“I’m pretty sure I don’t need the corset,” I told the flashily clad octogenarian clomping around my bedroom in a pair of hot-pink kitten-heeled slippers. Pinella Gerrard was an eighty-year-old spinster who thought she was a sexpot. And, since she’d decided to adopt me, I was currently suffering under her questionable expertise regarding the period costume I was being forced to wear for the evening’s caroling event in the town square. 

Humming along with the Christmas carols playing on TV, Pinella tugged the top of her leopard-spotted bra up above the too-low neckline of her pink angora sweater and pulled on the waistline of her yoga pants. “Of course you do, dolly. You want to look your best for that handsome Mr. Dietz, don’t you?” She straightened the neckline of my dark blue velvet dress. “This color really makes your pretty blue eyes pop.”

“Thanks.” I’d opted to leave my long, dark-gold hair loose and curling over my shoulders. When I pulled it back into the bun I’d initially planned on, my rounded cheeks gave me a “chipmunk with a mouth full of acorns” look that wasn’t flattering. Unfortunately, I’d gained a few pounds recently, as I always did around the holidays. 

I sighed, tugging on the slightly too tight waistline of the gown. “I’ll be wearing my cloak the whole time anyway. He won’t even see me in the dress.”

“He’s not coming here after?” Pinella asked in her trademark New York City accent. She waggled tattooed eyebrows and winked at me. “Remember dolly, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him off your hands.”

I nearly grinned at that. Deitz would not thank me if I told Pinella she could take a run at him. Not that I ever would. I was pretty much crazy for the guy. And I thought it was safe to assume he felt the same. 

“You can’t have him,” I said, grinning at her. “Get your own guy.”

“I been tryin’, dolly. Your sexy neighbor won’t give me the time of day.” She sighed. “I’ve borrowed about fifteen pounds of sugar from him so far, wearin’ my sexiest clothes. And he hasn’t once taken the bait.” She patted her rounded belly. “I’m pretty sure I’m wearin’ those fifteen pounds of sugar in my middle.” 

My sugar-begging neighbor was referring to Doug, my mostly monosyllabic next-door neighbor whose medical use of marijuana made him jovial and laid back. But didn’t do anything to make him amenable to the oversexed octogenarian’s wiles. 

Pinella eyed the corset. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear the girdle?”

I didn’t bother explaining to her…again…that it wasn’t a girdle. “I’m not going to wear it. You can borrow it tonight if you want.”

Pinella clapped her hands, giddy with excitement. Snatching up the corset, she headed for the door. “What time do you need me there?” she asked over her shoulder. 

“Five o’clock. Don’t be late.” Technically, my neighbor hadn’t been invited to carol with us. The event was only supposed to be for my community theatre group. But Pinella had all but begged me to let her come. And I’d heard her sing. She had a loud, beautiful voice. I was planning on standing next to her and mouthing the lyrics in the hopes that everybody would think it was me singing. 

From the next room came a high-pitched warbling howl. I smiled at the sound. My dog Shakespeare, an adorable gray Pomeranian with bright button eyes, loved to sing when Jingle Bells came on. He had a very unique howling technique that I was hoping would drown out my own off-key wailing should Mrs. Gerrard somehow escape from my sphere.