“Here’s an accident waiting to happen, Tilda Morrison said grimly. Just what nobody wanted on the day before Thanksgiving.

“Not if we get to her in time,” said her partner Jamal Lincoln.

“Why us?” Tilda grumbled to Cherie the dispatcher. “This is a job for animal control.”

“Chief said you’d say that,” said Cherie. “He also said to tell you that today it’s a job for you and to bring a rope and get to work before somebody ends up hurt.”

“I don’t believe this,” Tilda muttered as Jamal turned on the look- out-here-come-the-cops lights and shot them out of town toward the highway.

“We’re in Icicle Falls. Believe it,” Jamal said. “You still got that rope in the trunk?”

“Yes. It’s there from the last time.” Tilda frowned. “You know, this really isn’t the job of the Icicle Falls Police Force. I don’t care if Stumpy Hodgkins is best buds with the chief.”

“You gonna tell that to the chief?”

“Yeah, I am. As soon as we get back to the station.”

Jamal grinned. “That’s what I love about you, partner. You’re fearless. You should have been a man. I swear you’ve got more balls than most guys.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Tilda knew she was a tough cookie, and she liked being tough. She liked being a modern woman, able to stand up for herself and hold her own against any man. But she also had a feminine side and, secretly, she fantasized about some man tougher than her, pushing her up against a wall and having at it.

She thought she’d found that man, but it hadn’t worked out. He’d never bothered to look beneath her tough cookie exterior and check out her sweet, soft side. Instead, he’d fallen for the kind of woman Tilda that thought of as a cream puff. Maybe that was what all men really wanted, someone as sweet as honey and as elastic and bendable as warm taffy. Tilda wasn’t a bending kind of woman. Sadly, there were very few men who appreciated that.

Jamal did, but he was her partner. Then there was Devon Black, town bad boy, the king of speeding tickets and barroom brawls, who thought he was God’s gift to women. In fact, he thought he was God’s gift to her. Christmas may have been just a month away, but she had no intention of unwrapping Devon Black.

She frowned thinking of their last encounter. “What the hell?” he’d said angrily when she’d pulled him over a week ago for a broken taillight. “I wasn’t speeding.”

“No, you have a taillight out.”

Instead of showing some respect and thanking her for letting him know, he’d flashed her a cocky grin and said, “You’re looking for excuses to see me.” As if she had nothing better to do than chase after wolves dressed in blue jeans.

“If I wanted to see you, I could just wait till the next bar fight,” she retorted. It was how she’d met him when he moved to town. Trouble followed Devon around like a lost puppy. “Now, do you want me to let you off with a warning or do you want to keep flapping that big mouth of yours and up the ante?”

That had shut him up --- until she gave him his warning and turned to leave. “I’m working at the bar at the Man Cave. Come on by after you get off work and I’ll give you a beer on the house.” As if he owned the place. It was his brother’s. He just filled in on weekends.

“In your dreams,” she’d called back over her shoulder.

“And yours too, I’ll bet. I can show you some new uses for those handcuffs.”

“Oh, there’s an original line,” she’d muttered. Fifty Shades of Devon Black. No way, even if he was ridiculously gorgeous. So was a hot- fudge sundae, but look what it did to your butt.

“There’s Stumpy,” Jamal said, bringing her back to the present.

Sure enough, the short, old guy was hobbling as fast as he could down the side of the snow banked road in his jeans and cowboy boots and leather bomber jacket, his hunting cap mashed down over his ears, a lasso dangling from his right hand and Daisy’s halter from his left. And there, half a mile farther up the road, trotted his horse, the escape artist. Not a good thing, considering the fact that the old Paint was deaf.

“You can turn off the lights now,” Tilda said and Jamal obliged.

They pulled up beside Stumpy and Tilda lowered the window. “Stumpy, this is the third time this month she’s gotten loose.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Daisy,” he hollered at the horse. “Dang it all, come back.”

Sometimes Tilda wondered just how deaf Daisy was. Either she was faking it or she was psychic because the darned beast tossed her head as though she was saying, “No way.” Then she started across the road. Oh, great.

An SUV came over the rise and Tilda sucked in her breath. The car skidded to a halt and waited while Daisy stood in the middle of the road, trying to decide what to do. The driver soon tired of waiting and honked. The noise didn’t faze Daisy. She stood there, watching Tilda, Jamal and Stumpy as if wondering what they were doing out here on a cold, winter afternoon. Then she strolled back to her own side of the road and continued her journey, probably looking for some other horses to spend Thanksgiving with.

