Bellini's Christmas Burlesque Show, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Cathy Lamb
Copyright
Dedication
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About the Author
BELLINI’S CHRISTMAS BURLESQUE SHOW
CATHY LAMB
Thornburgh Bennett Publishing
Books by Cathy Lamb
Julia’s Chocolates
The Last Time I Was Me
Henry’s Sisters
Such A Pretty Face
The First Day of The Rest of My Life
A Different Kind of Normal
If You Could See What I See
What I Remember Most
My Very Best Friend
The Language of Sisters
No Place I’d Rather Be
The Man She Married
All About Evie
Ten Kids, Two Love Birds, and a Singing Mermaid
Ruthie Deschutes O’Hara has Ulterior Motives
I’m Not Yours
WANTED: Christmas Miracles
Bellini's Christmas Burlesque Show
Copyright © 2025 Cathy Lamb
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Elizabeth Mackey
For DJ Gevana
Welcome to the family!
You are, and always will be, a great gift.
We love you.
The Lambs
1
Bellini
“Honey, my uterus has been stolen, and I need you to come home for Christmas and run the bar. Bring the cats.”
What? What did my mom want me to do?
I instinctively slapped a hand to my forehead and accidently stabbed myself with the black felt pen I was holding. “Ouch,” I said into my phone. “Mom, first off, what do you mean your uterus has been stolen?”
And what do you mean I need to come home for Christmas and run the bar? That’s a no.
“The good Dr. Brenda took it.”
“Where…What are you talking about? When?” I slumped back in my chair in my peaceful, little white and pink cottage in Oregon that no longer felt quite so peaceful. “When did the doctor steal your uterus?”
“Two days ago.”
“And why did Dr. Brenda steal it, Mom?”
“Perhaps ‘steal’ isn’t quite the right word, Bellini Mae. I did give permission, although reluctantly so.”
Yes, that is my name. Bellini Mae. As in the drink Bellini, which has prosecco and peach puree in it. I cannot talk about Bellinis right now. “What is the right word, then?”
“That uterus of mine had been giving me fits for years. It was a shriveled and annoying thing, fit for a prickly witch, not someone like me, and I finally told Dr. Brenda, ‘Take that brat out.’”
I held my breath for long seconds as my brain processed the conversation. Take that brat out. Yes, that’s how my mother, Whiskey O’Donnell, talks. She is an original. Her real name is Margaret Marie O’Donnell. Yes, that’s Irish. She unofficially changed her name when she bought her bar and named it Lady Whiskey’s. “Mom, why didn’t you call me before this? Before you had your uterus taken out?”
“Because your aunt Emmie is here, and she’s taking care of me, and I thought we could handle things ourselves, along with help from The Sisters.”
“The Sisters” are my mother’s six sisters. They’re all outspoken, opinionated, loud, and the kindest ball-breaking women you’ll ever meet, but they are exhausting. It’s like watching seven human hurricanes at once. I have twenty-five first cousins and more first cousins once removed. I love my family in Montana, but I live in Oregon because I cannot endure the heartbreak of seeing him again, but that is another story that I will tell after getting to the bottom of this prickly uterus issue.
“Mom, this is upsetting. You should have told me.” Tears sprang to my eyes. “I would have been there for you. Why did you wait this long to tell me?”
“Because I have respect for you and your time. I know you’re working on your Roxy Belle books, sugarplum, and I didn’t want to turn your world upside down and shake it like a martini, but now I’m afraid I’m going to have to do that. I need someone to run Lady Whiskey’s.”
“Oh, dear God, no.” The words escaped before I could stop them. I did not want to run Lady Whiskey’s Bar and Grill—for many reasons. One reason was that I needed to write another Roxy Belle book, but I could not think of anything to write. No storyline. No plot. Nothing. That was a problem.
“Oh, dear God, yes, Bellini Mae O’Donnell! You’re the only one who can handle the customers and the staff and the books and the occasional”—she coughed— “bar fight.”
“Bar fights are more than occasional, Mom.” I stabbed myself in the forehead again with my black pen and sighed at my own clumsy self. I dropped the pen to protect me from myself.
“Nonsense. You know how to break them up, anyhow. Everyone was so impressed with your peacekeeping abilities that night last December when Bobby Joe and Lucien were fighting, and you settled everything right on down when you wielded that chair like a lasso and yelled, ‘Who wants to get hit in the head? I said, who wants to get hit in the head?’ Those boys knew you would sooner smack their craniums than allow them to continue fighting and ruin our wholesome family environment.”
