Minutes later, Gordon bounded off with a newsman’s zeal, the bell over the front door jangling behind him.
I shot a goopy look at my boyfriend, um, boss. Could there be a more perfect man? Gorgeous, funny, and kind too. What more could a girl want? That sixties song about going to the chapel swirled in my head, sticking on the ma-aa-arried part and playing over and over. “That was a very sweet thing to do.”
“Sweet nothing.” Alex grinned. “Good thing Gordon came back early; otherwise I’m not sure how you and I would have gotten the paper out.”
The bell over the front door jangled again.
“Whenever a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.” I smiled at Alex, knowing he’d get my reference to It’s a Wonderful Life.
“Attaboy, Clarence.” He chimed in with the Jimmy Stewart part.
“Who’re you talkin’ to?” The door slammed shut with a bang.
“Name’s Esther, not Clarence. Thought you knew that.”
“Hi, Esther.” I raised my voice a notch. “Nice to see you.” I smiled to see the seventy-something former reporter sporting purple pants, a garish Hawaiian shirt, a thick lavender sweater, and a red wool beret.
Until a couple of months ago, I’d known Esther Blodgett as the hardworking, no-nonsense reporter for the Barley Bulletin—which just goes to show you can know a person all your life and never really know her. Esther had surprised us all by selling off a lot of land we didn’t know she had, donating most of the proceeds to the Bijou—saving the theater in the process—and still retiring from the Bulletin with a nice little nest egg.
Since then, she’d spent much of her time traveling with one or more of her pals from the red-hatted, purple-clad ladies’ club. She was trying to make up for lost time, cramming in as many trips as she could. This time she’d just returned from Hawaii.
Esther plunked down a perfect sand dollar and a couple of seashells on my desk. “Brought you all some souvenirs. They say if you put those shells up to your ear you can hear the sea, but you can’t prove it by me. I can’t hear a blamed thing.”
“Thank you.” I hugged her, hiding a grin. Esther couldn’t hear most normal conversations, let alone a seashell.
“Now don’t get all mushy on me.” She wriggled out of my embrace and handed Alex a plastic Santa clad in a tropical shirt and shorts and riding a surfboard. “This here’s Aloha Santa. He’s a little reminder that even ol’ Saint Nick needs a little vacation now and then. You remember that.”
“Thanks, Esther. I’ll remember.”
“’Course it’s December.” She gave him a warning look. “Christmas is right around the corner. Hope you’re prepared. Not good to wait ’til the last minute.” She adjusted her beret. “Gotta go spread me some more holiday cheer. Don’t work too hard.”
“We won’t,” Alex and I chorused as she jangled out the door. Then he turned to me with a meaningful look.
No, not that kind of look. I only wish. On the job he was Mr. Professional.
So was Spencer Tracy in Desk Set, but that didn’t stop him from planting a big one on Katharine Hepburn.
“You got flour on your nose, An Beebee. ” Lexie giggled.
“And you’ve got green sugar sprinkles on your chin,” I said, leaning over and kissing the sweet spot off my adorable niece’s face. “Mmm. Delicious. Why, I don’t even need a cookie. I’ll just have Lexie-girl for my sugar cutout instead.” Swooping toward her, I made fake chomping Cookie Monster sounds.
Lexie squealed with delight and ran toward my sister-in-law, Karen. “Save me, Mommy. Save me.” Karen reached down for her, but she veered off at the last second, careening straight into Alex’s flour-covered knees and dissolving into giggles again.
“I think perhaps someone’s had too much sugar,” he said, hoisting my niece in his arms.
“Don’t let her fool you,” observed my mother with a grin. “She’s like that most of the time.” She glanced my way. “They all are.”
“And you love it,” I shot back, reaching for one of the cookies she’d just piled on a platter. She just smiled and swatted at my hand.
It was the first Saturday in December—traditional Christmas cookie-baking day in the Grant household. As a child, I’d loved the times when we gathered in our spacious kitchen to mix and cut out dough. In years that I’d been away from home, my brother’s family had come over to Mom’s to make the cookies. And this year, much to my delight, I was home to join in the fun. Even better, Mom had invited Alex to join us.