“Give me the rope and get in,” Tilda commanded. With Stumpy safe inside and the rope in hand, they set off in hot pursuit. Well, semihot, not wanting to wind up hitting the animal.

“I’d‘a gotten her,” Stumpy insisted from the back seat. “I don’t know why Mildred keeps calling you guys.”

“Because she’s seen the way you drive,” Tilda said. They were just lucky that Stumpy hadn’t decided to take the horse trailer. The week before, he’d attempted to rope Daisy from behind the wheel, skidding into Dan Masters’s truck, effectively blocking traffic for a good forty minutes while they got things sorted out. Daisy, naturally, had gotten away and wound up at the Llama farm.

They’d almost reached the horse. “Stop here,” Tilda told Jamal. “We don’t want to spook her.”

“Everything spooks her,” Stumpy grumbled.

The natural retort would be, “Then why do you keep the dumb critter?” But Tilda didn’t say it. She knew why. Daisy had been their granddaughter Willow’s horse. Willow had died two years earlier from a brain tumor. Stumpy could no more get rid of the horse than throw out the pictures of their only granddaughter that filled their living room.

Tilda got out of the car and shut the door as Daisy moved down the road a few paces.

“Go get ‘er, cowgirl,” Jamal teased.

“Ha, ha,” Tilda retorted. Jamal was the size of Texas and could take down three men single-handed, but he was a city boy and no use whatsoever in capturing a deaf horse.

Tilda moved away from the patrol car. Daisy, sensing pursuit, trotted a few more feet away, then stopped and looked around. Neener, neener, neener. You can’t catch me.

Oh yes, I can. You may be as big as car but you’ve got a brain the size of an onion. Tilda squatted next to the freshly piled snow on the side of the road and waited. She’d done her share of ropin’ and ridin’. Gone to horse camp at the nearby guest ranch all through high school. She was not going to be outsmarted by a horse.

Daisy tossed her mane and then, to show that she wasn’t even remotely worried about Tilda and her rope, decided to enjoy a little roadside snack, pulling up a mouth full of snow-tipped grasses.

Tilda slowly stood and sneaked forward a few feet. Daisy raised her head and Tilda froze. This was like playing Red Light, Green Light when she was a kid. Daisy went back for seconds. Okay, green light. Tilda moved forward.

Daisy lifted her head and checked to see where Tilda was.

Frozen in place, of course.

The next time the horse went for some grass Tilda moved in, and this time when Daisy lifted her head, Tilda swung the rope and ... missed.

Daisy shied away and trotted off down the road and Tilda swore.

“You rope about as good as you shoot,” Jamal called from the patrol car.

Tilda gave him the finger and started the whole process again. Horses were such foodies. Tilda could have lured over any other equine simply by shaking a can of oats. Was there such a thing as horse hearing aids? If so, it would sure make catching daisy a lot easier.

It took two more tries before she got the rope around Daisy’s neck, although the third try wasn’t exactly the charm. Daisy neighed and pulled away, and even though Tilda had planted her feet, the horse still managed to yank her over into the snow. “Oh, no,” you don’t,” Tilda growled, struggling back to her feet. “Bring the halter,” she yelled.

Stumpy climbed out, holding it. “We got her now,” he said gleefully.

We. Yeah, right.

Finally Daisy was haltered and rewarded for cooperating with the police with a pat on the neck and some oats. “You’d better stop this escape-artist stuff or we’re gonna ship you off to become dog food,” Tilda threatened.

Daisy just tossed her head yet again. She knew Tilda was all talk and no action.

Tilda was equally stern with Stumpy. “You make sure your fence is well mended and you keep that barn door shut,” she told him as she handed over the escapee. “We can’t keep coming out to help you catch her.” She felt badly about being mean to the old guy. He was in his seventies and had arthritis in both hips, and maintaining the house and barn on their five-acre spread was getting to be too much for him. His wife was ready to downsize. Maybe being in trouble with the cops would motivate Stumpy to find a home for Daisy and move someplace smaller.

Stumpy hung his head. “I know, Tilda. You guys have got better things to do.”

“In Icicle Falls?” Jamal cracked as they drove off leaving Stumpy and Daisy to find their way home. “Right.”

