by Sandra Hill
“Was I?” He shook his head to clear it. “Maybe I was going over the Christmas list in my head. I need to mail it off to Santa tonight, and I have to be sure I covered everything a certain princess wants.” He winked at her as she sat primly in the passenger seat of his Lexus sedan. He usually preferred to drive his pickup truck, but the height was a little difficult for Cassie to maneuver with her hip problem. So, his Lexus or his grandmother’s Volvo were the preferred modes of transportation when Cassie was on board.
She giggled. At eleven and a half, she probably didn’t still believe in the jolly old fellow, but she wasn’t taking any chances by scoffing or saying it out loud. And she did look like a princess, all in pink, including her boots which had inserts for ankle support when her legs were weak. Like today, after her lengthy exercise session at the rehab center. “Did you see the latest votes, Dad?” she asked then, glancing down at the iPhone in her lap, an extravagant gift after her last operation.
He groaned. That stupid grinch contest! There were posters and cash jars at more than a dozen sites around town, including his own Christmas shop, dammit! Every evening Laura tabulated the results for the day and posted the results in the newspaper office window, as well as on The Bell’s website, which was what Cassie must be looking at now.
“You and Mister Baxter are tied for first place, but Delbert Brown from the fish store is gaining. And three new people are nominated. Nineteen altogether now. And, oh my gosh! Guess how much money is raised so far?”
“I haven’t a clue,” he grumbled.
“Eleven thousand dollars!”
“What? That’s impossible. In less than one week? Some people must be stuffing the ballot jars.”
Cassie gave him a sideways glance of suspicion. Then grinned evilly, or as evil as an eleven-and-a-half-year-old could. “Can I nominate Miss Elders, my math teacher? She gave us three quizzes last week. Just before Christmas break!”
“I don’t think that qualifies as grinchiness.”
“I do!”
“And, no, I don’t want you wasting your money on that cr . . . contest.”
“But it’s for a good cause. The new streetlights are so pretty.”
“They’re not new, honey. Those bell lanterns have been around since I was a boy your age, since my father was a boy, in fact.”
“Well, they look new, all polished up.”
And working, Ethan had to concede.
“Nana says the extra money raised by the contest will be given to the food bank. That’s a good cause, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then I can nominate Miss Elders?”
He laughed at the slyness of his daughter. “No way!”
Her phone beeped, indicating an incoming text message. “It’s from Nana. She says to stop for bread and milk, please.”
He nodded and pulled off the road into Gus’s Gas & Goods. Parking next to one of the pumps, he told Cassie, “Sit tight, sweetie. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. Nana says to buy some Jujyfruits, too.”
“Nice try, kiddo.”
She just grinned at him and went back to doing whatever kids did with their phones these days. He trusted her to stay within the limits he’d set for her.
A blond giant of a man in coveralls stepped out of the building and said, “What can I do for you, buddy?” Ethan had known Karl Gustafson all his life, both of them born on the Outer Banks. Gus had gone off to play pro football a few years ago (no, not for the Vikings, though he fit the image with his sharp Nordic features, but for the Cowboys, instead). He’d soon come back, having torn up his knee one too many times. He seemed contented here, despite the trophy wife he’d picked up in Dallas having ditched him once the spotlight dimmed.
“Fill ’er up. I don’t need much. I’ll go inside for bread and milk.”
Gus’s was one of those old-time places that abhorred self-service. Windshield washing and an offer of an oil check were still de rigueur. Inside, you could buy everything from bait to butter.
While Ethan waited at the register for Gus to come back inside, Ina Rogers, the longtime secretary at Our Lady by the Sea, wheeled her walker over to him. No escaping what he knew was coming.
“You found a wife yet?”
Ina was as old as she looked, and no amount of makeup, which she’d been piling on since nineteen eighty-two, at least, would hide the wrinkles . . . or the orangish tint to her skin. Another Francine victim! She wore a green wool sweater with a huge snowman on the front. It was hard to miss the blinking carrot nose. In any case, ever since Beth Anne had died, Ina, along with every other busybody in town (and there were a lot!), had deemed it their mission in life to find him a new wife.
