A Christmas Peril (The Teacup Novellas - Book Five)

by Moody, Diane

  “It was. You see these things happen on television, and you feel so bad for everyone involved. But you never think it could happen to you or someone you know. It’s so surreal.”

  He side-hugged me again, then put both his hands on the side rails of Mark’s bed. “From what your mother told me, Lucy, all things considered, it’s a miracle he survived.”

  “I know. I just wish he’d wake up.”

  As he leaned over to get a better look at Mark’s bruised and bandaged face, a technician knocked softly on the door and walked in with a rolling cart. “Hello, friends and family,” she said in a soft, sing-song introduction. “I’m Mishala, and I’m here to borrow a little blood from Mr. Christopher.”

  I moved out of the way. “Hi, Mishala. Do you need us to leave?”

  “No, y’all are fine. I’ll be out of your way in just a few minutes.” Mishala’s warm smile and wide dimples framed her beautiful face, the color reminding me of café au lait.

  I motioned for Uncle Ted to move with me to the other side of Mark’s bed. That’s when I noticed his eyes were wide as saucers, glued on the vials of blood lined up on the compartmentalized cart tray like so many dark red soldiers standing at attention.

  “Uncle Ted?”

  “Uhhh, I get . . . a little, uh, squeamish at the sight of . . . blood. Maybe I should‍—‍”

  “Oh my gosh!” Mishala whisper-squealed, clapping her latex-covered hands. “You’re Father Ted, aren’t you?!”

  I watched my uncle make a valiant effort to smile, his eyes still fixed on those blood vials. “Yes, yes, that’s, uh, me.”

  “Well, butter my cheeks and call me cornbread! I see you all the time on TV. Father Ted‌—‌it’s a real honor.” She reached across the bed to shake his hand. “Course, I almost didn’t recognize you without your monk’s robe.” She giggled, tearing off the gloves and putting on a fresh pair. “Oh, I cannot wait to tell my kids I met Father Ted today!”

  I guess I should mention Uncle Ted’s other job. A few years ago he did some radio spots for a local charity. He’s got one of those rich, gentle voices that endears him to everyone he meets. The commercials were a huge success, bringing in a record number of donations, so a local TV station hired him to do a number of Public Service Announcements. That’s when he did a commercial for a local tire company dressed in a brown monk’s robe and sandals. “Father Ted” would look straight in the camera and say, “When driving on life’s highways, you know who to trust‌—‌Royal Tires.” Or something like that. I guess you could say he’s a local celebrity. He gets invited to all kinds of grand openings and sales events around town, always giving a blessing in the guise of the famous monk known as Father Ted.

  But to me, he was Uncle Ted, which is why I’m always caught off guard when people like Mishala makes a big fuss over him.

  Suddenly my brother stirred. “Oh, hey, Uncle Ted.” Chad yawned, stretching his arms over his head, the Sports Illustrated sliding off his lap onto the floor. “When did you get here?”

  Uncle Ted tore his eyes from the tray of blood vials, shook his head a little, then made his way over to Chad. “Just a few minutes ago. How are you, Chad?”

  My brother stood up and gave him a hug. “I’m good, thanks. Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” Uncle Ted wiped his forehead. “Is it hot in here to you?”

  “Ah, he’s okay,” Mishala answered over her shoulder. “It’s the ones you least expect that can’t handle the sight of blood.” To make her point, she stuck a syringe into the port taped to the top of Mark’s hand, then turned to flash a smile at Ted.

  “Okay, I’m outta here.” Ted gave us a wave and hurried out the door.

  “Father Ted! Don’t leave!” Mishala called out as she capped off a vial. “Hold up‌—‌I wanna get a picture of you ‘n me to show my kids!” She snapped off her latex gloves again and looked up at us. “Y’all don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back.” With a giggle, she dug in her pocket for her cell phone. “Father Ted? Wait up. Don’t you leave!”

  Chad couldn’t stop laughing.

  “I can still hear you!” Ted sang in protest from the hallway.

  “Chad, go out there and take the picture for them. And apologize for laughing at him.”

