He mustn’t forget chocolates for Hope House and Children’s Hospital nurses. Lipstick for Louella, she was depending on him, and there was Walter, of course, who was difficult, not to mention costly, to shop for, and Katherine . . . why didn’t he keep his lists from former years and just make minor revisions annually? This had never occurred to him before.

And what would he give Dooley? And Sammy, for that matter, and Kenny, who would be leaving straightaway and could use a warm jacket, and the grans, four of them, and Coot—there must be something under the store tree for Coot—and Marcie and Hélène, of course. Store tree! When did that go up? Not anytime soon—he would put his foot down on that nonsense.

‘And no cheese or peanut butter,’ she said.

Did Hope have gift-wrapping supplies stuck somewhere, or did he need to run to Wesley? And music. He hadn’t seen any Christmas music in Hope’s stash of CDs.

How had this happened? He had planned to keep his head about him this year, and on the day prior to Advent, he had already lost it.

•   •   •

THE PHONE WAS RINGING as he came through the side door at five-thirty. He had put the word out to clergy in Charlotte, and bingo!—Hope was being offered the use of a carriage house, by a member at St. John’s. An early Christmas gift for certain.

Before he could drop the backpack into his desk chair, the phone bleated again.

‘On the way home from the post office,’ said Hélène, ‘I saw your sign on the door. I’ll give you Saturdays through Christmas, Father. I can certainly do that much.’

He had forgotten to take the sign down, and was getting what he asked for—help. Very likely, he’d also be getting a dose of Grieg that would last well into the afterlife.

•   •   •

‘I HAVE A GREAT IDEA,’ she said, climbing into bed.

‘Do we have to do great ideas?’ He had barely managed to assemble their Advent wreath on the coffee table in the study; he was beat.

‘It can wait,’ she said, turning out the lamp on her side. She gave him a kiss. He took her hand and prayed their old evening prayer, as worn as the velveteen of the fabled rabbit. ‘. . . the busy world is hushed and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. In thy mercy, grant us a safe lodging and a holy rest and peace at the last . . .’

‘I love you,’ she said.

‘Love you back.’

The light from the streetlamp shimmered through the leaves of the maple and diffused itself in their draperies. They would be going out to Meadowgate in the morning and joining Hal and Marge at their small church in the country . . .

‘I’m wide awake,’ he said.

‘Me, too.’

‘What is your great idea?’

‘The Nativity scene you restored for me. Why don’t we share it this year? It’s so beautiful; it would give joy to everyone who sees it.’

‘But how?’

‘It would be perfect in the window at Happy Endings.’

‘We’ve been talking about using the window.’ He had by no means consented to Hélène’s elaborate scheme, and yet . . . ‘There may be dibs on that window.’

‘Yes, but there are two windows.’

He’d never thought about the other window, which was filled with freestanding bookcases. Fiction authors K through P, to be exact.

‘We could move the bookcases out,’ she said, ‘and put them in the Poetry section. There’s room back there if you move the wing chairs and the table and the rubber plant to the front.’

His peaceful days at the bookstore were over. C’est la vie.

•   •   •

ON TUESDAY, Coot learned to gift-wrap. Dealing with the Scotch tape, Hélène said, had given pause, but it all came around in the end. There were many rolls of green paper under the stairs; as for bows, they wouldn’t do anything fancy—a strand of raffia tied simply, with a red and green sticker which she had found at the drugstore. Would he be so kind as to help her write the store name on the blank stickers? She had bought several packages out of her own funds and it all made a very smart presentation. Coot had taken a sample over to Hope, who called Hélène to pronounce it très charmant, and insisted Hélène reimburse herself.

He seemed to remember Hélène as studious, shy, possibly even timid.

What had happened?

What was the matter with people?

•   •   •

WORD WAS ON THE STREET that Father Brad had wrapped up a two-bedroom rental house on the ridge, with a view ‘to die for’ and a heated garage, always handy in bad weather and, one hoped, a fairly decent place to winter over the gardenias.

•   •   •

THOUGH HE HAD NOT AGREED to anything, Hélène and Marcie conducted a meeting early on Thursday. Saturdays would be the store’s busiest days, they concluded, so that’s when the Saint Nicholas business should happen.

There were but two Saturdays to go, since they couldn’t make the one upcoming. What would the fabric cost? Hélène had roughly calculated the yardage in three different fabrics and was horrified by the reality of this scheme. Two hundred and fifty dollars at the discount store, plus tax.

‘Be sure to make it one size fits all,’ he said.

There was a further challenge. What to do about the beard?

‘You can probably get a beard from Mitford School,’ Winnie said, ‘if it’s not in use. They do plays all th’ time.’

‘Th’ Santy in th’ Christmas parade had a beard,’ said Coot.

‘Gone back to th’ rental company in Atlanta,’ said Marcie.

Who would seek and find the beard?

They looked at him. He adjusted his glasses and looked back, mute.

And who would be Saint Nick? Hélène declared she would do it herself. ‘Si les choses se gâtent!’ she said, loosely meaning, ‘If push came to shove.’

‘People are nutty as fruitcakes,’ he told his wife.

‘Very seasonal,’ she said.

•   •   •

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, he learned, Hélène had gotten in her car, manufactured in a remote year, and careened down the mountain to a community theater said to own an assortment of beards.

He had once careened down the mountain with Hélène Pringle and lived to tell it. He had learned all too late that her brakes had gone bad and there were no funds to get them replaced. It was a thrill ride that money couldn’t buy, second only to flying with Omer in a taildragger and eyeing the scenery through a hole in the floorboard.

‘Here’s what somebody needs to do,’ he said to Winnie when he stopped by Sweet Stuff after the bank. ‘Find a person who has an actual beard. The woods are full of them back in the coves and hollers. I guarantee it.’

‘I’m not goin’ back in there,’ said Winnie. ‘No way. That’s where all my cousins live.’

‘In any case, there’s the answer.’

‘I cannot abide facial hair,’ said Winnie. ‘I’m makin’ donut holes for th’ big day, an’ that’s it for me.’

The word blew along Main like a paper napkin from a fast-food takeout. On Saturdays, starting next week, Abe would be offering hot cider. The Woolen Shop would set out ginger snaps. Winnie and Thomas were giving away donut holes, two to a customer. And the bookstore would be putting on some kind of a show.

•   •   •

COOT HAD GONE to their house and cleaned up the Nativity scene.

The figures would be placed in the window right away, in an order suggesting the coming birth of the the Bright and Morning Star.

First, the Virgin Mary and Joseph at the empty manger, seven sheep, a donkey, a cow, two members of the heavenly host, and a stable which someone had given anonymously the year he restored the figures.

After a few days, the wise men would be introduced into the fringes of the scene, looking none the worse for having tossed around for a couple of years on the humps of camels.

What a lot of rubble it had all been when he’d found the twentysomething pieces at Andrew’s antique shop. Orange had been the operative color—skin, robes, even the camel. Andrew wondered why he’d bought the conglomeration, which took up costly container space on its way across the Pond from England. ‘A reckless purchase!’ said Andrew.