As if! “Not yet,” he replied as politely as possible.
“Your little girl needs a mama.”
Says who? he almost said aloud and glanced out the plate glass window to see what was holding up Gus.
Oh, hell! Gus had the hood up on his car and was checking not just the oil, but the windshield washer fluid, too.
“Us ladies in the Altar and Rosary Society said a prayer for you when we were doing an Advent novena last week. How’s that darling girl doing, by the way?”
“Cassie’s doing much better, actually. Thanks to a lot of painful work in rehab today and some new miracle drugs. I’m sure your prayers help.”
“Miracles are good,” Ina said, making a quick sign of the cross over the snowman’s head, “but it was you we were praying over. Forget that Match-Dot-Com nonsense. Matches made in heaven are the best kind.”
Oh, good Lord! And I’m not even Catholic! “That’s nice.” Time to change the subject. “Shouldn’t you be over at Mildred’s today for Tuesday Tangos, or is it Two-step Tuesday?”
He meant his question to be sarcastic, but Ina took him seriously. “No. Mildred canceled all the dance parties for this week. Her niece is coming home tomorrow, and she needs to get the house in shape.”
In other words, hide all the evidence of her senior citizen shenanigans.
But wait, Aunt Mildred had a surprise coming if she’s expecting Wendy tomorrow. He wondered if Wendy had planned a surprise arrival, or was it just accidental that she’d arrived early. Whatever! None of his business.
“Weren’t you and Wendy a thing at one time?” Ina inquired, her face brightening at the prospect of yet another “match” possibility.
“A thing? Yeah, that about sums it up.” Gus, where are you? I need to escape.
Ina apparently didn’t understand sarcasm because she cooed, “Oooh, do I sense a Christmas romance in the air?”
Forget sarcasm, he went directly to rude. “The only thing I smell is gasoline and Mrs. Gustafson’s Christmas Kraut Cake and some really overpoweringly sweet flowers.”
“Oh, that’s my Shalimar,” Ina said, beaming and waving a hand airily as if he’d given her a compliment.
What the hell is holding Gus up?
“You better get your foot in the door with Wendy real quick, if you’re interested. Those SEALs she’s bringing here might be heavy competition.”
“What SEALs?” he asked, before he had a chance to bite his fool tongue.
“I heard at the market this morning that Wendy invited a bunch of those SEALs here as holiday houseguests. And you know what they say about Navy SEALs?”
Not in a million years would he ask what she meant by that statement.
“Uh-oh! I knew I should have had my roots done this morning.” Ina was attempting to fluff her short, unnaturally black hair while craning her neck to alternately see into the mirror behind the deli and out the front window.
Now what? Ethan followed Ina’s glance. Looking beyond the pump stations, he noticed what was holding Gus up. Something had caught Gus’s attention, along with that of Dylan Hall, an attendant who worked for Gus and had been serving another car, and the fascinated gawking of customers who were lined up for gas, all with a sudden need to be on the premises at the same time. It reminded Et
han of the time there were hurricane warnings for the Outer Banks, and everyone decided to fill up. A royal mess! He recognized his friend Tony’s CRACKED CRAB panel truck, Belle Dawson’s pink Mary Kay Cadillac, and Ed McMullin’s turkey farm pickup loaded with frozen poultry.
Pulled onto the side berm of the road was the star attraction: a convoy of SUVs and commercial vans with small satellite dishes, all with the logo, “NBX-TV News” and “Morning Show.”
He was not one bit surprised to see the anchors Annie Fox and Sam Castile walk into the store then, followed by the herd of Bell Cove gawkers. Over their shoulders he could see his daughter waving at him frantically, wanting to get out of the Lexus and see what was going on.
Not a chance!
“Oooh, oooh, look over there,” Annie yelled to Sam. “It’s one of those grinch contest thingees. We should get a picture of this for the story.”
“Yeah, and that crazy-ass billboard we saw heading into town,” Sam agreed, looking around the store, intrigued by the variety of offerings, no doubt. In fact, his mouth dropped open as he noticed the items in the cold case. What? He’d never seen blood pudding (a kind of sausage which Ethan actually liked in small doses for breakfast with eggs) offered alongside homemade Norsk herring-potato salad (Gus’s mom’s specialty, which Ethan did not like, passionately)? Can anyone say fish breath? Flanking the cold case were a display of crudely carved duck decoys (Dylan’s work) and a carousel of North Carolina maps.
