The Holidays With Mr. Mitchell

AVERY: Being married to Jim meant champagne toasts, luxury empires, and billion-dollar deals. But this Christmas? It meant being married to a man who signed off on a charcuterie board and called it a holiday.



No party. No magic. Just Scrooge in a Tom Ford suit. And I'd had enough. With a little help from my friend, Cat Veléz, the most ruthless luxury event architect in California. I was determined to remind my husband that Christmas wasn't a line item. It was something you felt.

JIM: In my defense . . . it was a very nice charcuterie board. Apparently, that doesn't count. Turns out, my wife didn't want a gift basket. She wanted me.



And when my brother, Jake, and the doctors at St. John's all started calling me Scrooge . . . and my wife started looking at me like I was Clark Griswold's tight-fisted boss? That's when I realized I hadn't just screwed up Christmas. I'd screwed up with her.



Now Avery and Cat are plotting a holiday coup. Snow machines, rooftop galas, fir trees flown in by private jet.



I'd built an empire. But saving Christmas-and my marriage-wasn't going to take money.



It was going to take me proving to Avery that beneath the Scrooge act, I was still her Mr. Mitchell.