Five years later
Sometimes it seems like the Williams sisters are racing to see who’s going to produce the most grandchildren for Corrina and Bill, I swear.
This Christmas, all five of us are pregnant. But since I’m the only one past the five-month mark, we spend the holiday at Orchid. It might not seem like a terribly festive spot for a winter celebration. But we have this handled.
As soon as Bishop and I were married, we made plans to move me out of my apartment and into a permanent suite with him above the art gallery, next door to the main building. So, Orchid is our home, and we love it.
Adding in Henrietta’s magical touch, she has transformed our loft into a winter wonderland in the desert. “Snow” lines the fireplace mantles and windows, and almost every surface is flocked with glittering white snowflakes. Candy canes, elves, and woodland creatures spread out over the whole place give our home the look of a forest in winter. Bill, my dad, doesn’t even grumble half as much as Phillip when he keeps having to brush the glitter off his ass every time he stands up.
“Daddy, just go with it,” Cara says with a laugh.
Our loft isn’t big enough to partition into enough rooms to accommodate the entire clan, but they’ve got an entire floor of hotel rooms at Orchid to themselves, even a couple of rooms for the oldest grandkids to use as separate playrooms. The entire week of Christmas has been pillow fights, too much candy, video games, and wrestling matches. It keeps the kids from running up and down the hallways, disturbing the other guests, and it gives my sisters and brothers-in-law a break from the young ones.
As for Bishop, he’s turned out to be the best husband and father I could have asked for. Beyond what I could have imagined in my childhood fairytales. Our three oldest, all boys, take up most of his time now that he’s semi-retired.
The art gallery is a huge hit, as are my wild chocolate sculptures if I do say so myself. We’ve even featured some of Diana’s sculptures in the gallery, and she’s sold a few to some very enthusiastic buyers who have commissioned more from her.
I’m still the pastry chef at Orchid, not really interested in becoming an executive chef. I’m in my groove, and I don’t really want to leave it.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to shine. With Bishop’s support, I’ve written a successful cookbook and continued to win accolades, both regional and national.
At the moment, we’re all sitting around opening our stockings on Christmas morning. I count heads, and one of us is missing.
“Where’s Phillip?” I ask Chloe. She shrugs, looking innocent.
Diana groans. “Oh no. I think we know.”
Cecily makes a retching noise, and her husband covers his eyes as if to blot out the knowledge of what’s happening here.
Sure enough, Phillip enters from the kitchen with a silver platter, setting it down on the coffee table where we’re all nibbling on cookies that the kids have decorated under my careful watch.
“Oh, come on,” says Michael, Cara’s husband.
Leo snorts. Bishop laughs.
Cecily’s husband, famous in his own right and quite prone to bringing Phillip down a peg or two every time they meet, says, “How many years old is this thing now?”
I look down at the table, and sure enough, it’s Phillip’s Christmas cake. Pungent, soaked fruit and all.
“Oh for fu—I mean for pity’s sake. It’s not the same exact cake. You know what? Fine. Let’s go with that. Yes, it’s the same exact Christmas cake from ten years ago,” Phillip says with resignation at my family’s teasing.
Cecily giggles. “You’re getting cranky in your old age, Phillip.”
Chloe shoots Cecily a dirty look. “Careful whose husband you’re calling old, baby sister.”
Cecily rolls her eyes at her oldest sister. “I can’t help it; you all have set terrible examples.” She points at each of us and playfully roasts all of us. “Chloe married her celebrity crush older than Daddy. Cara married Daddy’s best friend. Diana married her boss. This family is so nuts, I didn’t think I had a choice but to marry my stalker while I was still in college.”
All the sisters and I shriek with laughter, and the men all look like they want to crawl under the table. They might be considering eating that cake just to shock us all into being quiet.
Quiet is one thing that never happens at a Williams family gathering.
“Mad. The lot of you,” Phillip says, drinking his spiked Christmas punch.
Cecily’s husband stands up and quiets the room.
“I have an announcement and a toast. I need you all conscious for this so nobody touch Phillip’s cake, please.”
More laughter, more eye rolling from Phillip. “Grandstanding American,” he grumbles.