The three of us stared down at the smoldering disaster that was our first batch of what was supposed to have been a dozen funfetti cookies shaped like stars and Christmas trees that were supposed to be dipped in dark chocolate later and/or iced (the bags of icing at the ready). We also had another couple dozen pfeffernuesse, which were small, spicy Dutch cookies that seemed doable with the barest hint of exotic and thus a change of pace, but were really just me leaning a bit too far over my culinary skis.

It had started well enough.

Once Mrs. Buzzard was out the door, I knew I had the kitchen for the next two hours before Lloyd arrived to begin her dinner prep.

I sent up a text to Arthur that the coast was clear.

When he and his aunt arrived together in the kitchen, I showed them both the recipes I had in mind. My distrust of Aunt Esha was tamped down by her warm smile.

“Thank you so much for taking the time out of your holiday to help Arthur and me have a wonderful experience here in your town,” she said, her dark brown eyes (which were shaped differently from her nephew’s, wider and softer, but with the same color, right down to the flecks of gold) shimmering with warmth as she squeezed my upper shoulder. She had a deceptively strong grip for someone so slight of build.

And ugh. What was with these Chakrabartis and their poorly timed kindness? Didn’t she know I was internally and irrationally angry at her? No? Because it was internal?

Details.

I smiled in response. “Sure thing.”

Maybe I had some of Grandma Jo’s political adroitness after all.

It also probably helped that I found out Dad had gone into work while Arthur and I were tootling around in the Hummer looking for groceries, which somehow made me feel the tiniest bit better.

Though, maybe he just didn’t want Aunt Esha to keep beating him at chess.

I had the ingredients for the two different batches laid out on the island with printouts of the respective recipes, having added pfeffernuesse after the trip to CK because I wanted to liven things up.

I’d even managed to scrounge up three aprons, though it took some convincing and an oath that no photos of him in it would be taken before Arthur accepted his.

Aunt Esha took it all in. “What wonderful choices, Finley. Arthur, don’t you think these will go well with some of the hot chocolate?”

He perked up. “That’s brilliant, Mashi.”

I started for the dry pantry. “I think we have some—”

“No!” They said it simultaneously, then she added, “Thank you.”

“Auntie brought over our own,” Arthur informed me.

“Charbonnel et Walker,” she clarified further, as if I would recognize the brand.

“American hot chocolate is little more than chalky brown water,” he said.