  He was still guffawing as he headed out the door.

  Chad convinced Ted to go for coffee with him while Mishala finished taking blood. She showed me the pictures my brother had taken of her and “Father Ted,” and I couldn’t help but smile at the green tint on my uncle’s face.

  A few minutes later, Chad and Ted returned with a fresh cup of coffee for me. The three of us had a nice visit. Before he left, Ted invited us to pray with him as we gathered beside Mark’s bed. Most of the time he keeps us in stitches with his quirky sense of humor. But he’s also a gifted man of God with a gentle demeanor and compassionate heart. And just then, as he prayed a beautiful, heartfelt prayer for Mark, it almost felt like he’d ushered us into the presence of God. When he prayed for me, asking God to wrap His arms around me and fill me with His presence, I sensed the most comforting warmth of peace wash over me.

  Afterward, he and Chad both said goodnight.

  As I settled in for the night, I could tell that Uncle Ted’s prayer had changed me. At least I felt changed. More at peace. More hopeful. As I reached for Mark’s thumb through the bedrail, I felt a tear track down my cheek. But for the first time, I knew it was a tear of gratitude for what God was going to do through all this. I had no idea how He was going to do it. I just knew.

  Chapter 5

  I channel-surfed for a while, hoping to find a good movie to get lost in, but quickly clicked off the remote when the ten o’clock news flashed a picture of the creep who had taken Mark hostage. I didn’t want to know anything about him. I needed to focus all my emotional energy on Mark‌—‌not on the anger or outrage I felt every time I saw that man’s face or heard an update about what might have led him to do it.

  I needed a distraction. Quick.

  I reached for the diary, pressing my nose against its cover again. “Oh, Aunt Lucille, talk to me. Help me get my mind in a better place. Tell me your story.”

  I pulled the satin ribbon, opening to the page where I last read. Glancing at Mark, I reminded him of where we’d left off.

  “Lucille was about to get off the El at her stop, Gary said it was his stop too, which, of course, she didn’t believe, and . . . okay, here’s where we pick up.”

  “I’d be happy to walk you home, if you’d find that agreeable,” he said as we stepped off the train. “I realize that may seem rather forward of me‍—‍”

  “A little, yes.” I couldn’t take my eyes off his smile. I tried to tell myself this was all wrong, much too fast, and utterly ridiculous, but it wasn’t helping.

  “I assure you, my intentions are completely honorable.”

  “Oh? I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  When his face crimsoned, I wondered if I’d pegged him correctly. Was he just using some tried and trusted litany of pick-up lines?

  “Look, Lucille,” he said, taking my elbow and moving us out of the path of other commuters. “I like you. I admit it. And it makes me . . . well, it saddens me to think I might not ever see you again.”

  Was he reading my mind? Was I that transparent?

  “Lieutenant‍—‍”

  “Gary.”

  I looked into his eyes, so inviting, so . . . sincere? I wanted desperately to believe him, but I knew enough from my years at Northwestern to never trust a guy’s sweet talking ways.

  “Gary, you’re very nice. But how many times have you used that line on other girls? How many times have you told a girl you want to know ‘everything’ about her? How many times‍—‍”

  “It doesn’t matter, I’m‍—‍”

  “Yes, it does!” I abruptly started making my way down the station sidewalk.

  He rushed up beside me, slapping his cap on his head. “
All right‌—‌I agree. It does matter.” He fell in step with me. “What will it take for you to give me a break? I just want to walk you home. Is that so much to ask?”

  I kept walking, the battle between my head and my heart raging on. What would Father say if I walked through the door with a stranger? In uniform, no less! I said nothing, because I couldn’t think of a thing to say. We walked in silence for a half block or so.

  “Aren’t you even going to answer me?”

  He sounded so pitiful, I almost laughed. I bit the side of my lip, trying to appear contemplative. What could it hurt to let the lieutenant suffer a bit? Let him stew for a while.

  After another block, in my periphery I saw his shoulders slump in resignation along with a weary sigh. Still, he kept pace with me. Thinking he looked like a little puppy tagging along, I had to press my lips together to keep from chuckling.

