Scene Set Up:

Laurel’s mischievous Corgi puppy (Dash) has just played tug-of-war with a bell pull. Embarrassed by the unholy racket, Laurel scolds the furry prankster. Then she continues searching her “resort bedroom” for a much-needed electrical outlet...

Yielding to curiosity, Laurel peeked inside the clothespress. The display of well-preserved, Jane-Austen-style gowns looked like a rainbow of velvet, silk, and chiffon.

“Wow,” Laurel breathed to Dash. “Nico and his reenactor friends really are serious about their history. Check out the embroidered slippers. This one looks like it’s encrusted with real ivory—Hey! Dash! Bring that pearl slipper back here!”

Too late. The puppy had lived up to his name and bolted gleefully under the bed.

“OMG!” Laurel had visions of lawyers, not sugarplums, dancing in her head. “Come back here! Bad dog! So help me God, I will spank you within an inch of your puppy life!”

Just when she thought things couldn’t get worse, the door flew open, and a very pretty, very red-faced blonde ran into the room, panting, weeping, and babbling in German.

Uh-oh.

Flushed with guilt, Laurel inched away from the clothespress. She didn’t know what to think when the blonde—who bore an uncanny resemblance to Inga, the Swimsuit Slut—ran toward her with outstretched arms and thumbs at eye-gouging level.

“Whoa!” Laurel retreated hastily toward the bed. “Slow down! Do you speak English?”

Inga’s doppelganger halted, blinked watery green eyes, and turned even redder, if that was possible.

“Forgive me! Of course. M’lord told me you were sick with fever. When I heard the bells ringing so insistently, I was afraid that...that you were dying!”

Laurel shot Dash a murderous look.

He panted happily in the shadows.

“Nope,” Laurel said with an awkward little laugh. “Not dying. Starving, maybe—”

Inga’s doppelganger grew so flustered by this news that Laurel felt compelled to add: “I’m joking!”

“Praise God,” Inga wheezed, pressing a hand to her bodice and gulping great, shuddering breaths of air. “I ran all the way from the kitchen.”

Laurel glimpsed the rigid lines along Inga’s ribs. Good Lord. She ran up a flight of stairs in a corset and a floor-length gown? “Uh...maybe you should sit down, miss.”

“Miss? Miss?!” Those enormous green eyes started seeping again. “You don’t remember me?”

“Uh...”

“It’s me, m’lady! Your own dear Elfriede! Oh, surely you cannot have forgotten your Elfie!”

Laurel was hard-pressed not to gape. This hot mess was Elfriede? Nico’s wife?

“Er...Elfie?”

“Yes, yes, of course! I have been your companion since we journeyed here, from Prussia. And you are my dearest counselor. My one true friend!”

Laurel cleared her throat. She wasn’t exactly sure why Elfie was calling her “m’lady.” Or confusing her with some therapist. But one thing was certain: Elfie was fragile—as fragile as a butterfly with a missing wing. Laurel didn’t want to push her over the edge.

“Uh, right,” she said gamely. “How silly of me! I could never forget my B.F.F.”

Elfie blinked blankly. “You’re, uh...? Forgive my English. It has never been as good as yours."

Dash chose that exact moment to poke his snout out from under the bed.

“Dachs!” she greeted enthusiastically, dropping to her knees. “Oh, my angel, you have come home too?”

“He’s called Dash,” Laurel grumbled as the little traitor galloped straight into Elfie’s open arms—with the slipper.

“You renamed him?” Elfie grinned when he licked her chin. “How charming! Dash is so much more fitting than badger.”

Laurel wasn’t sure about that, considering that Dash had refused to surrender the slipper to her. She wondered how much an heirloom shoe, with hundreds of matching pearls, would cost to repair. When multiple dollar-signs started dancing in her brain, she felt a little queasy.

“Elfie, I’m really sorry about your slipper—”

“My slipper?” Elfie’s laugh tinkled, reminiscent of silver bells. “The slipper is yours. Everything in this room is yours. I’ll simply put it in Dash’s basket of teething toys, along with your parasol, your bonnet, and your rabbit-fur muff—”

Suddenly, she sucked in her breath. She was gawking at Laurel’s legs.

“My goodness!”

Laurel glanced down her length, thinking that she must have smeared motor oil on her jeans. “What?” she demanded. As far as she could tell, the denim was clean.

“Your knees!”

“What’s wrong with my knees?”

“They’re naked!” Elfie whispered in scandalized tones. “My poor, dear lady, the tribulations you must have endured! To think that you have holes in your very odd drawers!”

“You mean my blue jeans?” Laurel raised her eyebrows. “That’s how people wear blue jeans in America.” But not on Planet Neptune, apparently—or wherever else you’re from.

Elfie’s face had drained of color.

“America?” she whispered anxiously. “You mean the Colonies?” She climbed to her feet, wringing her hands. “Were you kidnapped by highwaymen? Enslaved by pirates? Is that why you couldn’t come home all these months? Did...did those animals savage you?”

Laurel gaped. Am I being punked?

But Elfie was puckered up like a toddler, her bottom lip quivering tragically, and Laurel was pretty sure the dam was about to burst.

“My lady!” Elfie cried, hurling herself into Laurel’s arms and blubbering into her shoulder.

Yep, there it is.

“Now Elfie, don’t cry,” Laurel soothed, awkwardly patting the girl’s back. “Everything’s okay. I’m okay. Dash is okay.” But somebody else needs a Xanax. “Why don’t we all take a deep breath, and think happy thoughts. I know! Let’s think about Christmas. Jingle bells, sleigh rides...”

(End of Excerpt. Please return to the Zoom meeting.)