Ethan homed in on one thing. “Are you talking about the ‘Welcome to Bell Cove’ billboard?” Nothing unusual in that.
“The one that says: GET GRINCHED! WELCOME TO BELL COVE!” Sam explained. “It has a picture of a Grinch-like character on it, ringing a bell. Except this grinch wasn’t green. He was sun-tanned, wearing shades, a bathing suit, and flip-flops, dragging a scrawny Charlie Brown–type tree.”
Ethan gave Gus a questioning stare.
Gus just shrugged, but he was grinning like a Viking baboon as he left to wait on a customer who’d just pulled up, one who actually wanted gas.
“Do you folks know any of the grinches on this list?” Annie inquired, tapping away on some kind of electronic notepad, probably inputting the twenty-one names listed on the poster behind the Mason cash jar.
Everyone in the store turned to look at Ethan.
Just then, Ethan’s cell phone vibrated in his back pocket. He gave it a quick glance. A call from his grandmother. He clicked it on. “Doreen is here with a chain saw. Wants to cut down your blue spruce for the town square Nativity scene to impress some TV crew. Should I call the police?”
Since when did they have a town square Nativity scene? The only law enforcement in Bell Cove this time of year was Sheriff Bill Henderson, Doreen’s son-in-law, Francine’s husband. He would probably help Doreen cut down the damn tree, just because Ethan had failed to vote for his pay hike this year.
“Over my dead body,” Ethan exclaimed. “Dammit! It’s my tree. I don’t care if it’s freakin’ Christmas, or if the Pope is arriving with the paparazzi in the NBX news truck. Jesus doesn’t need a blue spruce tree near his manger.”
“Stop blaspheming,” his grandmother said. “You’ve no call to disrespect the Catholics.”
“Huh? I wasn’t disrespecting any . . . never mind. They probably didn’t have blue spruces in Bethlehem anyhow. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Can you hold Doreen off until then?”
“I’ll get my rifle.”
Ethan would be nervous about that remark if his grandmother actually owned a weapon, or knew how to use one. Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he yelled, “Gus, where are you? Here’s twenty bucks for my gas. I’m outta here!”
After he left, three people put five-dollar votes for Ethan Rutledge in the Mason jar on the counter.
Chapter 5
Home was never so sweet . . . sounding . . .
Wendy drove through the small town square, which was charming, she had to admit, just like Diane had observed way back at the Wet and Wild, the night all her friends self-invited themselves here for the holidays. The central gazebo and all the storefronts were bedecked with holiday trimmings, most of them featuring the bells for which the town was famous.
The hodgepodge of architecture styles was reminiscent of Cape May, but not so fancy, with its steeples and gingerbread trim. This was, after all, a working man’s town from the beginning, fishermen and bell makers. Yes, there were artisans at the bell factory, but mostly they were blue-collar, skilled forge men. Funny, she’d never really thought about it before, but Bell Cove was not at all a beachy town in appearance, but rather an unexpected, attractive contrast to the ocean and large bay that framed its sides.
Everything looked pretty much the same to Wendy, except for a few new businesses and a high polish on the brass bell streetlights. There had been that odd message on the billboard before she’d entered the outskirts of the town, though. What did it mean? “GET GRINCHED! WELCOME TO BELL COVE!”
Just then, the bells tolled to mark the hour, first Our Lady by the Sea Catholic Church, BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, followed by St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church across the square, BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG, then the town hall. Growing up in a place founded on bells, Wendy appreciated all the variations, according to size, shape, materials, and craftsmanship. These particular church bells were noted for their clear resonant tones. Not at all jarring like some big bells were. And not as tinny as some of the digitized church bells were today.
The noise caused Diane to awaken with a start. She stretched widely as she glanced around. “Wow! I’ve landed in the middle of Old Timey Town. This looks like the town square in that Chevy Chase movie Funny Farm.”
