by Gigi Blume
A brisk gust of wind swept over us and she shuddered.
“Do you want to go inside?” I asked.
She nodded, letting go of my hand to pull her coat tighter around her neck. I guided her through the door with a hand at the small of her back. She shuddered again. I hoped that time it wasn’t from the cold.
Inside, several people gathered around the refreshment table. Children walked away carrying plates piled high with cookies and cakes. It was like a competition amongst themselves.
The child among us with the largest dessert mountain wins a tummy ache. Hazzah!
We stood back, waiting for the sugar mob to disperse. Most everyone had come inside now. I noticed Teresa laughing with a couple of the beige skirt ladies. They were chatting and smiling, full of Christmas cheer. This town had a way of bringing that out in a person.
“Should we get in line for some sweets?”
Georgia shook her head in response. “I want to, but I fear for my life.”
“Are you sure? It might be our last meal for a long time. We could stuff our pockets with Lois’ fudge and make a run for it.”
“Don’t forget the banana bread.” She giggled, turning a few heads. She was magnetic like that.
Teresa noticed us from across the room and waved. We waved back. That’s how it goes when you know exactly two people in town. Three, if we’re counting the gravy lady.
She hugged her friends in parting and came over to talk to us. There was a lot of hugging going on in this town.
“What did you think of the nativity?” Teresa asked.
“Absolutely gorgeous,” said Georgia. “It was the coolest thing ever.”
Teresa beamed. “Ever? Wow, that’s quite the endorsement.”
She thanked us again for helping in the kitchen, inviting us to an after-hours party of sorts.
“It’s just some friends getting together at the Light Hope Cafe. Hot apple cider is on the house.”
She explained how the old cafe was going under when Hope Church took over and saved the business, changing the name. They served sandwiches and coffee but drew in a good crowd of folks after dark for the open mic night every Wednesday.
“It’s a good way to witness to those in town who want to go somewhere at night besides the bar,” she explained. “But tonight it’s a private event for all our volunteers.”
I exchanged a look with Georgia. I was silently saying Christmas miracles all around. She was probably thinking Why not? We have no other options.
Both were true. But I had faith it would all work out.
“We’d love to go,” said Georgia.
“Perfect. I just need to help my husband clean up and I’ll see you there.”
“You need some help?” I asked.
“Oh, how nice. I could ask him.” She scanned the room, looking for her husband I supposed. “There he is, talking with the Sisters. I’ll give him a minute.”
She pointed to the sweet ladies she was talking to earlier. They were in an animated conversation with Pastor Kevin.
Georgia raised her brows. “I didn’t know you’re the pastor’s wife. He’s a really good speaker.”
I wondered how Georgia could know what kind of speaker the pastor was with Lois chatting in her ear the whole time. But I had to agree the man had a strong stage presence. Tall and confident. Plus, he seemed like a straight up guy.
“Who are those women?” I couldn’t resist asking. “Did you say they’re his sisters?”
They didn’t look like they could be his sisters. One was olive-skinned with dark hair and the other was much older while Kevin was a forty-something guys who looked like he stepped right off the Scottish Highlands.
“Not his sisters,” Teresa explained. “They’re the Sisters from the Sacred Heart Convent. They run a charity house about ten miles from here.”
Nuns. Boy was I way off.
Georgia giggled. “Wyatt thought they were candy shop employees.”
“It was a good guess,” I cried defensively. “Nuns make chocolate, don’t they?”
“You’re thinking about wine,” Georgia said.
“Oh yeah.”
“So that’s Sister Edna with the salt and pepper hair.” Teresa nodded in their direction. “And the younger one is Sister Patty. The other Sisters are scattered about. They’re the ones who donated all that turkey. They make a trip once a week to bring food for the poor.”
Georgia‘s eyes glistened. “That’s so wonderful. I think it’s awesome how you all work together for the community. I’m not used to seeing that kind of generosity in the world.”
The few last words got caught in her throat. She was deeply touched. Whether it was the people, the soup kitchen, the living nativity, or just exhaustion, I couldn’t tell. But something lit up Georgia’s expression and she had that squishy, doughy look about her—like she was ready to turn into a puddle.
Teresa wrapped her hands around Georgia’s shoulders and looked into her eyes with a soft smile. “You could if you look hard enough, sweetheart. There’s kindness everywhere.”
Oh no. I sensed a cry fest coming on.
Watch out gentlemen, the feels have been set free.
Aaaand then of course...they hugged.
“You two go on,” said Teresa dabbing her eye. “We’ve got the teenagers to help clean up. They need service hours to graduate high school.”
We set out for the long walk back into town but before we left we raided the dessert table and wrapped plenty of fudge and banana bread in napkins.
We hadn’t made it far down the road before Georgia burst into peels of laughter.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“You. And Reeses in that manger.”
“That was kinda funny, wasn’t it?”
She took my arm, pressing into me as we walked along. “There’s never a dull moment with you, Charlie Brown.”
Good grief.
