Boo Who (5 page)

His stomach turned.

Where was everybody? Didn’t they understand what Christmas meant? Why weren’t they at church?

Wolfe and Ainsley strolled out of the church, holding hands and laughing. When they saw the reverend, he could tell they sensed something was wrong. He didn’t even try to hide it behind a smile.

“Are you okay?” Wolfe asked.

He shook his head. “I am losing this town,” he said. “There was a change at Thanksgiving. The whole town. You remember. And now, look,” he said, pointing down the street to the singers. “They’d rather be out singing about a one-horse open sleigh than listening to one of my sermons.”

“Reverend,” Ainsley said, taking his hand, “come to our house tonight. Have Christmas Eve dinner with us. Please. I insist.”

“Thank you my dear,” he said, “but I think I’d rather be alone.”

Ainsley and Wolfe exchanged worried glances, but the reverend tried to smile. “I’m fine. I just need to figure some things out. Please, go on. And thanks … thanks for coming.”

They both hugged him warmly and then went on their way. Reverend Peck lingered a few seconds longer, trying to understand what God wanted him to do. He went inside, hoping to find the offering basket half-full. Instead, there was a twenty. At least someone had given. He took it and knew that he at least had enough money to eat for the week. That was one less thing on his mind.

He decided to walk the streets of his town, hoping the good Lord would speak to him, give him some insight into how to help these people. He walked the gravel hill that led him into Main Street. Lights hung from every store window. And though the streets weren’t crowded, people milled about here and there.

He could still hear the carolers.

Then he noticed something peculiar. In front of The Mansion, his favorite restaurant, a noisy crowd stood. As he approached, he noticed whole families standing around, giggling, conversing, and carrying on. The women wore their favorite Christmas sweaters. The men smoked their pipes and told tall tales. Something about the entire scene warmed his heart and disturbed him all at the same time.

After several minutes of observing this, he decided to find out what all the commotion was about. Why the big crowd?

He approached the Jamesons, a young, bright family. He’d met the father, who sold tires, and the mother, who stayed at home with their children, a few weeks back when Wolfe had been lost in the snow. Mr. Jameson had come to volunteer his time.

“Hi there,” Reverend Peck said, offering a hand to Mr. Jameson, who immediately recognized him.

“Hello, Reverend!” he said. His wife smiled and shook his hand too as they exchanged pleasantries.

“What’s all this about?” The reverend gestured toward the crowd.

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Chef Bob is offering a special Christmas Eve dinner to the first hundred people who arrive. It’s some fancy ham dish. Everyone rushed here to try to get a spot. Cost twenty bucks a plate!”

“A fancy ham dish.”

Mr. Jameson laughed. “Yeah! And I don’t even like ham! But I figured it had to be something special if he was only serving a hundred people.” He shrugged. “So I figured I’d bring the family down to see if we can get in. It’s looking iffy. We arrived late, I guess.”

“Late?”

“Yeah. There’s been people camped out here since lunch so they could get in! We’ve just been here since around five.”

“Honey, look,” his wife said. “Carolers! Isn’t that wonderful?” The family turned to admire a dozen cheery faces bobbing their heads along to “Frosty the Snowman.”

The reverend said to Mr. Jameson, “You know, I had a Christmas Eve service tonight.”

The man’s face registered surprise and guilt. “Oh. No. I hadn’t heard.” He cleared his throat. “We would have o’course been there if we’d known. Right, honey?”

“Honey” was still gleefully swaying to the carolers and had tuned the men out.

“Yes, well, maybe next year.” He shook Mr. Jameson’s hand and headed home.

A fancy ham dish beat out the message of baby Jesus. How could he compete with fancy ham? What was fancy ham, anyway? Part of him thought he might hang around the restaurant and see if he could get in. But sorrow drew him into the isolation of his home.

As he arrived at the parsonage, his breath freezing in front of him with each labored step he took, he stopped.

“Whoo.”

The reverend looked around. Had someone spoken to him? “Hello? Is someone out there?”

“Whoo. Whoo.”

He looked up and almost laughed. An owl! He’d never seen an owl
in these parts. It was huge! The Great Horned Owl cocked his head and regarded him.

“Whoo. Whoo.”

“Who gives a rip about church, you say?” He unlocked his door and went inside. He didn’t have fancy ham, but he thought he had a can of Spam in the cupboard.

Dr. Hass had watched from a distance, across the street, as the sheriff’s deputies declared his home foreclosed. Standing in the Los Angeles monsoon, he had cringed as they chained the front driveway gate and stuck it with a bright orange sign announcing that very fact.

He had stood there soaking wet, despite his three hundred dollar, plaid-lined raincoat.

All he possessed consisted of two suitcases full of clothes, a trunk crammed with sentimental items, a box full of books, and about five thousand dollars in cash. Oh, and the raincoat.

What had his life come to? A puddle of an existence. As the two deputies had driven away, he’d gazed at what was once a magnificent Bel Air mansion, complete with a pool, eight bedrooms, four stories of glory, and plenty of envy power.