“I think that was somewhere in New England, and there was a lot of snow, as I recall.”
“A small-town Thomas Kinkade calendar picture then,” Diane amended, fascinated by each of the buildings they passed. “Look, a store called Hard Knocks. And over there, Everything Bells. And Blanket-y Blank: Historic South Carolina Quilts. I love it! I’ll have to check out Monique’s Boutique. I need something for my cousin’s wedding.”
“You’ll be able to walk from my house.”
“Oh, good!”
After exiting the town proper, Wendy entered one of the residential areas, heading toward the older section facing the bay, or sound. The homes here were mostly Victorian, made from cedar shakes weathered to a rich gray color, or Italianate, which was popular at the turn of the last century. Some of the shingles were cut in shapes or arranged artistically to create patterns. Turrets and rooftop widow’s walks were not uncommon to a neighborhood that had once housed a few wealthy people, the original owners, Italian immigrants turned tycoons, and higher-ups at the factory. Bell Cove had never catered to the “summer people,” like those attached to the millionaire mansions along some of the Outer Banks.
In comparison to this neighborhood, Wendy’s home was modest, although it was large—three stories—and the shakes had been stained years ago to a mellow oak color, which complemented those parts of the house made of yellow brick. Although her father had been dead for five years now, there was still a brass plaque attached to the lamp post in the front yard close to the street. It read: Dr. Alan Patterson, M.D. At one time, she and her father had planned for the day that plaque would also have her name on it. Dr. Wendy Patterson, M.D. Alas, fate—and a two-timing boyfriend—intervened.
If Wendy were alone, she probably would have wept. As it was, Diane was already slipping on her coat while Wendy parked in the driveway behind Aunt Mildred’s green Camry, fifteen years old but only thirty thousand miles. Wendy knew because Aunt Mildred had told her so in a recent phone conversation.
Parked behind the Camry was a vintage sports car, a Triumph, with a license plate that read “iSamba” and a plate surround proclaiming, “I’d rather be dancing.” The mysterious Raul’s vehicle, Wendy surmised.
Grabbing their duffel bags, she and Diane made their way up the brick sidewalk, which had heaved a
little here and there—that should be repaired before someone tripped and fell. Otherwise, the hundred-year-old house looked in good shape, especially with the beautiful Della Robbia wreath on the door and a matching garland around the fanlight window and door trim.
She could have rung the bell. Everyone in Bell Cove had one of the trademark Bell Forge doorbells. But it was her house. So, she just opened the door and stepped inside.
At first, no one noticed her and Diane standing in the entryway. A vacuum was running upstairs. Loud Latin music was blaring from her dad’s old stereo system in the front parlor. A petite, gray-haired lady with a walker was dusting some of the side tables. Her aunt Mildred and a handsome older man—Raul?—were on their knees attempting to roll out the large Persian rug onto the bare wood floors. At the far end of what would have been the second parlor, divided by pocket doors which were now open, a man in a wheelchair was polishing silver. And in the middle of all this, a woman of advanced years, but beautifully built and coiffured, was waltzing by herself, arms extended, as if she had a partner.
The song ended and in the brief silence before the next song came on, Wendy called out, “Aunt Mil,” and, at the same time, upstairs a male voice exclaimed, “Oh, shit! The vacuum died again.”
Everyone on this floor turned to glance her way, except the dancing lady, who kept on dancing, as the next song came on, “Livin’ la Vida Loca.” The Crazy Life.
Oh, yeah!
Aunt Mildred and her male companion rose to their feet. He went over to turn off the music, while Aunt Mildred rushed toward her, arms outspread in welcome. “Wendy, honey, we weren’t expecting you till tomorrow.”
They hugged warmly, both speaking at the same time.
“Oh, it is so good to have you home, baby girl.”
“I was able to leave a day early. It is good to be home. What is that wonderful smell?”
“Raspberry shortbread sandwich cookies, of course.”
Wendy’s favorite. She hugged her aunt again. Then, with an arm over her aunt’s shoulders, Wendy re-introduced her to Diane. “You remember my friend and housemate, Diane Gomulka, from Washington State. She’s in the WEALS, like me. You met her two years ago when you came to visit.”