‘All of ’em that was in school.’ As they climbed in the van, he’d done a head count—twelve, or was it eleven?—to be dropped off at a total of four different houses. To be absolutely sure, he asked them to count their own heads. Yellow house, Bitsy, Donna, and Albert; white house, green shutters, Sissy and Sassy; green house, white shutters, Buster, Harry, Susan, Paula, and Robbie; brick house, Jerry and Rosalind. And that was just Marcie’s crowd. There were a dozen more distributed among their other four daughters, and nobody in the family was Catholic.
‘Only one got off at the wrong house,’ he said. The whole lot of them were famous for getting off at each other’s houses and drivin’ their mothers crazy. ‘It’s been a handful, Doll Face.’
This was a shock. The girls had certainly had their say about her wearin’ their daddy out, an’ now they were wearin’ him out, sendin’ him on a pick-up-and-deliver as if he had nothin’ else to do.
She watched as he laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. Before he could hit the recline mode, his mouth dropped open and he was snoring to beat the band, bless his heart. She would have to do somethin’ nice for him when she got stronger. Maybe she would buy a new nightgown, Lord knows they weren’t dead yet, or take him up to Lucera, which would cost out th’ kazoo, and maybe they should even have wine—bein’ Baptist, they never had wine except for a communion or two at Lord’s Chapel, didn’t Jesus have wine?
In the meantime, she would climb out of this chair and round up her own dadblame newspaper.
She hobbled to the kitchen, where she found it on the counter with the mail, then she hobbled back to her chair and coughed a good bit and read the headline that ran clean across the front page.
‘Ray!’ she said.
He sat up and blinked. ‘What is it, Honey Pie?’
‘Go put th’ bloomin’ phone on th’ hook and come listen to this.’
• • •
‘HAVE YOU SEEN IT?’ Esther Bolick held up today’s Muse so Winnie could see it over the bake case.
‘I read every word. Everybody’s talkin’ about it.’
‘Have you ever?’
‘Never!’ said Winnie. ‘Three million dollars! I can’t get my feeble mind around that kind of money. So nice that th’ movie star twin bought her sister’s paintings for one and a half million, can you believe it? An’ every dime to go to th’ Children’s Hospital! Then our own Miz McGraw turns around an’ gives a million an’ a half to match it.’
‘They’ll be needin’ a lot of cakes for that big auction next spring. It’s black-tie, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Winnie. ‘An’ how about them not havin’ a clue all those years that they were twins? That is so sad.’
‘I would say if they get th’ two hundred people they’re lookin’ for, they’ll need five fourteen-inch OMCs, sliced event-style.’
What had happened to Esther’s bad knees? Was it a miracle healing? Never again would she, Winnie Ivey Kendall, sign an agreement of any kind. Not in this life.
‘I think their names are really pretty,’ said Winnie. ‘Irene Elizabeth and Kimberly Frances.’
‘That auction will be big-time,’ said Esther. ‘You should do three-layers. An’ believe me, you’ll need help to get that job done.’ Esther was standing on tiptoe, eyeing her across the case.
‘I’ve never seen one of Kim’s movies, but Thomas is goin’ to get ’em on Netflix.’ Her dentist had told her not to grind her teeth and here she was grinding her teeth. ‘I don’t have any idea they’ll come to me, anyway. There are other bakers in this world, Esther. They might even get a caterer from Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte? That’ll be a million and a half out of th’ budget right there!’
She could not do this another minute. ‘Besides, formal affairs these days go for a chocolate dessert every time. That . . . is statistical.’ So saying, she marched back to the kitchen.
Esther fumbled in her pocketbook for the car keys. ‘Chocolate!’ she muttered. ‘An’ when th’ party’s over, there’s everybody wonderin’ why they can’t sleep, an’ blamin’ it on too much wine!’
• • •
‘IT WAS A REALLY GOOD STORY,’ Minnie Lomax told Hessie. They sat in the front window of the Woolen Shop, drinking hot cider schlepped from Village Shoes.
Minnie was fond of encouraging Hessie, who had no husband, no money to speak of, and was forced to work for peanuts for J. C. Hogan, who had never once made a purchase in this shop.
‘I liked your headline—“Twin Gifts Kick Off Children’s Hospital Campaign.”’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Hessie. ‘There was so dern much to that story, I didn’t know where to start. I’m still in recovery.’
‘I thought it was great that the movie star twin will make an appearance at the auction. That is really, really nice of her to come such a long way for children she doesn’t even know. An’ then Miz McGraw givin’ that matching gift in memory of her poor dead husband—he used to buy all his woolen items from us. He played golf in Scotland, but bought all his woolen items from us. Wasn’t that wonderful?’
Minnie wished Hessie would listen more carefully when she talked, but Hessie’s mind was usually elsewhere.
‘Way too many details to that story,’ said Hessie. ‘It half killed me. That’s th’ last big news this town needs for a long time, I can tell you that.’
• • •
‘I HAVE SOME GOOD NEWS and some bad news,’ said Puny, hands behind her back.
‘But first, congratulations on all that money for Children’s Hospital, I know you must have prayed up a storm. An’ I’m so happy for Ms. McGraw that she has a twin, she deserves it! Sissy an’ Sassy drew straws on which one of them would end up rich an’ famous an’ Sissy won. I tried to tell ’em they could both be rich an’ famous, but . . .’
‘Bad news first,’ he said, weary in every bone, ‘and get it over with.’
He had dragged himself out of bed this morning. Retail was definitely worse than priesting. It was Christmas Eve, and because his work schedule of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday was now ended, he had pitched in with Hélène and Coot for Christmas Eve, aka the last fling of his second career.
‘Th’ water heater’s leakin,’ it’s runnin’ out on th’ basement floor.’
Their second water heater in four years. Where had American quality and ingenuity gone? What was the matter with people?
‘I’ll call th’ plumber,’ she said.
‘Thank you. Is that the good news, that you’ll call the plumber and I don’t have to?’
‘Th’ good news is behind my back. Three guesses.’
‘Puny, Puny. You know I don’t like guessing.’
She handed over an envelope, grinning.
His letter to Cynthia? Yes! The lost letter was found!
He whooped.
‘Where?’
‘You know th’ place under your desk where th’ drawers are at? It has those little feet that set it up off th’ floor a inch or two—I found it under there. When I was dustin’ your desk, I dropped one of your pens and that’s where it rolled an’ I reached in there an’ . . . Merry Christmas!’
She was beaming.
‘Don’t tell Cynthia,’ he said.
• • •
HE WALKED OUT TO THE STOOP, the phone to his ear, and looked up. A snow sky. Big time.
‘Sam! Good morning. Walk up to the bookstore with me.’
‘I ain’t got no clothes on.’
‘Get ’em on,’ he said. ‘Paying job.’
Sammy could work ’til noon—bring in lunch, take the truck to have Lew check the ignition, and help Coot sort the recycling. He was scratching around for something for Sammy to do, as the cat door was finished and, as much for Truman as for Cynthia, covered by a hand-lettered sign: DO NOT OPEN TIL CHRISTMAS.
Kenny had been working on his kid brother; Harley had done his part, and Miss Pringle’s terms and conditions hadn’t hurt. Hair combed. Hands clean. A good-looking boy. He was grateful for the simple happiness of walking up the street with Sammy.
‘Buck’s goin’ to take me to work with ’im next week.’