I choked a bit on that. Wholesome family environment? It’s a bar. It’s loud. Raucous. Teetering on being out of control when it’s packed. No minors are allowed, except for me when I was a kid and my mother had me mixing drinks in the back. A five-year-old should not know how to make Manhattans and cosmopolitans, but I did. I thought it was fun to add tiny umbrellas and lemon slices and mint to the drinks.
“You have a powerful temper you unharness now and then like an avenging goddess, and everyone knows it.”
“I do not have a temper.” I sounded a tad wimpy. “I would not have cracked Bobby Joe or Lucien. Well, maybe I would have, but I didn’t want anyone getting hurt.” That didn’t make sense, but I ignored it. I stood up from my drawing table and started to pace around my charming, quiet cottage in the country. We were hundreds of miles away from each other, and I missed my mom, but I already felt like I was being run over by a whiskey bottle named Whiskey.
“Mom, let’s back up. How are you feeling? Be honest. Don’t skip around the question.” I peered out my window. We were getting a little snow. Light and fluffy. One of my cats, Sir Scott, jumped from the top of my pink refrigerator to the kitchen table. Then he meowed at me. He wants praise when he does an Evel Knievel jump.
“I’m feeling like someone opened me up, took something out, and left a porcupine inside of me, sweetheart. But I know I’ll be up and rockin’ it soon.”
“That’s a bad image,” I muttered. I started pacing, then stared into a mirror that has an antique frame and hangs above my favorite blue reading chair. I had two black spots on my forehead from the pen. I hadn’t washed my hair in three days because it’s a waste of time, but my reddish-brownish curls, tending to frizz, were piled on top of my head in a loose, messy ball. To be clear: not a sexy, loose, messy ball.
When the curls aren’t in a ball or ponytail, they fall below my shoulder blades. I have dark brown eyes, not like my mother’s, which are light blue, and I have a big ol’ mouth and big teeth. It’s not like they’re the size of dinosaurs, but they’re wide and bright.
All seven O’Donnell sisters have big mouths, big teeth, and big smiles. Their children do, too. It’s a family trait. Aunt Emmie has insisted that this is why our family was able to evolve. “Our big teeth meant we could chomp down on food, and our big mouths meant we could stick in huge bites of deer and bear and snake and whatever else our cavewomen ancestors ate.”
I put aside the snake-eating image. Surely my ancestors wouldn’t have done that?
“I feel better,” my mother said. “But the good doctor, Brenda, told me I have to rest. I told her, ‘Good Dr. Brenda, you know I have the coat drive at the bar to organize for the kids, and you know I have Lady Whiskey’s Christmas show coming up, too,’ and she said, ‘I know you do, Whiskey, and Brad and I are participating again this year. We’re going to sing a song about the importance
“I do not have a temper,” I said yet again, and she ignored me. Honestly, you grow up in a small town with a bunch of aunts and uncles and cousins and family friends that go back generations, and once you get a label, it would be easier to pull the moon out of the sky and hide it under your bed. Even Dr. Brenda has labeled me. Now and then, I do turn into a whirling she-devil—I have since I was a kid—but almost every time, it’s to protect someone who’s getting beaten up or bullied.
“Don’t be embarrassed about that temper,” Mom said. “I’ve told you that a hundred times. It’s something to be proud of, sugar. You always want to help others. Now, listen. Emmie and I are going to watch that reality dating show Marry Me now, for the older folks. Remember that show? A seventy-year-old woman named Ruthie Deschutes O’Hara won it last time and fell in love and lust with a man named Tony. He looked like Robert Redford but had that Jimmy Smits smoldering sexiness and the coolness of Denzel Washington. She’s part of that Deschutes family—we buy their tequila. It’s a very educational show. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“What? Tomorrow?” Petunia, my tabby, jumped up for a hug. I almost dropped her, and she meowed in protest as she hung down my body like a stretched-out Gumby doll. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, sugar. And you’ll need to be here through mid-January. The good doctor said so.”
“I can’t,” I said, my voice pitching up and down. “I’ll come and visit you. I’ll help you, Mom, but then I’m coming home.” No, I would not go back to Kalulell for seven weeks. I go and visit for major family events and Christmas, although I have not always been there on Christmas, which caused my mother to guilt-trip me like no other.
There are always family parties, anniversaries, dinners, baby showers, and bridal parties—disorganized chaos, as half my cousins are as crazy and unhinged as their mothers. I need peace and quiet. I need to be a hermit. I need my pink and white cottage so I can stay sane. Plus, I’m proud to be a cat lady.
I rolled my eyes at myself. Excuses. My heart did a somersault into a well of pain and loneliness. Who was I kidding? It’s him. That’s why I don’t live in Kalulell. That’s why I didn’t visit for long periods of time. I couldn’t live there because I would see him, and I would end up crying like a cow every time I saw him if cows could cry.