“You’d think you’ve never done this before,” Ashley, my eldest niece, teased him as he wiggled the cutter to release a very lopsided Christmas star.
“Actually,” he said to Ashley, “I never have.”
Seven pairs of stricken eyes swiveled to him. “You’ve never baked Christmas cookies?” ten-year-old Elizabeth asked.
“Nope. My mom always did the baking by herself. Besides, they don’t have Christmas cookies in England.”
“Christmas without cookies?” Jacob and Lexie said in horrified unison. “But if you don’t have cookies, what do you leave out for Santa on Christmas Eve?”
“I don’t know. A mince pie, perhaps?”
Seven pairs of raised eyebrows met his.
“Mince pies are a British institution and are nothing if not compulsory at Christmas,” Alex explained. “From the beginning of December onward, if you call in at any friend or family member’s house, you will be offered tea, coffee, port, mulled wine, or some other beverage, but always a mince pie.”
Elizabeth frowned. “What’s it made of?”
My mother reached over to gather up scraps of dough. “Isn’t it the same as our mincemeat?”
“Meat? In a pie?” Jacob licked a couple of chocolate sprinkles from his five-year-old fingers.
“Like chicken potpie, silly,” Elizabeth said.
“There’s actually no meat at all, but it does resemble a potpie, only smaller. It’s filled with fruit preserves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and brandy.” Alex released a wistful sigh. “But even more than that, what I really love is Christmas pudding.”
“I like pudding too.” Jacob beamed up at him. “Especially chocolate.”
“What’s Chwismas pudding?” Lexie frowned. “Is it ’stachio?”
“No. Sorry.” Alex knelt down to her three-year-old level.
He’s great with kids. He’ll make a wonderful father . . .
“In England, pudding means dessert,” Alex explained. “Christmas pudding is a fruitcake cooked in a large bowl and steamed for two or three hours, then turned upside down and served hot as the final course of Christmas dinner.”
“Fruitcake?” I recoiled in horror. “You don’t really like fruitcake, do you? Not that hard, dry thing that’s heavy as a rock and has those icky red and green candied cherries and loads of nuts.” I shuddered.
“You’ve obviously never had good fruitcake.” He glanced at Mom. “No disrespect, Gloria.”
“None taken.” Mom grinned as she slapped more flour on her rolling pin. “I never make fruitcake, because no one in my family likes it.”
I snorted. “There’s no such thing as good fruitcake.”
“Oh yes there is. When made right, it can be moist and rich.” Alex kissed his fingertips like a television gourmet. “A subtle culinary triumph. Some people just don’t know how to appreciate it.”
“Oh, I appreciate it. The same way I appreciate a doorstop.” He laughed as I made my exit through the dining room door.
I passed Karen in the hall on my way to the bathroom. “You and Alex sure make a cute couple,” she whispered.
Uh-huh. So cute that he hasn’t even kissed me yet.
But patience is a virtue, and I was willing to wait a little longer. After all, Christmas is coming up soon.
And if not then, there’s always New Year’s Eve.
I made it back to the kitchen just as a car door slammed and muffled feet bounded up the back steps. “Hey, is this Cookie Central? I’ve got the egg
nog and some chocolate-chip cookie dough.”
“Mary Jo!” Elizabeth hurtled out of her chair and hugged her plus-size, jeans-and-flannel-clad riding instructor, who also happened to be my best friend in Barley. “How’s Pluto? Does he miss me?”
“Something terrible. Told me to say hello, in fact.” She leaned her head back and whinnied, her thick, straight maple hair falling away from her square-jawed face.
“Hey Mom,” I said, “I think our equine pal needs a few sugar cubes.”
Mary Jo Roper stuck her tongue out at me and examined the plate of sugar-cookie cutouts the kids had decorated. “I’d settle for a frosted snowman.” Under her breath she added with a chuckle, “Or any man, for that matter.”
I choked back a laugh as she pulled a CD out of her backpack and held it up. “Gloria, mind if I put on some Christmas tunes?”
“Go right ahead, dear.” My domestic-goddess mother removed a batch of cookies from the oven. “You know where the stereo is.”
