“How difficult for Dean,” she murmured. “It explains a great deal . . .”

“Also,” I cleared my throat. “The light parade part had to be canceled once folks started having seizures.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

Ayisha was confused. “Light par—?”

“Lawsuits galore,” I said, cutting her off. “You know how lawyers are.”

Aunt Esha’s lips curved up at the corners in amusement. “I’m familiar.”

Which was when I remembered she was one. Awesome. But I was already in the flow, so I kept going.

“I’m not real sure about the giant snowman balloon, either. Or the trained flock of Christmas goats dressed like elves.” (Finding that photo in my internet search had induced a five-minute fit of laughter, so I had to include it on the site. Lotta regrets now.)

Ayisha cocked her head at me. “Are you smokin’ something?”

Before I could manufacture the right degree of disingenuous indignation, the first acrid wave of actual smoke reached us.

We turned to the kitchen and my stomach dropped at the sight of an undulating dark gray wave of smoke coming through the doorway.

“Shit!”

I shot out of my chair and was the first one in the kitchen, which was already filling up with smoke.

As fast as possible, I turned off the oven and popped open the door, which was a mistake. A fresh and much larger billow of burned cookie dough rolled out and smacked me in the face.

I coughed and waved my hand. Then I hurriedly grabbed oven mitts and two of the trays. Behind me, Arthur did the same, followed by Ayisha, and soon we four were looking down at the smoldering remains with not a lot to say.

Except for Ayisha, who summed it up with: “Yikes.”

Accurate.

Then she looked at the three of us. “Well, I gotta get back to the front. Good luck,” she added, before zipping out of there so fast she probably didn’t even get the stench of smoke on her clothes.

I, however, bore the stench of another Christmas failure.

I didn’t want to look at Arthur, who couldn’t have been pleased. No one burned cookies in idealized holiday scenarios. It was a rule. Just like there was always supposed to be snow, another area of failure.

“Might we be able to open the window a bit?” Aunt Esha asked, discreetly clearing her throat. “Lest the smoke alarm activates?”

An excellent and obvious idea. I did just that. The chilly late-morning air whooshed in as the smoke started to go out, but not fast enough.

Grandma Jo entered, her brows drawn into an alarmed frown as soon as she saw the blackened remains of the cookies. “What happened?”

I shrugged, helpless. Hopeless.