“In her room?” Jessica asked. “I didn’t realize anyone lived here.”

“She doesn’t,” I said. “She’s decorating the great room. Which is decorator-speak for what we normal humans call the living room. Or maybe the family room.”

Jessica had stopped tapping, thank goodness, but now she was nervously twisting one lock of her copper-red hair around a finger.

“I thought the old guy with the beard and the Georgia accent was the decorator,” she said.

“That’s Eustace Goodwin,” I said. “He’s decorating the kitchen and the breakfast room.” And would probably have a fit if he heard himself described as “the old guy with the beard.” Eustace was a dapper if slightly plump fifty-something.

“You need a different decorator for each room?”

I managed to stop myself from responding with my own version of Mother’s long-suffering sigh. Clearly Jessica hadn’t read any of the material we’d sent over to the student paper before showing up here to do her story. I needed to start at the beginning, which meant the interview would probably take a lot more time. Not even ten o’clock, and I could already see my plan for the day going down the drain.

But instead of snapping at Jessica, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. At any other time of year, I’d have counted to ten, but this close to Christmas, all it took was the holiday scents to calm me: spruce, pine, cinnamon, and clove. And upstairs, someone had changed the “Run, Run, Rudolph” radio to the same channel Mother was on, so now I could hear “The First Noel,” in stereo. I reminded myself that I’d finished all my Christmas shopping and most of the wrapping. I could do anything.

“This is a decorator show house,” I said, opening my eyes and focusing back on Jessica.

She had pulled out a small digital camera and was craning her neck around, taking pictures of random things while she listened to me. At least I assumed she was listening.

“The house is sponsored by the Caerphilly Historical Society. In a show house, you get a different designer for each room, and they all show off their best possible work. When the show house opens—in three days, on Christmas Eve—people will pay to tour it, and the historical society gets half of the money.”

“If there’s any left after paying the decorators,” she said.

“No, the decorators don’t get paid,” I replied. “They’re doing this for free.”

“For free? All of it?” Jessica looked up at the holly-decked crystal chandelier over our heads, which would not have been out of place in a small palace, and snapped a few pictures of it.

“They do it for the exposure,” I said. “If you’re someone with a big house and enough money to hire a decorator, what better way to check out the local talent than to come to a show house, where a whole bunch of designers are demonstrating their talent?”

“That really works?” Jessica sounded dubious. “I mean, have you actually gotten any clients for your decorating business that way?”

“I’m not a decorator,” I said.

“You’re not? Then what are you doing here?”

A question I asked myself at least once a day. What was I doing here when I could be home with my family, enjoying the holiday season? Maybe even spending a little time at my anvil since Caerphilly College was on winter break and my husband Michael would be home to watch our five-year-old twins. Ever since the boys had arrived, my once-thriving blacksmithing career had taken a backseat to sippy cups, naps, and lately T-ball.

I glanced up to see that Jessica was still waiting for an answer. And frowning as if I’d been trying to pull a fast one on her by impersonating a decorator. Well, I probably could if I wanted to. I couldn’t tell a finial from a mullion, but after the last few weeks I could toss off the jargon like a real pro.

“I’m the on-site coordinator,” I said. “Here to keep everyone organized.”

“Sounds like a thankless job,” she said. “How’d they rope you into that?”

“They threatened to turn my house into the show house,” I said. “I agreed to organize it if they’d hold it somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

“Yeah, that’d be worth it. So, the people who come to see this are mostly rich people, right?”

“Or people who want to see what the pros do to help them get some ideas for their own do-it-yourself projects,” I said. I actually wanted to ask why she was taking so many pictures of the banister and the stair treads. “Some people come to get holiday inspiration—since this is a Christmas show house, after the designers finish doing their rooms, they get to decorate them for Christmas.” Should I remind them again about the holiday part of their marching orders? Some of them, like Mother, had gone overboard, but others had yet to hang a single strand of tinsel.

“And every room decorated in a different style?” she asked.

“By a different decorator,” I said. “And so probably in a different style. For example, as you can see, Ivy Vernier, the decorator in charge here in the foyer, is an expert in trompe l’oeil. Painting stuff so it looks real,” I added, seeing her blank look at the French phrase. A few weeks ago I might not have known it myself. I pointed downward. “That floor’s not really marble.”

“It’s not?” Jessica bent over, and then plopped down on the floor, the better to study it at close range. She began tapping on the floor, as if testing to see if it really was wood. “Wow. Can I talk to the painter?”

“She’s not here at the moment.” Ivy had gone home with another headache. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Was it, as she claimed, a combination of paint fumes and eyestrain from so much close work? Or was the pressure of our deadline getting to her? Or was she reacting to the stress of dealing with the other designers? Dealing with one in particular—

“She’ll be around a lot in the next two days,” I said aloud. “To finish up her work before our opening. She might even come back before you leave today, and if she doesn’t, I can give you her contact information.”

Jessica nodded, and took several pictures of the faux marble floor. And then several of the faux oriental carpet in the center of the marble.

“And on the walls she’s illustrating Christmas carols and the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen,” I added. To one side of the door, the Little Match Girl already sat shivering in sparkling painted snow. The three kings processed majestically up the wall beside the stairs, bearing the richest, most bejeweled gifts I’d ever seen. But the seascape of “I Saw Three Ships A-Sailing In” was only three quarters finished, and the painting of “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” barely begun—how could Ivy possibly find time to finish?

I banished those thoughts and concentrated on the reporter, who was staring at the three kings. And reaching out to tap them.

“Careful,” I said, grabbing her arm. “Some of the paint might still be wet.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Wow. So what’s in here?”

She scrambled up and headed for the double French doors at the right side of the foyer.

“The study,” I said. “Done in a modern interpretation of the Art Deco style by Sarah Byrne from the decorating firm of Byrne, Banks, and Bailey.”

“Wow!” She was peering through the glass panes. And probably leaving a nose print. For a reporter, she hadn’t yet displayed a very impressive vocabulary. I hoped she’d find a few more varied expressions for her article. But I had to admit that, like Ivy’s painting, Sarah’s black, red-and-gold Deco-themed fantasy was worth a few wows. I coveted it, just a little. A good thing Michael and I were very happy with our Arts and Crafts style interior—decorated, naturally, by Mother.

Of course, if seeing Sarah’s room inspired Mother to do a little Art Deco experimentation, I could find a room in our oversized Victorian house for it. Michael’s office, perhaps? Or one of the guest rooms?

“This designer’s not around either?” Jessica stepped into the room and ran her finger over the dramatically curved arm of the closest of a pair of Art Deco armchairs upholstered in red velvet.