Soon a strange noise filtered in from the living room.
I raised incredulous eyebrows. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but is that Diana Ross and the Supremes singing ‘White Christmas’?”
My Motown-loving friend grooved her Supreme-wannabe-self back to the table. “Sure is.”
“Sorry, Mary Jo, but some things are sacred.”
In seconds Bing Crosby’s baritone filled the air.
“That’s a little more like it.” I looked around the table. “Don’t you all agree?”
Everyone, including Alex, nodded, although a loyalties-divided Elizabeth scampered to her teacher’s side and slipped her hand in hers. Karen smiled and patted Mary Jo’s shoulder. “You learn pretty quick that this family is tradition-and-nostalgia-bound when it comes to music.”
“Should have guessed, especially with Phoebe’s old-movie mania.” She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. “No problem. I’ll just listen to my Motown Christmas in my car on the way home.”
I grinned back at her and shook my head. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring your favorite Beatles Christmas album.” Mary Jo’s parents had raised her on their favorite music—R&B, gospel, and the Beatles. Instead of rebelling, she had become a fan, her car radio perpetually tuned to classic rock.
“I would have,” she said, “except the Beatles Christmas albums—no carols, by the way, just funny songs with Christmas references—were only issued to members of the Official Beatles Fan Club in the sixties.” Mary Jo tucked her hair behind her ears. “Just a little bit before my time. And it costs a fortune to get one now—I’ve checked on eBay.”
She whipped out another CD from her backpack and grinned. “But I do have Paul’s Wonderful Christmastime . . . ”
We were putting the last batch of Mary Jo’s chocolate-chip contribution in the oven when my weary brother arrived.
“Daddy!” Lexie flung herself at Jordy’s legs.
“Hi, pumpkin. You been making cookies?” He scooped up his daughter and gave her a big kiss.
She nodded. “But we’re done now. Let’s go play.”
“Not now, baby girl. Daddy’s really, really tired.”
Mom and Karen exchanged worried looks. Jordy had begun moonlighting as a carpenter nights and weekends to help make ends meet for his family. That work on top of his full-time teaching and coaching job was taking its toll.
“Honey, sit down and relax.” Karen, carrying my newest niece and namesake, Gloria Phoebe, on her hip, planted a kiss on her weary husband’s cheek. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee and some fresh-from-the-oven cookies.”
Jordy sank gratefully into Mom’s recliner and shut his eyes. “Sounds good.”
Concerned, I shot up a silent prayer. Lord, please help me win the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes so I can shower my family with money and Jordy won’t have to work two jobs anymore—or any job at all, for that matter.
A small smile tugged at my lips. And after I take care of all of them, I can splurge on myself, too, and finally get a pair of Manolos.
“Don’t eat that, Bruce.”
Sylvia Ann Woodring, her Dolly Parton curls bouncing against the fake white-fur collar of her red jumpsuit, playfully slapped her boyfriend’s hand away from the plate of cookies I’d brought to our singles Sunday-school class.
Although for my mother’s sake I attended earlier services at Holy Communion Lutheran Church—our Lutheran family’s church for generations—I always scooted over to Barley Presbyterian afterward for Sunday school. Holy Communion didn’t have anything resembling a singles group. And I craved the fellowship—though I couldn’t quite get used to addressing fifty-something Sylvia Ann and Bruce Hubert as peers. Sylvia Ann was Barley’s resident beautician, owner of The Bobby Pin. And Bruce had actually taught me in high school, though I knew him back then as Hubert the Horrible.
“Remember what the doctor said about your cholesterol,” Sylvia Ann was warning her beau. “This looks loaded with butter and sugar. Have one of my low-fat, sugar-free oat-bran-raisin cookies instead.” She batted her heavily mascaraed lashes. “I made them especially for you.”
Jeff, our singles pastor, rapped his knuckles on the table. “Okay, everyone, time for praise and worship.”
His copper-haired wife, Amy, strummed a few chords on her acoustic guitar, then launched into a beautiful guitar solo of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” followed by several contemporary praise songs.
