Rituals of the Season Read online

  Honest.

  Maidie and Miss Emily had both sent over enough casseroles to get us through these last few hectic days and I slid a chicken pot pie into the oven with silent gratitude. Wineglasses and matching towel sets and steak knives are all well and good, and I knew we would enjoy them for years, but a freezer full of casseroles when there’s no time to cook? Now that’s a truly inspired wedding gift.

  We still hadn’t painted my old bedroom, but the paint was there in the empty room, the cans turned upside down so the color would stay mixed. I changed into jeans and a paint-speckled sweatshirt, spread out tarps to protect the carpet, and used a brush to cut in the corners and around the molding. The white paint on the ceiling still looked fresh and clean, and we’d agreed to finessse it till the next time. Midnight blue might be Cal’s idea of a cool color, but using it on four walls and the ceiling, too, would turn the room into a black hole. Or maybe that was the whole idea? Dwight keeps saying that Cal’s fine with the wedding. He was so young when Dwight and Jonna split that he really doesn’t remember when they were a family, but I still worry.

  By the time the caravan pulled into the yard, I was almost ready to start rolling the walls. Seth and Andrew quickly unloaded their trucks, then reloaded them with the old couch and chairs for one of Robert’s grandsons, who was setting up his first apartment. They declined my invitation to supper, but Reese had no one waiting for him at his trailer so he volunteered to stay and help paint.

  It was heading for one in the morning before they finished the last bit of trim. I had hung all of Dwight’s clothes in his side of our big new walk-in closet, and his socks and underwear were now neatly tucked away in dresser drawers.

  Saturday was spent rearranging cupboards, cabinets, drawers, and bookshelves to accommodate Dwight’s things. We both culled ruthlessly and wound up with several large boxes to donate to various charities.

  I’m always amazed by how much you can get done if you just keep doing, and we emptied his last box shortly before eight.

  Dwight put a fresh log on the fire and sank wearily onto the couch. “We’re not supposed to be anyplace tonight, are we?”

  “Tomorrow night’s your mother, and Monday is Daddy’s, but nothing tonight.” I loaded the CD player with Christmas music and turned the volume down low. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really. Let’s just sit a minute.”

  He stretched out, with his head in my lap, and I leaned back. The house felt warm and cozy and, all things considered, was amazingly tidy. The fire crackled and shot bright sparks up the chimney and an English boy choir sang ancient carols.

  “Yeah,” Dwight murmured. “I could get used to this.”

  “Ummm,” I agreed.

  I only meant to rest my eyes for a minute. The next thing I knew Dwight was tugging at my hand. “C’mon,” he said sleepily. “It’s after midnight. Time for bed.”

  I didn’t argue.

  Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear. A beautiful high-pressure day of frosty crystalline air, blue skies, and brilliant sunshine. We decided it might be politic to show up for Mr. Yelvington’s sermon since he was going to marry us in three days, so we drove over to Dobbs and slipped into a back pew at First Baptist just as the choir was entering. Portland and Avery were across the aisle, two rows forward, and when she spotted us, she made a sad face and shook her head. I gave her my “What?” look, but before I could make out what it was she was commiserating with me about, Dwight nudged me to pay attention to the minister.

  Despite being Baptist, the Reverend Carlyle Yelvington was less a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher and more of a come-let-us-reason-together mediator. The subject of the day’s sermon was gratitude—to live in the moment, to be grateful for what we had instead of pining for what we did not have. My eyes met Dwight’s and happiness flooded my soul like the morning sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows. From that moment on, I promised myself, I would truly try to live in every moment with a grateful heart.

  That promise lasted about thirty-eight seconds after Mr. Yelvington pronounced the final “Amen,” when Portland hurried over to grab me and wail, “Oh, Deborah! What are y’all going to do?”

  “About what?” I asked her.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The country club had a fire last night.”

  “What?”