  And who can resist a cute little puppy?

  I turned the corner, and he was halfway into the street before he noticed. He rushed over to my side, whistling as though he hadn’t a care in the world. When I turned at our driveway, he stopped. I gazed over my shoulder at him as I headed toward my house.

  “Well? Are you coming, Lieutenant?”

  Once inside, Mother gave him a warm welcome.

  “Lieutenant Gary Reynolds, this is my mother, Elizabeth Alexander.”

  Gary sent a triumphant smile my way, having finally learned our last name. “How very nice to meet you, Mrs. Alexander. It was such a pleasure getting to know your lovely daughter on the train this afternoon. Thank you for allowing me to stop by for a few minutes.”

  Little Jack, always shy at first with strangers, gradually warmed to our guest, sneaking peeks at Gary when he wasn’t looking. I had to laugh when I caught Gary making a silly face at Jack, who giggled before hiding his face behind Mother’s skirt.

  Of course, Mother insisted Lieutenant Reynolds should stay for dinner. When Father arrived home, he gave our guest a more guarded welcome, glancing my direction when he noticed the uniform. But just as Jack had, Father gradually warmed to Gary too.

  Later, at the dinner table, he asked Gary about his plans after the war.

  “I hope to return to the University of Illinois to complete my degree in architecture.”

  “And your folks, Gary‌—‌do they still live here in Chicago?” Mother asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, they’re still living in the house I grew up in, over on Yale Avenue.”

  “I’m sure they must be thrilled to have you home for a visit.” Mother handed him the plate of biscuits.

  “Yes, ma’am, they sure are.” He took a biscuit and passed the plate to Father. “Of course, my mother is worried sick about me heading over to the war. My brother deported last month, and she’s not too keen about having two sons so far away.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Mother said. “I don’t envy her.”

  Father continued to engage Gary, asking lots of questions, but I could tell he was still checking out the lieutenant from head to toe.

  Gary turned to Father. “Mr. Alexander, Lucille tells me you’re in management over at Armour.”

  Father took a sip of tea then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Yes, I’m the plant employment manager. I oversee hiring and personnel matters.”

  “World’s largest meat-packing plant. You must hire a massive number of people to keep production moving.”

  “Yes, but my responsibilities are for the plant only. The administrative and corporate areas are completely separate.”

  “Still, you must have thousands on your payroll. In your position, do you handle all the union relations as well?”

  Father’s brows rose a bit. “Interesting question. Do you have union folks in your family, Lieutenant?”

  “Oh, no sir. My father isn’t a union guy. He can’t stand all the politics.” Gary winced, obviously wondering if he’d just stepped into it. For all he knew, Father was a champion for the unions. I suppressed a smile, knowing what he couldn’t.

  Father’s face relaxed. “Then I’m sure your father and I would get along just fine. Seems all I do some days is wade through the red tape those folks keep throwing at us. Worst thing that ever happened to Armour. To the country, for that matter.”

  “I should tell you Father is a gentle giant,” I added. “At six-four, he towers over most of them, but his disarming, quiet spirit keeps them in tow. They constantly try to rile him up over this or that, but he just takes it all in stride, settling them down without uttering so much as a single word.”

  “A slight exaggeration,” Father said with a smile.

  Gary chuckled. “With that kind of demeanor, they could sure use you in Washington, Mr. Alexander. Dad says free enterprise will never be the same, thanks to FDR’s New Deal.”

  “He’s right. The president bought himself more than enough votes to keep him in the White House, but he’ll ruin this country in the long run. Mark my words.”

  “Well, now, let’s talk about something else,” Mother said, passing the roast platter back to Gary. “Unions and politics are never good dinner companions.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Alexander.” Gary wiped his mouth. “You and my mother must be on the same wavelength. She always reminds us that such discussions over a meal are a guaranteed recipe for indigestion.”

