Up the servant’s steps and into the back hallway, Kate led him through the family house. How was it possible she knew this place better than he did? Up until his ninth birthday, he spent every Christmas here with his family. He should lead, not her.

“Okay,” she began, popping with excited energy. “Every year, on Christmas Eve, we have a huge festival feast for lunch before we open the doors for the guests. I mean, it’s huge. Everyone in town comes and we have everything you can imagine—”

“Last year, Buzz Schrute carved a Nativity scene out of butter. With a chainsaw,” Michael called over his shoulder. They turned the corner to the main living wing, which housed the library, the study, the formal parlor, the living room, kitchens and formal dining room. The public wing of the house.

“Eating is as much a part of the Christmas experience as anything else. Everyone really opens up around the table. When you share a meal with someone, you’re really sharing a part of your soul.”

“Where are you going with this?”

They approached the formal dining room. Oh, no. The house no longer reeked of gingerbread or fir. Other smells swirled in dizzying circles around Clark’s head. Garlic. Onions. Sage. Parsley. Paprika. Sweet potato. Brussels sprouts… Turkey.

“I wanted to show you what it’s like. Give you a taste of the real Miller’s Point Christmas experience. So, drumroll, please…” Kate shoved the French doors apart, revealing Clark’s worst nightmare. He thought a redecorated house couldn’t get any worse, but once again, Kate blew him and his expectations away.

“Surprise!”

The shout came not from Kate or her two compatriots, but from a room filled to the brim with Miller’s Point Christmas nerds. In his rushed morning, Clark never inspected the formal dining room. He knew from his childhood that it accommodated almost forty-five people, though he’d never seen so many in there. Old, young, fat, thin, tall, short, black, white, in Christmas sweaters, in dresses. Everyone crammed around the table to surprise him and welcome him to his own personal brand of torture. Decorations covered the carved wood paneling of the walls and a miniature Christmas tree—apparently the towering monstrosity in the living room wasn’t enough to sate Kate’s lust for the noble fir—took post in the corner.

But ornate decorations were nothing compared to the table. Pages from Dr. Seuss stories were less cluttered and colorful. Anything ever featured on a Martha Stewart Thanksgiving special or on the cover of the November issue of Southern Living claimed space at this feast.