  “A short in the dining room Christmas tree. They put the fire out before it spread to the rest of the building but the dining room’s a mess. Smoke and water damage everywhere. It’ll be at least six weeks before they can reopen it.”

  Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash always sit near the front of the church, so it took them a few minutes longer to reach us. Aunt Zell was even more upset than Portland. “Oh, honey, I don’t know what can be done at this late date. Everything’s booked through New Year’s.”

  “What about the fellowship hall here?” I asked. The hall was gloomy, its kitchen outdated, and no champagne would be allowed, but at least it was convenient.

  It was also taken.

  “The Hardisons are celebrating their fiftieth anniversary then,” said Aunt Zell. “I called around this morning and everything’s taken.”

  Before I could go into a meltdown, Dwight put his arm around me. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure out something. It’s not the end of the world.”

  Uncle Ash and Avery rumbled male agreement, while Portland and Aunt Zell and I rolled our eyes at one another. You don’t invite two hundred and fifty of your closest friends and relatives to a champagne reception and then say, “Sorry, folks. No champagne. No wedding cake. Check back in six weeks.”

  But when we drove out to the country club, Job’s comfort was all we found. Ours was not the only event planned for the holidays, of course, and some of the county’s most prominent citizens were milling around the vestibule in anger and dismay. The club manager had barricaded himself in his office with insurance adjusters, but he had posted a large, hastily composed sign that apologized for any inconvenience and promised that all deposits would be promptly refunded.

  “I’m sorry about your reception, Deborah,” said Mary Jess Woodall, not sounding very sorry at all, “but Doug and I had a charity auction scheduled for tomorrow night to raise money for the battered women’s shelter. We usually clear about eight thousand dollars so those women and their children can have a decent Christmas.”

  “What’ll you do?” I asked.

  “Tents,” she said succinctly.

  “Tents? Mary Jess, it’s December.”

  “That’s why they invented portable heaters, sugar. I’m having one set up around on the side there. The kitchen wasn’t damaged and they can still serve out of it.”

  “Tents,” I told Dwight, charmed by the idea of a big white one.

  “Better start calling right now,” said Mary Jess. “I rented the last one in Raleigh that’s available for tomorrow night. And that reminds me. Did I get your check yet?”

  “In the mail tomorrow,” I promised and pulled Dwight out of there to go find the nearest phone book.

  “How about my office?” he suggested.

  Ten minutes later, I was seated at his desk, walking my fingers through the yellow pages.

  Forty minutes later, I had exhausted all the places open on Sunday in a forty-mile radius. Who would have thought so many Christmas parties were held under canvas? Oh, there were a couple of tents available for other nights, but for Wednesday afternoon? Three days before Christmas?

  “I can give you a green one, but it doesn’t have sidewalls,” said one hopeful entrepreneur. “I’m pretty sure there’s no bad weather predicted before Christmas.”

  I told him to hold that thought and called Minnie, who had already heard about the fire and who was properly sympathetic. “We’ve got the potato house half cleared out for Christmas dinner,” she said. “We could go ahead and clear even more space. It’s not very elegant, but it will hold two hundred and fifty peopl
e and if you don’t have any other choice . . .”

  With its concrete floors and exposed rafters, the tin-sided potato house is fine for square dances, pig-

  pickings, and big family reunions, but for a champagne reception? Minnie was right, though. How much choice did I have?

  “It’s so much extra work for y’all,” I said weakly.

  “So? School’s out and the farm is full of kids who can help shift potatoes and string up greenery.”

  “Today’s our last day of work, so Dwight and I can help, too,” I promised.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “Let me call around to the others.”

  “Thanks, Minnie,” I said glumly.

  “Don’t forget tomorrow night at Mr. Kezzie’s,” she reminded. “Adam and Frank are getting in this evening if that snowstorm in Chicago doesn’t hold them up.”

  I told her we’d be there and wandered out in the hall to look for Dwight.

