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it meant to be codded in Ireland, but she felt secure in assuring Patrick that his finalist status was no cod .
    “Come on up here, finalists,” the emcee insisted. “Let’s get a look at you all standing next to each other.”
    Patrick reluctantly stood up. Before heading toward the stage,
    he paused between Joss and his mother. Pulling his crazy red sweater away from his body with both hands, he leaned down and stated,
    “Really, Mother. Abuse of an adult child? I’d thought you above such things.”
    “What would make you think that?” she replied.
    Patrick kissed his mother’s cheek and gently squeezed Joss’s
    shoulder before he met up with another finalist, and the two of them navigated the jungle of chairs in disarray.
    Thinking her new friend was by far the best-looking finalist on the stage, Joss could hardly peel her eyes away from Patrick Brenneman as he grinned and waved for the crowd. When he shook a finger in
    the direction of his mother, onlookers erupted with laughter.
    Good-natured and somewhat playful, he seemed to charm most
    of the large room, but first prize ultimately went to a welder named Jorgen from somewhere in Minnesota for his three-dimensional
    Christmas tree on both front and back of the sweater—a decision that was met by an unabashed string of surprising obscenities from the sweater wearer next to Patrick in the line.
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    On the fourth day of Christmas,
    Murphy’s Law gave to me . . .
    four dirty words,
    three French friends,
    two hearty shoves,
    and a Partridge with the first name Keith.
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    4
    “I was robbed, I tell ya,” Patrick said when he returned to
    the table.
    “Don’t be dense, boy,” Kathleen teased. “That’s a horrible
    sweater.”
    “Why’d you give it to me then, woman?”
    The two of them shared a chuckle as Joss pushed her chair away
    from the table.
    “And if I ever hear you speak like that gentleman next to you on
    the stage,” Kathleen told Patrick, “I don’t care how old you are, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”
    “You have to forgive the oaf, Mother,” he said. “You saw that
    sweater of his. He was quite invested in the competition.”
    Joss giggled as she leaned over toward Kathleen and touched the
    woman’s hand.
    “It was so nice to meet you, Mrs. Brenneman.”
    “Are you leaving us, child?”
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    42
    Merry
    Humbug Christmas
    “Yes. I really just came for the cheesecake,” she confided with
    a grin. “But I had to stay long enough to see how the great sweater adventure played out.” She glanced at Patrick and added, “You really were robbed.”
    “This is what I’m sayin’,” he agreed.
    “Patrick, be a gentleman and escort Miss Snow back to her
    cabin.”
    “Oh, no. That’s all right.”
    Patrick stood up and nudged his chair toward the table. “You
    never know when some rogue elf might jump out at you,” he told
    her. “I’ll just be along in case one of them needs a good beating.”
    Joss smiled at Kathleen. “Well, I can hardly turn that down, can
    I?”
    “I’ll come back for you, Mother. Don’t go anywhere.”
    Kathleen crossed her heart with one finger and smiled. “I
    promise.”
    Connie’s cat-that-ate-the-canary grin said it all as Joss passed her with Patrick in tow. “See ya tomorrah,” she sang.
    A small choir of costumed carolers crooned “Silver Bells” at
    them, and a random “Ho! Ho! Ho!” followed them down the hall.
    “This is what I’d hoped to avoid when I booked the Humbug
    cruise,” she remarked as they boarded the elevator and Patrick’s hand hovered over the panel of buttons. “I’m on Frosty. Where are you?”
    “Blitzen. What’s a Humbug cruise?” he asked.
    “Oh, it was canceled, so they rebooked me on this floating
    extravaganza. It was for all of us Bah! Humbuggers who