‘One of these days, for sure.’
Winnie waited for Shirlene’s departure before emerging from the poet’s gallery. ‘Holy smoke!’ she said, grinning. ‘You should fix them up.’
‘Not me,’ he said.
• • •
HE FOUND COOT in the storage room under the stairs, tears streaming.
‘What is it, buddy?’ He put his arm around the one who was their ‘fixture.’
‘I cain’t say.’
‘You can say it to me. I’m your friend. You’re our friend.’
‘Friend,’ said Coot. ‘F-R- . . .’ Coot looked at him, at a loss. ‘F-R- . . .’
‘I-E-,’ he said.
‘N-D.’
‘That’s it!’
‘I miss Mama.’
‘Of course.’
‘I always said she was mean as a rattler, an’ she was, but I miss ’er. She was my mama.’
They stayed under the stairs awhile. It was a good place to have a cry.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Saturday, December 1
Dear Henry,
A blessed Advent to you and Peggy and Sister!
Am writing from the bookstore to say what a wonderful Thanksgiving we had and I trust your own summoned a plenitude of grace. You sounded the best yet when we spoke.
And while we covered most of the bases, I feel the urge now to send something to greet you at the mailbox. I’m one for the cards and letters, myself, and am grateful for your faithfulness to us in that regard.
Dooley left here early on the 29th and Lace is on her way to Virginia as I write. D and L appear genuinely in love—it is a sight to see.
Actually, he had seen more than was intended.
On walking past the door to the deck, he had glanced out. They stood by the railing, wrapped in each other’s arms. He saw plainly the look on Dooley’s face, a look he had certainly never seen before. In something like slow motion, they kissed.
He had moved quickly into the kitchen, struck to the marrow by the power of that moment, a gift unwittingly captured for all time.
• • •
UP AND DOWN MAIN, an angel formed of tiny lights had been installed on every lamppost; alleluias and glorias poured forth from the sound system at the Town Hall, and ready or not, it was December first, and Christmas in Mitford was official.
• • •
HÉLÈNE PRINGLE WAS NOT ONE to let go of her notions.
Tomorrow was the first Sunday of Advent and, like the rest of the common horde, she was heading into full Christmas mode. She dropped by the bookstore on her way to the Local, toting her fold-up shopping cart.
‘Hélène, you are Catholic. You know very well that Christmas cannot be had before Advent, any more than Easter can occur in advance of Lent! Further, I must be selling, don’t you see, not lounging about in a hot suit trimmed in fake fur. We are shorthanded as it is, we cannot put an employee in the window.’
She didn’t get it. He pressed on.
‘Further still, there will be gift-wrapping to do.’ Gift-wrapping! Right up there with locusts and plagues. He was stressed about this.
‘I feel certain I can teach Coot to gift-wrap,’ she said. ‘He is surprisingly handy. And in any case, Saint Nicholas did not wear a suit, he was a bishop. He would have worn a cassock, a surplice, a stole, a cope, and a pectoral cross.’
‘With mitre and crozier, I suppose,’ he said, dry as crust.
‘That, too.’
The torment of it.
‘The mother of one of my old pupils is a marvelous seamstress. I tutored her daughter without charge for an entire year. She is willing to make you a most glorious costume—if she is provided the fabric which can be purchased for a song in Wesley.’
She appeared to be running out of steam, but no.
‘You can count on me,’ she announced, ‘to provide the sack.’
‘Ah-h,’ he said.
Hélène said something in French.
• • •
ESTHER CUNNINGHAM, now fully recovered from her stroke, was on the phone and none too happy.
‘I’ve been meanin’ to ask—do you have any idea why th’ dadblame Christmas parade happened th’ day before Thanksgivin’?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Christmas does not come before Thanksgivin’.’
‘Maybe they’re working toward slipping it in around Halloween.’
‘I need to talk to th’ council. Just wait’ll I get over this hackin’ cough,’ she said, proceeding to hack. ‘How was th’ candy?’ she said. ‘I’m not gettin’ a good report on th’ candy.’
Lord knows, he had stepped up to the corner of Main and Wisteria just to check on this item of concern. Santa had cruised in at the end on the back of a pink Thunderbird convertible, and as far as he could tell, it was all ho-ho and no candy.
‘Um,’ he said.
‘My great-grans did not get a single piece. Fourteen great-grans scattered through th’ crowd and not one piece of candy.’
‘Lower dentist bills,’ he said.
• • •
SALES HAD BEEN BRISK, albeit with no help from a couple of people who dropped by to read the Sunday Times, now entering the ravaged state. He was totting up the numbers when Hélène jangled in with a full cart.
No rest for the wicked, and the righteous don’t need none.
‘Think of it this way, Father. Saint Nicholas carried forth God’s love by giving all his inheritance to the poor and needy. He dedicated his life to others, and was especially loving to children. We know the infant laid in the manger is almighty and supreme, now and forevermore. Saint Nicholas was but God’s hands and feet, just as you are in your time in history.’
Cease! Desist! Arrête!
‘Happy Endings could distribute sweets to the children who come to the store, and everyone who wishes could bring a small gift for the patients at Children’s Hospital! Think how many of them come from the desperate parts of our mountains, Father. And so you see—your favorite charity would even today be served by a good man born long ago in the third century. How wonderfully it all ties together.’
She was breathless with conviction.
‘How long would this . . . go on?’ he said.
‘We could start as soon as Polly gets the fabric and runs up the costume. Tout de suite! Le temps c’est de l’argent! We have no time to lose!’
‘And who is to pay for the fabric?’
She gave him an expectant look. A French look, he thought, though he had no standard for what that might be.
‘Not I,’ he said, meaning it.
He agreed to nothing in her proposal. On the other hand, her pitch had succeeded, if only in making him feel the pressure of a fast-approaching Christmas. Something must be done.
He called Hope.
She directed him to a stack of author posters under the stairs.
He turned one over and uncapped a Magic Marker.
Christmas Help Wanted
Apply Within
‘Take down the sign,’ said his wife. ‘I’ll do it. My eyes will appreciate the break. And fun—it will be fun! A mom-and-pop operation!’
‘I’d like you to gift-wrap,’ he said, wanting to nail this issue immediately.
‘I’m not terribly good at it.’
‘I am not gift-wrapping,’ he said in his pulpit voice. ‘Not with help running around.’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll gift-wrap and you’ll pack our lunches.’
‘Deal.’
‘No chicken for me, I am off chicken. And no salt on anything and no white bread, and by the way, I can’t work but one day a week. I’m painting the other days and Christmas is coming and I have lists to make.’
Lists to make! Into the backpack went a notepad; he would knock his list out tomorrow.
‘Saturday would be best for me,’ she said. ‘And no avocado, either. Too fattening.’