  One of Bo’s officers came by with a large black plastic garbage bag over his shoulder.

  “You look like Santa Claus,” I said.

  The man laughed. “Feel like him, too.” He opened his bag and showed me the pile of toys it held. “Gonna be a good Christmas for a lot of kids who have nothing. It hurts to know how many are out there, doesn’t it?”

  As he continued on down the hall with his sack of goodies, my internal preacher said, “And you’re annoyed because you’re going to have to drink champagne and cut a cake in a potato house?”

  The pragmatist nodded, in complete agreement for once.

  I thought about living in the moment.

  I thought about gratitude.

  “Hey, shug,” said Dwight when I found him down in the squad room. “Any luck?”

  “Tons of it,” I said and told him what my family were going to do for us.

  “Then let’s go Christmas shopping.”

  “I’ve already done mine,” I said smugly, “but I’m always happy to help spend somebody else’s money.”

  The family dinner at Miss Emily’s that night was made even more special by the eight-year-old towhead Velcroed to Dwight’s side.

  Rob had driven to Virginia that morning and picked him up, a ten-hour round trip that would’ve taken Dwight fifteen hours, slow as he drives.

  Cal and Kate’s young cousin, Mary Pat, were longtime pals. She was nearly six months older, but because of how their birthdays fell, they were at the same grade level. Four-year-old Jake was big enough to hold his own with them, so there were plenty of giggles and easy chatter around the table. Although Cal and I had been comfortable with each other back when Dwight was still acting like just another brother, he was wary of me now and I didn’t try to force it or play up to him. Eventually, he relaxed enough that I could throw in an occasional remark or question and he could respond normally.

  The others had heard about the country club fire. “Minnie already called me,” Kate said. “I told her I’d help with the decorations.”

  “Me too,” said Mary Pat.

  “Such a shame,” Miss Emily commiserated, but Dwight shrugged and said, “I have to admit I’m not real sorry about the way it’s working out.”

  I looked at him inquiringly.

  “Sorry, shug, but I’m not really the country club type.”

  “As if she hasn’t noticed,” his sister Beth sighed with a shake of her head.

  Even though we had moved furniture back into the room that would be Cal’s, Dwight had decided that the two of them would sleep over at Miss Emily’s till after the wedding.

  He walked me out to my car afterwards.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “We’ll be over first thing tomorrow with a tree.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll go to bed early and dream girlish, virginal dreams.”

  “Not too virginal, I hope,” he said, and gave me a very experienced kiss.

  CHAPTER 23

  If a lady’s domestic duties require her attention for several hours in the morning, whilst her list of acquaintances is large, and she has frequent morning calls, it is best to dress for callers before breakfast.

  Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873

  Dwight hadn’t been kidding when he said “first thing tomorrow.” I was still in my robe and gown and had barely plugged in the coffeemaker when he drove into the yard. The back of his truck was filled with greenery and three red-cheeked children.

  I poured coffee for both of us and tried not to show my dismay when he brought in the pine tree. It was tall enough, it was wide enough, but when he set it up in the cast-iron stand his mother had provided, I could see right through it.

  “Nice,” I said bravely and handed him a steaming mug.

  “Oh, we’re just getting started.” He glanced at his ragtag crew. “I did sort of promise them hot chocolate, though.”

  “Three hot chocolates coming right up.” I pulled milk from the refrigerator and packets of cocoa mix from the cabinet. “And how about some waffles?”

  While I puttered in the kitchen, Dwight and the kids transformed the tree. He had brought along the thickest pine branches he could find. The cut ends went down into the stand’s reservoir of water and were held in place with picture wire guyed out from the trunk of the tree. The boys went back and forth lugging in more branches, and Mary Pat washed her grubby little hands in the kitchen sink to set the table for me. By the time I put waffles, syrup, and a half-pound of bacon on the table, the “tree” was almost as thick and full as anything you could buy at a farmer’s market, and the room smelled like a pine grove.