I sniffled—at the thought of him, not at the thought of cows crying, although that was a miserable thought, too. I wiped my tears. The worst part: What if I saw him and embarrassingly lost control of my mouth and told him the truth? It would flip his life upside down and then blow it apart.
“Mom, I can’t stay for seven weeks. My anxiety would flair. My nerves would shriek. My equilibrium would become, uh, unequal.” Those weren’t the only worries. I thought I was going to cry, as dread mixed with heartache wrapped itself around me. “I have a Roxy Belle book due. I’m a wee bit stressed.” I was more than a wee bit stressed. I’d missed a deadline. Maybe two.
“Love dove,” my mother said, her voice gentling, “You have the spirit of a lion, the courage of a goddess, and the heart of a warrior. You can handle seeing Logan. The sight of him will not smite you. Besides, I think Mrs. Claus has a miracle ready for you this Christmas. She’s wrapping it up now.”
“I do not believe in miracles, Mom.” I needed one, though. Doesn’t everyone?
“I do. I’m depending on Mrs. Claus! I am sure she is a feminist and a romantic, and all will turn out merry and bright.” Her voice rose in victory. “I’ll let you go to ready your sweet self. Pack the cats in suitcases, grab your notebooks and drawing paper, steel your loins, and come to Montana!”
“What do you mean ‘steel my loins’? How am I to do that?”
“I mean, dearest daughter, favorite daughter…”
“I am your only daughter and your only child.”
“Be brave! Like an elf! Like Rudolph! Bring your red nose home, and thank you, and I love you, and everyone at the bar misses you.” She hung up.
“Mom! Mom!” It was useless. Useless.
My mind was now a swirling mess of Christmas songs and bar rumbles. “Let’s go, cats. Garden walk.” I grabbed my red coat, shoved my feet into red boots, and shuffled the four cats out the door. Walking my five acres calms me down.
My cats and I take long walks every day around the property, inspecting the meadow, the pond, and the fir, pine, willow, and pink cherry trees. I had the twelve pink cherry trees planted along the road leading to my house. I love when they bloom each spring.
I named my sweet white cottage with a pink door Honeysuckle Pink. It was run-down and unloved when I moved in over five years ago. It’s about twenty miles from Portland, Oregon, and it came with a view of the sunset over the mountain range on the coast.
Original, wide, wood-plank floors contrast well with pure white walls and trim, three wood beams across the ceiling, and plush, comfy furniture. My couch is pink, as is a love seat. Pink-and-white embroidered pillows, several by designer Ellie Kozlovsky, are scattered about.
The house is small and cozy, two bedrooms. I had the wall taken down between the kitchen and family room to open it up and let the sunshine in. I gutted the kitchen because it was so ancient I feared it would burn the house down. Cabinets that are light sage green on the bottom and white at the top are separated by white quartz counters. The island, made with wood from a fallen old barn, is topped with butcher block.
I brought in a wood kitchen table and four pink chairs I found at a garage sale and set them in front of the window in the kitchen nook. I set up my worktable right in front of the windows of the family room so I can look past my white porch and out to nature as I write and illustrate my Roxy Belle chapter books for girls and boys.
I am lucky—the books sell well. Apparently, there is a huge market for a precocious, curious, awkward, nine-year-old fourth grader who lives on a farm with two parents and five odd siblings and many personable animals.
My bedroom is light pink—light pink walls, white bedspread with tiny pink rosebuds, and a pile of pink and white pillows. It’s a haven of pink and white. Serene. Romantic. Not that I have any romance in my life anymore. Haven’t in years.
To practice “self-romancing”—I made that term up—I light candles, listen to classical music, pick myself bouquets of flowers on my property, run up and down country roads to get my anxieties out, and read books at night, often romances. I play chess online with other anonymous people who probably have no romance in their lives either. Other than that, I am a hermit.
A house hermit.
A lonely house hermit. I sound pathetic, but I am not.
I sighed and said to the cats, “Let’s go to the pond first.”
Yes, I talk to my cats. I’m a lonely house hermit with a lot of cats I converse with. I really don’t know what that says about me except that they are excellent conversationalists.
2
Logan
Logan Hamilton stared into his fireplace, the flames dancing about. It was one o’clock in the morning, but he knew he would not be able to sleep. The lights were off in his third-floor downtown loft, one soft white moonbeam shining in.
Bellini was coming home.
He ran a hand over his face, then leaned his head back on his leather couch and put his feet up on his coffee table. He’d made the coffee table out of wood from an old barn. His work as an architect and builder took up a lot of hours, but he had found over the years that the busier he was, the better. So, he’d taken up carpentry.