16
Wyatt
The return trip into town wasn’t exactly a romantic stroll. The road seemed to stretch on like in those nightmares where your destination gets farther and farther away the more you walk.
The crisp evening chill had turned to a harsh, biting cold. I just about lost feeling in my feet and Reeses’ bag was getting heavier by the second. I knew Georgia was frozen. Her winter coat and boots were more fashionable than practical. Which would have been fine in New York. And pointless in Los Angeles. I wondered how warm it was there. A frigid 72 degrees? I could have been poolside drinking an iced tea at this very moment if our plane hadn’t been detoured. I wouldn’t have been robbed of all my stuff. My clothes, my money, my laptop.
But I’d be alone.
With Georgia, none of those things mattered. What would I have, really? A few measly possessions and a cheap Hollywood news story I felt sleazy about. There was no way I could do it now. As soon as I could charge my phone I’d call my friend and tell him the deal was off.
And what about Georgia? She was right. I was a walking disaster. Charlie Brown to the power of ten. There was no way she’d ever consider a guy like me. She belonged in her beautiful life sipping champagne and getting massages—or however the rich and famous spend their time. Not freezing on a rural road with the likes of me.
Somehow I’d get her home. I didn’t know how, but I vowed to do whatever it took. A silent prayer left my heart.
Please, help me get her home safely.
Not three seconds later an old Winnebago rambled up the road from seemingly out of nowhere. It wasn’t going fast, but passed us before coming to a stop a few hundred feet ahead. It stood there for a couple of seconds and then lurched into reverse, the tires slugging through the thick snow.
At first I thought it might hit us, the way the driver swerved and fishtailed and Georgia and I ran off the road. But then the RV straightened its trajectory and skidded to a stop right before reaching us.
The rear door opened and a warm light shone from the inside. There was some chatter and the
n a young woman leaned out waving us over.
“Come on before you freeze.”
As we approached, and her silhouette gave way to reveal her face, we saw that she was that nun who Teresa was talking to earlier.
Georgia and I didn’t know what to say so we climbed into the RV.
“I’m Sister Patty.” She hugged us, which we were used to by now. As she closed the door behind us, an acoustic guitar rang a chord and all dozen nuns inside the RV sang a short welcome song to the tune of Kumbaya.
Welcome in, my friends, welcome in.
Oh, friends, welcome in.
Then Sister Patty went around introducing the other Sisters. I couldn’t remember all their names, so no doubt Georgia was secretly assigning classical composer monikers to them all. The one with the guitar was easy to remember. Her name was Paula.
“I’m Wyatt and this is Georgia.” I made a little bow not sure of the correct protocol for greeting a Winnebago full of nuns. “And this here’s Reeses.”
We found an empty spot to sit and the RV heaved with a jerk. A few skids of the tires screeched beneath us, then a pitch forward, jolting us in our seats and we were on our way. I let Reeses roam about and he became the center of attention. Rock star status.
“Are you going to the cafe?” Sister Patty asked Georgia.
“Yes.”
She smiled. “We’re going there, too.”
Then Sister Edna, the older one Teresa was talking to, asked, “What made you two decide to walk back to town in this weather? Did something happen to your car?”
“You could say that,” I said with an ironic tone.
Something in her face, and in all those faces actually, told me they really wanted to know. So Georgia and I gave them the truncated version of our story from the beginning, taking turns telling them of our adventures. It was eerie how we finished each other’s sentences.
Sister Edna listened intently and smiled sweetly when we got to the part where we helped serve the turkey dinner.
“And so you found your way to Bethlehem. Like Mary and Joseph.”
“Yeah. And there’s no room at the inn,” I joked.
Georgia elbowed me reproachfully.
“Well, these things have a way of working out,” said Sister Edna. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence.”
“Only a God-incidence,” added Sister Patty.
The RV lumbered on, going extra slow. Whoever was driving was being extra careful. Reeses was in belly rub heaven, and the cheerful women seemed more than happy to dole out all the attention his little doggie heart desired. They certainly didn’t fit the penguin suit stereotype I was used to. Most of them were in their twenties and thirties—young and fresh-faced. And all of them were full of laughter.
So, partly because I felt some instant connection with these ladies, and partly because of my burning curiosity, I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like nuns.”
Sister Edna raised a brow. “Because we don’t have the traditional habit?”
Georgia face-palmed. “Wyatt!”
“It’s okay,” said Sister Patty. “We get asked this all the time.”
“What’s a habit?” I asked. “The black and white veil thing?
“You’ve probably seen pictures of Mother Teresa,” said Sister Patty. “Her order wears blue stripes. Some orders wear black and white. Some wear brown. We wear something a little more simple.”
“A habit is more of a promise to God than an article of clothing,” explained Sister Edna. “Our order was founded during the time of the Nazis. The Sisters then couldn’t wear a traditional habit because of persecution and threat of arrest. And so we wear a habit of fidelity, of joy, of love. A habit of caring for each other and for the community.”
That explained the inner glow these women had.