  “You really did build a tree,” I marveled.

  After breakfast, we strung the lights and loaded the branches with all the ornaments the bar association had given us.

  “Miss Deborah, what does Kama Sutra mean?” asked Mary Pat, holding up the angel my cousin Reid had embellished.

  “It’s Hindu for ‘Merry Christmas,’” I said.

  Dwight laughed and Mary Pat gave him a suspicious look.

  I hastily asked Cal, “Did you see your room yet?”

  “No,” he said, wary again.

  Pointing toward the hallway, I said, “It’s down there at the end. The midnight blue one. Go see how you like it.”

  I deliberately stayed where I was so that they could explore without self-consciousness. A few minutes later, we heard laughter and tumbling.

  “Y’all better not be bouncing on that bed,” Dwight called.

  Silence. Then giggles and the thumps began again.

  “Thanks,” Dwight said.

  “For what?”

  He waved his hand across the messy table and the needle-strewn floor. “For all this. For making it easy for Cal.”

  “He’s an easy kid to like,” I said lightly. “And the broom and dustpan are in the pantry there.”

  I had loaded the dishwasher and the floor was free of woodsy pine litter when the children came back down the hall.

  “It’s very nice,” Cal said politely.

  “But there aren’t any sheets or blankets on his bed,” said Mary Pat.

  “I know. I thought we could drive over to Dobbs and let you pick them out,” I told Cal.

  “Can Mary Pat and Jake come, too?”

  “If it’s okay with Miss Kate,” I said.

  “And you come, too, Dad?”

  “If it’s okay with Miss Deb’rah,” said Dwight.

  Kate was over at Minnie’s when I chased her down by phone, and she was more than willing for me to take the kids off her hands so that she and Minnie and April could work out logistics for the reception.

  “And don’t worry about helping us this morning,” she said. “We’ve got a crew here ready to go.”

  Ninety minutes later, we stood in the bed linen section of a huge outlet store on the edge of Dobbs. We had looked at a dozen different sets of kid-friendly designs and Cal had narrowed his choices to either dinosaurs or footballs
when Dwight’s pager went off. It was work, of course.

  “Sorry,” he said when he’d called in, “but I’m going to have to go see what this is about.”

  Since we’d driven over in my car, we all went out and piled in and Dwight drove to the courthouse.

  Several officers were milling around a white SUV in the courthouse parking lot when we got there.

  “It’s the damnedest thing,” said the middle-aged black man who owned the car. “I drove down to Georgia Friday night to see about my mother. She had a heart attack and was in the hospital. When it hit, I thought maybe it was a little rock thrown up from the road, but my brother took one look and said, ‘Uh-uh.’ Then I got back to Raleigh last night and my wife told me they were asking on TV if anybody’s car got shot about then, and—well, take a look.”

  There in the left rear window was a neat bullet hole. All the other windows were intact.

  Dwight looked at Mayleen Richards. “Get Denning out here,” he told her.

  A few minutes later, Percy Denning hurried out to join us while his assistant drove the crime scene van over to the SUV.

  “This is probably going to take a while,” said Dwight. “If you want to go on back to the farm, I’ll have someone drive me out.”

  “Da-ad!” Cal protested.

  “Sorry, buddy, but I have to stay.”

  “It’s okay,” I said quickly. “We’ll go back and finish deciding which sheets, maybe do a little Christmas shopping and grab some lunch, then we’ll swing back here before we head home. If you can turn loose earlier, call me.”

  “I really like Chinese,” said Mary Pat.

  “Me too!” said Jake.

  “Okay,” said Cal.

  CHAPTER 24

  Be assured of this—little can you know of the moral conduct of another; little is it desirable that you should know. But whenever improprieties are so flagrant as to be matters of conversation; when the good shun, and the pitying forbear to excuse; be assured some deeper cause than you can divine exists for the opprobrium.

  Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873