Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (40 page)

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.

•   •   •

U
P
AND
DOWN
M
AIN
, 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.

•   •   •

H
ÉLÈNE
P
RINGLE
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.

•   •   •

E
STHER
C
UNNINGHAM
, 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.

•   •   •

S
ALES
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.’

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.

•   •   •

T
HE
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
.

•   •   •

O
N
T
UESDAY
, 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?

•   •   •

W
ORD
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.

•   •   •

T
HOUGH
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.

•   •   •

O
N
F
RIDAY
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.’