In buying it from Andrew, he had been uncharacteristically reckless, himself. Did he know how to restore plaster fingers and noses? No. Or how to paint realistic skin tones? No. Or what color anything should be, especially the wings of angels? Not a clue. He had solved this by consulting old Christmas cards and books showing crèche figures. As for the wings of angels, obviously they could be any color the artist chose to make them.

He had been intoxicated by the act of bringing each figure to life, thanks to help from Andrew and Fred. Dooley had painted the camel and its saddle blankets, and was also caught up in the thrill. It had been a huge challenge, but joy had overwhelmed fear, and the miracle had been accomplished.

On Friday night, he and Harley transported the whole caboodle in the truck bed, and Cynthia came along to give a hand. They rolled the bookcases into the Poetry section, brought up the chairs, restationed the rubber plant.

Fiercely cold tonight. Not a soul on the street. They worked quickly. Harley toted in a bale of straw and let it loose in the window. The lighting, seldom used in this area and acting as the star, was pretty good.

They moved the figures around. That some of them were nearly two feet tall was useful in the large space.

The Virgin Mother to the left of the empty manger, Joseph to the right. Three sheep standing, four lying in the straw, along with the old shepherd he had learned to love as he’d painted the solemn face.

They stepped outside and looked in.

‘Goose bumps,’ said Cynthia.

‘Where’s th’ baby Jesus at?’ said Harley.

‘He arrives on Christmas morning. Advent is a time of waiting.’

‘People’ll be lookin’ f’r th’ baby Jesus.’

‘And there,’ he said, happy, ‘is the whole point.’

•   •   •

ON SATURDAY, there were more than a few noses pressed to the Nativity window, and more than a few of the curious came in to buy a book or two or three.

Marcie and Hélène convened at eleven, Winnie included.

‘How’s your mother?’ he asked Marcie.

‘Drivin’ me crazy.’

Shirlene stopped by for a quick coffee. Maybe there was a Caftan-of-the-Month Club . . .

‘How’s business?’ he asked Shirlene.

‘On a scale of one to ten, a six. You would not believe who just walked out with a Boca.’

‘Who?’

‘I’ll let it be a surprise!’ said Shirlene. ‘When do I get to meet Homer?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I don’t know how I’m ever goin’ to meet somebody. I guess he’ll just have to fall out of th’ sky.’

He had noted over the years that a good many single women counted on this very phenomenon, possibly influenced by what the Lord himself allowed through his servant James, ‘All good and perfect gifts come down from the Father above.’

‘The way you find a husband,’ said Winnie, ‘is you’ve got to get out there.’

‘Winnie met Thomas on a cruise,’ he said.

‘I’ve always heard you can’t meet men on a cruise,’ said Shirlene. ‘Single men do not go on cruises.’

Winnie beamed. ‘Thomas wasn’t a passenger, he was in th’ kitchen, bakin’. Which I would consider totally out of th’ sky.’

‘Hey, people, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got work to do.’ Marcie, like her mother, did not like to fool around.

‘The department store in Wesley!’ said Hélène. ‘They would have a beard, pensez-vous pas?’

‘Hélène,’ he said. ‘If you were a department store at this time of year, would you lend your beard?’

‘I heard y’all are lookin’ for a beard,’ said Shirlene. ‘I have a great idea. Forget rentin’ a beard and rent a Santa Claus! Gosh, I’d do it myself if I had time.’

‘We don’t want a Santa Claus,’ said Hélène.

‘We don’t?’ said Winnie. ‘I thought that’s what we’d been talkin’ about all along!’

Hélène appeared fraught. ‘We are talking about Saint Nicholas, the third-century precursor of the Victorian Santa, who had no basis whatever in real life, though their beards were similar.’

‘Really,’ said Winnie.

‘I hear you went down the mountain,’ he said.

‘It was a gruesome business. Pirate beards, Viking beards, and a Gandalf beard, which was very stringy.’

Shirlene was busy with her cell phone. ‘Ta-da! Santa beard! Just twenty-four ninety-five an’ two-day shipping! “So real,”’ she read aloud, ‘“you can convince even your own kids that you are Santa.” Oops, wait. Out of stock.’

He retired to the back of the store, popped in a little Bach, turned it up pretty loud, ate a few raisins.

Five million. The thought came to mind, uninvited. A car dealership in Holding would donate a new van. The pizza parlor in Wesley would donate a pizza, fully loaded, each month for a year. And so on. The auction committee was out there at every opportunity, hoping to bring something to the table when the campaign launched next spring. Abe was keeping a low profile—he heard they were coming after him for a pair of Michael Jordan high-tops.

As for himself, he remembered what Nanny Howard said when she wasn’t up to the job at hand: ‘I feel like I was sent for and couldn’t go.’

He slogged to the front. Hélène was on the phone, the meeting was winding down.

‘The important thing,’ said Marcie, ‘is to find th’ guy who’ll be Saint Nick. I mean, we’re puttin’ th’ cart before th’ horse here.’

‘How about J. C. Hogan?’ said Shirlene. ‘He’s portly.’

‘Too sour,’ said Winnie.

‘How about your daddy?’ Winnie asked Marcie. ‘He would be perfect.’

‘Too wrung out takin’ care of Mama.’

‘Hamp Floyd,’ said Abe, who had popped over for a coffee. ‘I notice he’s gettin’ a little paunch.’

‘Too short,’ said Winnie. ‘How about Mr. Abe Edelman here?’

‘Too Jewish,’ said Abe.

Heads turned as one; they were looking at him.

‘Too busy,’ he said. ‘Go find a Saint Nick and let’s get on with it.’

Running a bookstore or dealing with a vestry? Which was worse?

‘I’m out of here,’ said Winnie. ‘But first—I just had a great idea. Put a sign on the door.’

‘For what?’ he said.

‘Santa beard wanted. Gotta go.’

After lunch, he rounded up another author poster. He was scribing the suggested proclamation on the back when the phone rang.

‘Father, l’école est finis! We are not a cooked goose! Polly just called, she will run up the costume out of remnants and I will contribute Mother’s old fur for the trim! You will look wonderful in it, I assure you. You will not be disappointed in the least!’

Had Hélène Pringle gone deaf? How many times could he refuse to be part of this scheme?

It had spiraled out of control. It was a loose cannon.

•   •   •

‘OH, MY GOSH,’ said Vanita, ‘your window is gorgeous. I love th’ way th’ afternoon light shines on th’ straw an’ that old man kneelin’ down, he is so sweet. But where’s th’ baby Jesus?’

‘He comes on Christmas Eve, around midnight.’

‘Really? In my family, we pop him in his little basket right after Thanksgivin’.’

‘Some do that,’ he said.

‘I brought you somethin’.’ She dug in her enormous shoulder bag, pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘A book quote.’

‘You’re a reader!’ he said.

‘Not really. I am way too busy to read a whole book, sometimes I just read th’ first page an’ scoot over to th’ end. My cousin is th’ reader, she said give you this.’

All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened [Ernest Hemingway]

‘A gem. I’ll post it right away.’

‘You’re not wearin’ your ribbon.’

‘Not today, but I’ve worn it a lot. Ask anybody.’

‘You should wear it,’ she said. ‘So where’s your tree? Everybody on th’ street has a tree.’

‘A little early for a tree.’

‘We always pop ours in right after Thanksgivin’.’

‘Some do that,’ he said.

‘So what’s goin’ on in the other window, with th’ sign that says “Watch This Chair”?’

‘Someone will be sitting in it the next two Saturdays.’