As always, Mary Jo really got into the music. She swayed in her seat, eyes shut, hands raised, her Aretha Franklin–style voice shaking the rafters.
My voice shook a few things too. Dental fillings. Fingers on chalkboard. Great Danes two counties over. But I sang. I always sang.
Another reason that I came over to Barley Pres for Sunday school was that I enjoyed the livelier, more contemporary style. For years I’d been trying to break free from my staid Lutheran upbringing—we weren’t called the frozen chosen for nothing—but old habits die hard. During my air-force days, when I was stationed in Biloxi, Mississippi, I’d attended a black Pentecostal church with my roommate, Shondra, and been shocked when she and all the other members of the congregation kept interrupting the pastor with “Go on, now!” and “Preach it, brother!” and a host of amens.
I was even more shocked when Shondra and everyone else—including the minister—started dancing in the aisles. I tried to join in, but have always been a little rhythm challenged, so wound up doing the female version of what Billy Crystal called the white man’s overbite. And the whole raising the arms thing lost much of its praise-the-Lord impact due to worry over whether I’d remembered to shave my pits.
However, at the Presbyterian church I’d attended in Cleveland and now Barley, I’d discovered a great compromise: raising one discreet arm up, bent at the elbow.
After Sunday school, Pastor Jeff came up behind Amy and encircled her tiny waist with his hands. “Great job, honey.”
Oh, to have a husband’s arms round my waist like that. If he’d even be able to make it all the way around . . . I sucked in my stomach.
Sylvia sidled up to us with Bruce in tow and a knowing gleam in her eye. And dropped a bombshell: “So Jeff, Amy, I hear you two want to leave us.”
“What?” Mary Jo and I chorused.
Jeff shot a look at his wife. “I’m just putting out feelers. We’ve been praying about my having my own church. God seems to be leading us in that direction, but right now we’re just waiting on Him.”
My face fell. But Mary Jo, who’s less selfish and way more spiritually advanced than me, threw the couple a happy grin. “That would be great! You guys do a great job here, but I could really see the Lord using you in a larger ministry.”
Note to self: Practice being more like spiritual giant Mary Jo, who can even wish the best to people about to desert us. The brat.
Sylvia turned to me with a bright smile. “Where’s Alex today, Phoebe?”
Not to worry, Sylvia. He hasn’t dumped me. But if he does, I’ll alert th
e media—after I tell you, of course. Oops. Sorry, God. I know I just resolved to be more gracious and loving like Mary Jo.
“Oh, he’s visiting a newspaper colleague in San Francisco.” I bestowed a sweet smile in return for Sylvia’s nosy one. “He hated to miss church, but his friend was only in California for one day. But he’ll be back soon,” I added. “Very soon.”
Note to self: Buy mistletoe.
[chapter three]
Alone Again, Naturally
question: What’s worse than not having a boyfriend to kiss on New Year’s Eve?
Answer: Having an actual boyfriend and still having no one to kiss.
This year, I’d thought that for once I wouldn’t be a pathetic loser, all alone except for my double date with Ben and Jerry on the second most romantic holiday of the year. Alex and I had plans to attend the all-town party at the soon-to-be refurbished Bijou Theater. It was kind of a kickoff party for the renovations we’d raised money for. And I just knew it would be the night Alex finally kissed me.
It was the perfect time, after all. The perfect place—the site of our first real date. And I was ready. My lips and I were more than ready.
As it turned out, though, we would have to wait a little longer.
Two days before Christmas, Alex had received a call from overseas that his father had had a heart attack and had raced over to England to be with him. Thankfully, it had turned out to be only a mild attack. But this meant that instead of spending Christmas and New Year’s with me, Alex (and his lips) had spent it with his family over in Merrie Olde England.
Leaving me here—still kissless—on New Year’s Eve at the Bijou. It was enough to make a girl lose heart. Almost.
If it hadn’t been for the Manolos, I don’t know what I would have done . . .
I’d still managed to have a wonderful Christmas, even without the man I loved—at least I think I love him—at my side. It was, after all, my first holiday at home in three years. And I’d forgotten how fun it was to be around kids at Christmas. They got so excited opening their gifts.
Dreaming in Technicolor Page 3