“Hey, you want action? Go to New York or L.A,” Tilda said, and turned up the heat. They’d have to swing by her place so she could get some dry pants.

“No thanks,” he said with a grin. “No horses to chase in L.A. Anyway, I’d probably get stuck riding with some clown who farts all the time. Besides, where am I going to find a lady cop as cool as you?”

That made her smile. “If you’re trying to flatter me...”

He snorted. “Like that would get me anywhere.” He shook his head. “It sucks when the best woman in town also happens to be your partner.”

“Okay, now it’s getting really thick in here.” She had a pretty good face and her body was in mint condition, but, sadly, there were too many good-looking women and not enough men in this town. She glanced at the window at the snowy firs and pines. “Sometimes I think I should’ve moved to Seattle.” Except Icicle Falls was her home and her roots ran too deep. Hmm. Maybe she was root-bound.

Jamal grunted. “You should’a thought of that before you bought a house. Hey, we still on for Saturday?”

“Yep. When are you coming back from your mom’s?”

“Friday morning.”

“Good. You can come over and help me finish packing.”

“You know, some of us have to fill in for you and work that night. Who takes vacation on Thanksgiving weekend anyway?”

Somebody who had a lot of vacation days piled up and more seniority than half the guys on the force. Tilda grinned at him and played the world’s smallest violin on her fingers.

“All I gotta say is you better feed me.”

“Cuz you’re a growing boy?”

“Order something from the deli. I don’t wanna get poisoned,” he teased. “Where’d you not learn to cook, anyway?”

“From my mom.”

“Come on, your mom owns Pancake Haus. She can’t be that bad of a cook.”

“She hires people to do stuff in the kitchen, you dope.” Tilda sighed. “The turkey will probably be dry and we’ll have stuffing out of a box. But I like stuffing out of a box. And she’s great with pickles and olives. And at least my Aunt Joy and the cousins will be bringing the candied jams and casseroles.”

“What are you bringing?”

“Pumpkin pie.”

“From?”

“Hey, what do you mean ‘from’?”

“I know you ain’t bakin’ it.”

Busted. Tilda shrugged. “Gingerbread Haus.”

“Yep, you’re gonna make some lucky guy a great husband someday.”

“Oh, ha, ha.”

He shook his head. “Somehow, I just can’t picture you in a house.”

“What I should be living in, a yurt?”

“More like an army barracks.”

“I do have a feminine side, you know.”

“Sure you do.”

She did, and she could hardly wait to get everything all squared away in her new house on Candy Cane Lane. She’d have dried flowers on the dining table and she was going to give that quilted wall hanging her cousin Georgie had made her a place of honor on the living room wall. The house had two bedrooms, two baths, a big living room with a fireplace and a den, which she was going to turn into a kick-ass party room where her pals from the force could come over and play Call of Duty and World of Warcraft. The kitchen was bigger than what she’d had in her condo. Once she put in new flooring it would be great. Lots of room to ... heat frozen dinners. Or make cookies. She made a mean chocolate chip cookie. Maybe, with her new, fancy kitchen, she’d graduate to cake or pie or something.

Expanding her cooking skills would have to wait, though. The house needed some serious work. It had been a bank repo and the previous owners had done a fair amount of damage. Walls would have to be repainted, gutters replaced, and, of course, the kitchen set to rights. And, down the road, she’d have to replace the carpeting, which was badly stained and a little on the smelly side. Well, okay, a lot. She hoped she could afford to give herself new carpet for Christmas, at least in the living room and den.

“I don’t know, Tillie girl,” her mom had said when they’d first gone to see the place. “Sure looks like a lot of work. You sure you want to mess with that?”

“Yes,” Tilda had replied. “It’s in a good neighborhood. It’ll be a good investment.”

“It’ll be a pain in the patootie,” Mom had corrected her.

Yeah, but it would be her pain in the patootie and she was ready for it. For the last five years she’d been envisioning herself in a house with a great guy and maybe a couple of kids, and a big, friendly dog. The guy thing hadn’t happened and she’d decided there was no point in waiting around. She was going to get her house and the dog, too. Heck, maybe even a kid. These days you didn’t need a man to have kids. It seemed these days you didn’t need a man for much of anything.

Tilda wanted one anyway. There were some things nobody did better than men, and she was getting darned tired of being the only one who ever saw the lacy bras and matching thongs she wore under her uniform.

