
We watched in silence as Vivienne trotted down the stairs of the Wagtail Springs Hotel and set off on foot through the green.
“Wasn’t that the horrible woman we saw at breakfast?” whispered Zelda.
I waved my hand at her not to say anything more. After all, she was going to be Holmes’s grandmother-in-law.
“What do you suppose she’s up to?” Zelda continued.
She didn’t understand my sign language message. I was going to have to come right out and say it. “She’s Norma Jeanne’s grandmother, Zelda.”