And that was just his home base. He’d also gained an amazing reputation, carefully cultivated over the years, which was now worthless. People he’d spent years socializing with pretended they did not know him. They’d once trusted him … never liked him … but trusted him. Now they scorned him.

With thunder tumbling across the sky and a downpour reminding him that if hope was about to raise its head not to bother, Dr. Hass had felt low but not defeated. Because on the day he discovered he would soon be homeless, he’d just finished reading
Who Moved My Cheese?
for the eighth time. Some people’s heroes were presidents or athletes or soldiers. But he had four heroes, and their names were Sniff, Scurry, Hem, and Haw. Two mice. Two littlepeople. Haw’s motto was taped to the top
of his mirror, just above his receding hairline: “You can believe that a change will harm you and resist it. Or you can believe that finding New Cheese will help you, and embrace the change. It all depends on what you choose to believe.”

Well, this was his Big Cheese Moment. It hadn’t looked like Cheese, standing on the sidewalk about to drown in a downpour. But this
was
Cheese. A big wedge of sharp cheddar.

He smiled to himself, then caught the driver of the taxi in which he now sat giving him a funny look.

“You getting out here?”

“In a moment,” he said, remembering a quote from his Anger Management Daily Calendar of Quotes:
A temper tantrum makes you look like a spoiled three-year-old.
A month or so ago, he might’ve grabbed the cabby by his toupee and slapped him clear across the street. But today he held up a polite index finger. He’d come a long way. And he intended to go even further.

As he was packing one last suitcase two nights ago, he’d realized he had a passion. Not just a love. Not just a talent. But
a passion.
And what had made him famous and charismatic all these years would now make him even more successful and well known.

He had discovered a cure for his mother (quite by accident), and now he would conquer the cure for others. He’d be written about in medical journals for years. All he had to do was prove his theory.

Dr. Hass looked down at the paper he was holding with the full-page ad that he knew was getting ready to change his life.

“Skary, Indiana. Wonder how this place got its name?” he mused aloud, looking out the window at the house in which he was soon to reside.

“No idea. Minutes are ticking by here, buddy.”

He handed over a large wad of cash and got out. The cabby helped him unload everything from the trunk, but only to the sidewalk outside the house. “Have a nice Christmas,” he muttered just before zipping away in his cab.

The doctor was not into the festive spirit of the season, but his heart danced with the idea of a new beginning and a new town. New opportunities. Running from those out to get you always did provide for new opportunities.

“Home sweet home. Skary, Indiana.” And then, with amusement, he noticed that the yellow color of his house and the angle at which the roof pointed upward looked amazingly like a big wedge of cheese.

Ainsley settled into Wolfe’s arms. A bright and feisty fire crackled in front of them. “Is this music too cheesy?” She laughed. The Mannheim Steamroller CD she’d just put in was her favorite Christmas CD.

He smiled. “Well, I have to admit I haven’t listened to Mannheim Steamroller at Christmas since I was in an elevator at Bloomingdale’s.”

“Cute,” she said, punching him in the arm. She nestled into his chest. “This just brings back good memories for me.”

He stroked her hair. “As long as we don’t have to play them at our wedding.”

She giggled and popped up. “I think I’ve picked the perfect music. I listened to music all last week. We’ve got a lot to do before the wedding, but I think we can get it done.”

“All I care about is that you are there.”

“Well, I want our day to be memorable. Down to every last detail.”

His light tone shifted. “Honey, I just want to make sure you don’t get your expectations too high. I mean, sometimes things go wrong at weddings.”

“The key to keeping things from going wrong is in the planning. If you plan and prepare, it’s much less likely that something will go wrong.”

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all.”

They stared into the fire for a while, listening to the synthetic sounds of Steamroller. Then Wolfe said, “Have you thought any more about starting your catering business?”

“I just figured I’d think about it after the wedding. I’m already so busy as it is.”

He tilted her chin his way. “I know I’ve told you this before, but Ainsley, you don’t have to work. You certainly don’t have to work at the restaurant. I have plenty of money to support both of us for the rest of our lives.”

“But we’re not married yet. When we’re married, I’ll consider it.”

He grinned. “You have a stubborn streak, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “Just idealistic, I guess. Besides, for the first time in years, the restaurant is starting to become what I remember it being. I wouldn’t call it quaint, but it’s getting there. At least we don’t have eyeballs floating in the sodas anymore.” She winked at him.

“Okay. But you understand, don’t you, that you will never have to worry about money again?”

She swallowed. No, she did not understand that. She couldn’t even comprehend it. It was a foreign concept to her.

The doorbell rang. “Are you expecting someone?” Wolfe asked.

“No.” She sat up. Maybe her father had invited Garth over. The sheriff remained worried about Thief since his operation. All Thief wanted to do was sleep. She listened for her father to go to the door, but the house was quiet. Sighing, she left Wolfe’s warm and comfortable arms and headed to the door.

Opening it, she nearly gasped.

“Hi Ainsley. Merry Christmas to you,” said Alfred Tennison.

CHAPTER 6