A man with a handsome, swarthy face and an admirable set of pecs suddenly appeared at the back of her mind. Oh, no. Devon Black was not in the running for that cozy life with the house, the kids and the dog. Devon Black did not deserve to see her in her bra and panties. Or out of them.

Someday she’d find the right man. New people moved to Icicle Falls all the time. Maybe Santa would bring her the perfect man for Christmas next year. This year it was a house. And that was enough to ask for. After all, there was only so much the jolly, old man in red could fit in his sack.

Tilda brushed at her uniform trousers. “We need to swing by my condo. I need some dry pants.”

“Aw, you’ll dry out. What we need is a good bar fight to distract you.”

“I’ll give you a good fight right here if you don’t swing by my place,” she threatened, which only made him chuckle.

Dusk was falling and they had just hit the edge of the main drag through town when they saw a car coming from the direction of Currier’s tree farm. Well, maybe it was a car. It looked more like a holiday float – a giant tree with wheels under it. The windshield was barely visible under all that green fir. How could the driver even see? Okay, so much for going to get dry pants.

“There’s another accident waiting to happen,” Jamal said as he flipped on the whirring lights that always made drivers so happy. “Is that a Mini-Cooper under there?”

“That’s got to be Ivy Bohn,” Tilda said in disgust. Who else would buy the biggest tree on the planet but Miss Christmas of Icicle Falls?

The tree pulled over and they stopped behind it.

“Wanna do the honors?” Jamal asked. “Have some girlfriend time.”

“Yeah, right,” Tilda said, but she got out of the cruiser.

Having both grown up in this small town, she and Ivy knew each other. Sort of. But they’d never be buds. Ivy was a spoiled, entitled brat. She was always running late and seemed to think that speed limits were simply suggestions. The few encounters they’d had as adults hadn’t been good ones. Usually, Ivy claimed she hadn’t been speeding, and when Tilda ignored that and gave her a ticket, she demanded Tilda’s badge number (as if she couldn’t just call the station and use Tilda’s name.) Her family had been in Icicle Falls for three generations and she now ran Christmas Haus, one of the most popular shops in town. They had plenty of money and if you asked Tilda, Ivy had always been spoiled and conceited. Tilda hadn’t been even remotely surprised when her husband had finally had enough and left her.

Tilda approached the tree-car and heard the whirr of the window being lowered. There was Ivy in all her perfect make-up glory, peeping out between the boughs like a pissed-off Christmas angel.

“I wasn’t speeding,” she greeted Tilda.

“We’re not stopping you for speeding.”

“Then what?”

Ivy suddenly looked on the verge of tears, and for a moment Tilda felt sorry for her. It had to suck being left by your man.

Tilda sighed. “Ivy, you’re a menace. You can’t see where you’re going under that tree.”

“Yes, I can,” Ivy insisted, pointing to a two-inch gap between boughs.

“Why didn’t you get Kirk to deliver it?”

“Because he’s out of town and couldn’t do it until next week and I wanted it today so I could put it up this Saturday. Anyway, Jinx told me it would fit on the roof of the car just fine.”

Of a Mini-Cooper? Really? Tilda was going to have a little talk with Kirk’s son. And his Uncle Al, who ran Santa’s tree lot. Al would happily pull the same kind of stunt if it meant a sale.

“Well, you can’t drive with that on your roof,” she said. “You’ll run someone over.”

“Okay, fine,” Ivy snapped. “I’ll take it off.”

And dump it by the side of the road? Leaving someone else to clean up her mess… Tilda scowled. “Stay where you are.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t give me a ticket. For heaven’s sake, it’s Thanksgiving. Have a heart.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Tilda said, barely holding on to her patience. “I’m not going to.” She marched back to the patrol car. Who the heck bought a Christmas tree the day before Thanksgiving? Oh, yeah. Someone who was probably going to be very busy selling Christmas ornaments for the next the month.

“So what are we doing?” Jamal asked when she got back to the car.

“We’re taking the stupid tree over to Ivy’s place.”

Ivy’s place... which turned out to be right next door to Tilda’s new house. Why was she shocked? She’d run Ivy’s information often enough. She knew the address. It just hadn’t sunk in. The Mini-Cooper hadn’t been in sight when she’d come to look at the house and neither had Ivy. Out of sight, out of mind. In any case, she’d been in the throes of house lust, so excited about her great find she hadn’t stopped to think about who her neighbors were. Oh, well, just because she lived next door it didn’t mean they had to be best friends.