Georgia smiled. “I like that.”
“Me too,” said Sister Patty. “That’s what called me to serve.”
“We’re here!” the driver called out. She had light brown hair and extremely rosy cheeks. She skidded the Winnebago to a stop and put it in park, waving at us through the rear view mirror.
“That’s Sister Ruth,” said Patty. “Come on. Let’s get some hot apple cider.”
The party was well under way inside the cafe. It was already packed before we walked in, but somehow everyone shifted around and we were a comfortable crowd.
A stout woman served the hot apple cider from behind the bar. We later learned her name was Hannah, the original owner of the cafe. She still ran the place as before but now had the financial backing of Hope Church.
The cider was crazy good.
“Wow. What did they put in this stuff?” said Georgia. “Unicorn tears?”
Pastor Kevin and Teresa arrived soon after. Their daughter, Joy, had changed out of her Mary costume and found a corner of the cafe to bury herself in her cell phone.
Hannah set out trays of hot mini donuts on every table and counter. They were amazing morsels of fried dough and powdered sugar. I must have eaten a dozen.
Upbeat Christmas hits played from the speaker system and those not engaged in lively conversation were dancing. At one point, Lois snagged me by the arm for a dance. I hadn’t even seen her walk in; then again the place was pretty packed. Georgia’s smiling face disappeared through the crowd of dancers as I was pulled away. She laughed and gave an encouraging clap.
I couldn’t find her for ten or fifteen minutes, and when I did, she was under the threshold that led to the restrooms. She was smiling, but there was a hint of worry on her features.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
She leaned against the frame and sighed. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. And we have no way of getting to California.”
“I know.” In an effort to comfort her, I caressed her arms. “But we’ll get there somehow.”
She shifted under the weight of my hands and focused on me. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. I don’t just need to get home in time for Christmas. My brother’s getting married and he’s trying to keep it low key. I really need to be there.”
I parted my lips, wanting to say something in response. But I was afraid my features would betray me. I already knew about the wedding. If I were to act surprised, she’d see right through me. Instead, I drew her into my arms and nuzzled my nose in her hair, inhaling her shampoo. It still held a trace of that strawberry scent but it was now mixed with a hint of pine and ash.
“I’ll do everything in my power to get you home on time,” I whispered into her soft locks. “I promise.”
She broke away from the hug just enough to see my eyes. Her warm, lovely face was only an inch away and the cinnamon in her sweet breath brushed against my senses. My heart hammered in my chest as she curled up the corners of her lips in a honey-laden smile. Her eyes danced. They met my gaze in wonder and then flickered up to a sprig of mistletoe dangling above our heads.
I may have read somewhere that it was bad luck not to kiss if you find yourselves under mistletoe. Or maybe I made that up. Either way, I wasn’t about to tempt the Christmas fairies.
I lowered my lips, just a millimeter, as if asking permission. She quivered under my touch. Her breath snagged in response—in anticipation. And as I closed the gap, a wish hung between us as though, through the magic of a mistletoe kiss, every worry would melt away and our Christmas dreams would come true.
A loud pop ricocheted through the cafe followed by gasps and complete darkness. Georgia jolted back. The music cut off and was replaced by murmurs and various voices rumbling, “What happened?”
“The power went out.”
A strong, male voice said, “Everybody remain calm. I’ll check the breaker box.”
Cell phones fired up in a blue hue and in a matter of minutes, candles illuminated the cafe in a soft, warm glow.
I glanced back to see Georgia biting her bottom lip, her features cast in darkness but still betraying a hint of disappointment. I shouldn’t have hesitated.
And now the moment was gone.
17
Georgia
A few people freaked out when the power went out. I was too dazed by Wyatt’s lips almost touching mine to notice much of anything for several minutes.
I had to get it together. I didn’t do hookups with guys I barely knew. But why did Wyatt feel so familiar? Two days ago he didn’t exist. Now he was just there, taking residence in my life like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I liked it.
Pastor Kevin announced in his booming voice, “There’s a downed power line just outside the cafe. Also the storm is coming in pretty strong right now. I recommend everyone stay put for now.”
This was followed by some groans and some talking all at once. Kevin held up his hands to quiet the racket.
“I called Eric at the fire station. He’s sending some guys, don’t worry. In the mean time, Hanna and Teresa are putting out sandwiches. On the house.”
Everyone went back to mumbling amongst themselves, making the most of the situation. It was still a party—just a mellow one. And maybe a tad drab. So I sprang into action.
I’d noticed an upright piano when we first walked in. As a musician, my eyes can’t help but latch on to instruments, even through a crowd of people. What this party needed was music. Luckily, I knew a tune or two.
Wyatt followed me over.
“Where are you going?”
I grinned, scrunching my nose at him. “Just over here to liven things up a bit.”
My fingers flew over the keys playing Große Sonate für das Hammerklavier as effortlessly as some people excel at typing or making piecrust. Wyatt gaped at me incredulously.
“What is that?”
I kept playing. “Beethoven.”