  We had such a nice time. Mother and Father seemed to genuinely like Lieutenant Reynolds. There was no doubt about it‌—‌he was full of charm and had a way of drawing you in, as if you’d always known him. So many thoughts wrestled through my mind as I observed him across the dinner table. How fascinating he was. How his eyes lit up when he told stories. And oh my goodness, how handsome he was. There was just something about him that attracted me, but at the same time frightened me more than I wanted to admit. Was he involved with someone? Were there several other “someones” out there, waiting for his call?

  After Mother served pie and coffee, Gary thanked her for the delicious meal then surprised us when he stood and began to gather our dishes. “The very least I can do to show my appreciation for such an unforgettable evening is to do the dishes.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Mother stood, laughing. “What kind of hostess would I be if I let you wash all these dishes?”

  “A gracious and acquiescing hostess, that’s who.” He grabbed more plates and silverware.

  “But Lieutenant, I couldn’t possibly!”

  He set the stack of dishes back on the table. “Well, all right then. If it would make you feel better, Jack can help me. Right, Jack? You ‘n me, little buddy. Here, you grab the crystal and I’ll get the plates.”

  We all laughed heartily as Gary kept the ruse going, as if he and Jack washed dishes together every day. Jack looked back and forth between us, a confused smile twinkling his eyes.

  “All right, all right!” I finally said, raising my hands in defeat. “You obviously don’t have little brothers, Gary. I think we’ll let Jack go help Father build a fire, and I’ll assist you in the kitchen. Fair enough?”

  Jack hopped down from his chair and made a beeline for the fireplace. “C’mon, Dad. Let’s build a fire!”

  Mother still wasn’t convinced. “But I can’t let you‍—‍”

  “Yes you can, and yes you will.” I took her shoulders and pointed her in the direction of the family room. “Go put your feet up. Read the paper. Relax for a change.”

  She started to protest again, then a knowing smile suddenly lit her face. “Ohhh . . . I suppose you’re right, dear.” Mother gazed over my shoulder, and I prayed Gary couldn’t see her acknowledging wink. “Yes, I think I’ll do just that.”

  As I carried a stack of cups and saucers into the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks to watch Gary tie one of Mother’s aprons around himself at chest level. He turned, his hands raised in presentation. “Be honest. Does this pink apron go with my uniform?” He twirled around. “Does it make me look fat?”

  I laughed so hard, I barely set the dishes down
before doubling over.

  His face fell. “That bad, huh?”

  My eyes brimmed with tears of laughter as Gary kept the act going. He was such a ham, occasionally breaking into song while we did the dishes.

  And oh my, could he sing! His rich tenor traipsed in and out of a number of familiar show tunes; the kitchen his Broadway stage, and Mother’s spatula his make-shift microphone. Occasionally he’d draw me into his antics, twirling me across the kitchen floor like Ginger Rogers to Fred Astaire. Though I doubt Fred ever dropped Ginger when he lunged her into a final dip.

  “Lucille! I’m so sorry!” He knelt down to help me up.

  I could not stop laughing! I’ve never laughed that hard in my entire life. The sight of him down on one knee, doing his best to help me up with his soapy hands, made us giggle even harder until he finally collapsed on the floor beside me.

  “I can’t believe I dropped you!” he lamented, lifting the apron over his face. “I’ll never be able to face you again.”

  I wiped the tears rolling down toward my ears, still trying to stop my giggles.

  “What on earth‍—‍”

  Gary scrambled to his feet at the sound of Mother’s voice. “Oh, Mrs. Alexander, I’m so sorry!” He reached out both his hands to lift me from the floor, our clumsy efforts regaling me all the more.

  Mother folded her arms as she leaned against the counter, but I could tell she was doing a little acting herself. “I heard so much laughter, I just had to come see for myself. I knew it was a mistake to let a man in uniform take over my kitchen.”

  By then we were both standing again, Gary wiping his hands on his apron, me dabbing at the tears with my thumbs.

  He shot Mother a nervous smile. “Mrs. Alexander, I take full responsibility. I made the mistake of trying to entertain your daughter, and I’m afraid I got a little carried away.”

  She turned to go. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you?”

  Mother nodded toward the sink. “Nice job with the dishes.” The swinging door closed behind her.

  Gary’s eyes grew wide as he whispered, “Oops?”