“Thank you so much,” Ivy gushed, once the tree was unloaded and safely stowed alongside her pretty, perfectly painted, blue house, and Tilda and Jamal were covered in pitch.

“We’re here to serve and protect,” he said cheerily, making Tilda want to gag.

“No problem,” Tilda added, then muttered, “That tree is ridiculous,” as they made their way back to the patrol car.

“Hey, it’s big. I’d think you’d like that.”

“It’s too over the top.” Just like Miss Christmas there, who was about to become her next-door neighbor. “Some people take their decorating too far.” She wouldn’t be one of them though. There was such a thing as overkill.

“Yeah? We’ll see what you do once Candy Cane fever hits,” Jamal teased.

“I’m never going crazy like these people,” Tilda said with a snort. “They need to get a life.”

Sometimes, when it was just her and a plate of food from the Safeway deli, Tilda told herself the same thing --- but she sure wasn’t confessing that to Jamal. Or anyone else.

The next day was Thanksgiving, and talk around Dot Morrison’s table quickly turned to the subject of Tilda’s new house. “It sounds great,” said her cousin Georgie, who was there with her new husband, Jay. Georgie was a super-girlie-girl with perfectly highlighted hair and nails that never had chipped polish, but Tilda loved her anyway. When they were kids Georgie was the queen of Monopoly. Now she and her husband had invested in a duplex in one of the newer neighborhoods in town, and it looked like she was going to score in real life the way she always had in the game.

“It’s pretty cool,” Tilda said, always the master of understatement. It was definitely an upgrade from a one-bedroom condo, or at least it would be once she’d fixed it up.

“Cool? It’s freakin’ adorable,” said her other cousin, Caitlin. With her Julianne Moore hair and stylish clothes, Caitlin was almost as much of a girlie-girl as Georgie. Unless she was on a baseball diamond with Tilda’s team, manning first base, then look out.

“Yeah, well, the pictures you saw on-line didn’t show the stains on the carpets and the bunged-up kitchen floor and the nonworking stove. I’m gonna have to redo the cabinets, too. But it’s all good. For the price I paid I’m willing to put in some labor.”

Some labor. There was another understatement. One of the bedrooms had a fist-sized hole in the wall. The other walls were grimy and in need of paint. The gutters needed replacing and the yard had been let go, too. But that was all cosmetic stuff. The house itself was sound. It just needed some TLC.

“I’m handy with a hammer,” Uncle Horace offered.

Actually, she’d seen some of her uncle’s handiwork. Good thing he’d gone into insurance. She thanked him, anyway.

“The place will be great once you get it fixed up,” Caitlin said. Caitlin did love a project. Usually, though, her projects were the human variety. She went through a lot of men who had what she called potential. Tilda could think of another name for them ---losers.

“You got a steal of a deal, but you couldn’t pay me to live on Candy Cane Lane,” Georgie said.

“I think it’s charming,” Aunt Joyce put in. “Remember how we always used to drive over from Wenatchee to see it at Christmas when you kids were little?” she asked her daughters.

“And here I thought you were coming over to see me,” Mom cracked.

“Well, that too,” Aunt Joyce said with a smile.

“It’s really cute, but they go overboard at Christmas,” said Caitlin who had seven pairs of Christmas-themed earrings, wore enough green in December to put a leprechaun to shame and played Christmas songs 24-7 all month long. “I wouldn’t want all that pressure of trying to keep up with the neighbors.”

“No pressure,” Tilda said. “I can handle sticking up some lights on the fir tree in the front yard.”

Georgie cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah? If you think you can get away with just throwing up a string of lights, you’ve got another thing coming. I’ve heard those guys are like the decorating police.”

“Well, as far as I know, they don’t have any covenants requiring you to go all Griswold Family Christmas, so I’m not stressing,” Tilda said.

“You should be,” Georgie told her.

“Why don’t you get a big blow-up Santa for your front yard,” Caitlin suggested.

“Good idea,” Aunt Joyce agreed.

Tilda pointed a warning finger at her cousin. “Don’t even think about it. I hate those inflatable decorations.”

“I’d thought you’d appreciate getting a blow-up man for Christmas,” Caitlin teased.

“Is everyone in this family a smart mouth?” Tilda lamented and they all chorused, “Yes.”

“So what time do we start moving you on Saturday?” Jay asked her.

“Around ten.”

“Is Jamal helping you move?” asked Mom, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah, but don’t get excited. He’s not moving in or anything. We’re partners.”

Mom frowned. “Dumb if you ask me. What woman in her right mind would pass up a good-looking man who comes with his own handcuffs?”

The women all guffawed and Jay blushed. Uncle Horace just shook his head.

Conversation drifted to other topics and then, after dessert, the family settled in front of the TV to get in the Christmas spirit by watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. “There’s Tilda’s house,” Georgie teased as Clark Griswold set the night ablaze with his over the top outdoor decorations.

“That’ll be the day.”

“You’ll catch Candy Cane Lane fever,” Caitlin predicted.

Tilda shook her head. “I don’t have time for that.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” said Caitlin.

The movie ended and that wrapped up another family Thanksgiving.

“Do you guys want to come our way for Christmas?” asked Aunt Joyce.

That worked for Tilda. Aunt Joyce was a good cook and she always sent Tilda home with leftovers.

Tilda was just opening her mouth to say, “Great idea” when Georgie said, “I know what, let’s do Christmas Eve at Tilda’s new place.”

“My place?” For Christmas Dinner? What did she look like, freakin’ Martha Stewart?

“Oh, good idea,” said Aunt Joyce. “We can celebrate Christmas and have a housewarming.”

“You can come over and spend the night with me on Christmas Eve,” Mom offered to Aunt Joyce and Uncle Horace.

“This’ll be fun,” Caitlin said.

Getting her place pulled together by Christmas and putting on a Christmas dinner? Fun? Really? “Uh, guys. I don’t cook. Remember?”

“Well, it’s about time you learned,” Aunt Joyce said, showing no mercy. “Anyway, you can’t do any worse than your mother.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Mom.

Tilda echoed that thought. But, oh, well. How hard could it be to stick a turkey in the oven? She could make dressing from a box and manage that green-bean casserole. Everyone else would bring rolls and dessert. They’d be fine. And it would be kind of fun to have the whole family over to celebrate the holidays at her new place.

“Okay,” she said, “but don’t expect everything to be perfect.”

“If we wanted perfect we’d never come to your mother’s,” Aunt Joyce assured her and went off to fetch her coat.

“We’ll see you on Saturday,” Caitlin said. “I’ll bring the inflatable Santa. Maybe I’ll bring two. We can double date.”

Jay just rolled his eyes.

Fortunately, Georgie didn’t make good on her threat. It had snowed again Friday night, but that didn’t stop the family moving crew from showing up at Tilda’s condo promptly at eight, along with Jamal and Enrico Abano, another of Icicle Falls’s finest. Within an hour her furniture and the boxes containing her household items had all been loaded into Jamal’s truck and the trunk of her and Georgie’s cars, and the caravan was on its way to Candy Cane Lane.

The neighborhood was a mix of old and new houses, all well-maintained and beautifully landscaped. Her place, toward the end of the street stood out with its dirty white exterior and hanging gutters like an unloved ugly duckling. But an ugly duckling with potential, she reminded herself --- unlike Caitlin’s loser boyfriends. A few repairs and touch-ups, a little TLC from Hanks Landscaping, and it would be good as new.

As they drove down the street she noticed that practically every resident was outside, bundled up in parkas, hats and gloves, hanging from ladders stringing lights or setting up prancing reindeer and nativity sets on their snow-covered lawns. And, of course, candy canes were everywhere.

“I’m thinkin’ you’d better let me get you one of those inflatable Santas, after all,” Caitlin said as they parked in the driveway. “Otherwise, they’re gonna have you arrested for the house version of indecent exposure. This place looks bare naked compared to what’s going on everywhere else.”

“Not everyone overdoes it,” Tilda replied. The other Victorian beside hers didn’t have more than a wreath on the door and a couple of candy canes on the front porch steps.

Even Ivy didn’t have her outside lights up yet, but inside Tilda could see the tree that had taken over the world standing by the picture window. And there was Ivy, busy stringing it with a silver tinsel garland. She shouldn’t be putting the thing up so early, even if it was freshly cut. It was just going to dry out and turn into a fire hazard. If Ivy’s house caught fire and it jumped to Tilda’s place, Tilda was going to throw her in jail for the next million years.

Of all the people in all of Icicle Falls, I have to wind up living next to you. Well, she’d mind her business and Ivy could mind hers and they’d get along just fine. As long as Ivy didn’t burn down the neighborhood.