by Susan Wiggs
“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “It’s about the library.”
“Has something changed?” She allowed herself to feel a flutter of hope.
“I’m told you’re in charge of this year’s Christmas pageant.”
She nodded, startled. What did that have to do with anything?
“My son recently moved to Avalon with his wife and son. This pleased Mrs. Byrne and me immensely, because we only have the one son, and one grandson—Cecil. He goes to the high school. Perhaps you’ve met him?” He softened when he spoke of his family.
“Perhaps. Most of the high school students are regulars at the library.” She couldn’t help but add, “It’s a key part of their education.”
He didn’t take the bait. “I’ll be as frank as you seem to be, Miss Davenport. Cecil has been having trouble settling in at school. He hasn’t quite found his place. But he’s a talented performer. I believe if he’s given the lead role in the pageant, it will help with his self-confidence. Give him a chance to make some friends.”
Maureen had to break it to him—performing in plays and pageants was not exactly a way for a boy to prove his coolness in high school. “Believe me, sir, giving him the lead part is not going to rock his world,” she said, remembering her own high school days. She had been active in drama, something that surprised people who hadn’t known her back then. She’d left her dramatic self behind long ago.
“I think I know my own grandson,” said the older man.
“Then I hope he’ll come to the auditions.”
“Oh, there’s no question of that. He’ll be there.”
“Very good.” She moved toward her car, feeling mystified by the encounter. “Er, good night, Mr. Byrne.”
“We understand each other, then. Cecil will play the lead role.”
She stopped, turned back to him. “I can’t say at this point. The role will go to the student who can do the best job.”
“Exactly. And that student is Cecil.”
Maureen could understand a man who was devoted to his grandson. But this was over the top. “As I said—”
“Miss Davenport, you understand I’m in a position to help you,” he said.
“Sir, we have all the volunteers we need for the pageant.”
“Not like that.” He cleared his throat. He emphasized each word.
She lifted her shoulders as a gust of wind scurried through the parking lot. “Mr. Byrne, I’m sorry for seeming dense, but maybe you should explain what you mean.”
“Certainly,” he said. “Miss Davenport, the library is closing due to a budget shortfall.”
“Allow me to correct you,” she said, surprising herself with her own audacity. “It’s going to close because you won’t renew the lease without a guarantee of the annual budget.”
“And now I’m telling you there might be some flexibility in that. So you see, we each have something to offer the other.”
“Let me make sure I understand this. All I have to do is promise Cecil the main role, and the library gets a second chance at life. That’s insane,” she blurted out, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I mean—”
“Quirky. People with my kind of money are considered quirky. There is simply no price to be put on the happiness of people you love.”
“And yet you’ve done exactly that. Mr. Byrne, would you listen to what you’re saying? You’re offering to buy a role in a Christmas pageant, of all things. It’s so…unethical.”
“More unethical than closing the doors of the library? It’s a simple equation. My grandson wants to be chosen for the main role. You need to save the library.”
The idea seemed strange and uncomfortable to her—and far too tantalizing. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“And doing the right thing means letting the library close?”
“Doing the right thing, in this case, means you’ll put the needs of the community above the needs of your grandson.”
“It boils down to family loyalty.”
A simple transaction. It wasn’t so bizarre, was it? Bit parts in ballets and operas went to the children of benefactors all the time. She’d do anything to keep the library open. Any thing. Still… “Mr. Byrne, if your grandson auditions like any other student, I’m sure he’ll get a role—”
“The lead role.”
“How do you know Cecil even wants this? Have you asked him?”
“I think I know my own grandson.”
“Then you should know you’re not sending him a healthy message.”
“He doesn’t know. And he never will unless you tell him.”
Eight
Arriving at the church for the auditions, Maureen parked her Prius in the spot marked “reserved.” Even though, as the pageant director, she had every right to park there, she felt as though she were getting away with something. This was a new sensation for Maureen, a woman who got away with absolutely nothing. Ever.
Perhaps this was a sign. Things were about to change. She sat for a moment, contemplating the sensation of raw power. Mr. Byrne had handed her an opportunity, that was exactly what he’d done. Could he really mean it? Or was he just playing her in order to get special consideration for his grandson? The whole thing was just too bizarre. And yet the possibility dangled before her. If she did his bidding, the library could be saved, after all. And as for directing the pageant—another opportunity. Here was a chance to create something from nothing, the power to make dreams come true. She intended to do the best job she knew how.
To some people, this was simply a Christmas pageant, a night of drama, music and entertainment. To Maureen, it was so much more—a celebration of all that was kind and good and holy in the world, a chance to remind people to step out of themselves and sink into the sweet mystery of a deep and abiding faith.
Rummaging through her bag, she took a swift inventory—script, check. Clipboard, check. Music folio, check. Extra pencils and steno pads, check. Everything was in place. Of course she had all the supplies she needed. Her involvement in the pageant was a lifelong affair. At six months of age, Maureen had portrayed the baby Jesus, swaddled in a fringed shawl that had been woven by her great aunt. Every year after that, she played a role. In fact, it was the pageant that had given her the acting bug. And the bug had hung on all the way through her junior year of college. The year her world had imploded.
She was about to exit the car when she paused, wondering if she should repark. The forecast promised clear weather, but it was always good to hedge one’s bets. The night of the nativity-building was a perfect example. Not a breath of snow in the forecast, yet she’d driven home in a blizzard. She started the engine. It was bad enough that the weatherman had called it wrong. Worse, Eddie Haven had gotten it right.
After reparking the car facing out, she buttoned her coat snugly, wound a handknit muffler around her neck, and pulled on her hat and gloves.
Just for a few seconds, she bowed her head, thankful for this day, this glorious opportunity to play a key role in the celebration of the season. It made all other problems—and yes, she most definitely had them—seem to shrink, at least for a while. She felt the world around her with heightened awareness. There was a still, breath-held quality to the winter evening, a quiet that pervaded the soul. The air smelled of the crisp sweetness of the cold season. Everything had an air of waiting, edged by the sense of things about to begin.
Thank you for this day, she thought. She’d waited so long for it.
Eddie Haven’s white van careened into the parking lot, strains of a Black Sabbath tune shrieking and thumping from its speakers.
He jumped out, stuffing a wad of keys in his pocket. He wore only a dark T-shirt and skinny jeans, jacket flapping open, no hat or gloves. Black motorcycle boots with chains around the heels. “Hey, Maureen.”
“Hello, Eddie. Ready to get to work?”
“Sure.” He’d brought nothing with him, she observed. Nothing at all. He probably traveled with nothing but his guitar and a
n ice chest of beer.
“You might want to repark,” she commented, “in case it snows.”
“Forecast said clear to the weekend. It’s not going to snow.” He spoke with complete conviction.
“Last time we argued about the weather, you disputed the forecast,” she reminded him.
“Last time we argued about the weather,” he said, “I won.”
Maureen dropped the subject. The two of them seemed inclined to argue about everything, and it was silly. “Don’t you need to lock your van?” she asked.
“This place isn’t exactly known for its crime,” he pointed out. “And no self-respecting thief will go near my wheels. The stereo is fifteen years old, at least. Plays cassette tapes.”
Loudly, she thought. It plays them loudly.
He lengthened his strides toward the building. “Jesus Christ, it’s cold. I’m freezing my nuts off,” he said.
She scowled at his language. “You could always zip up your jacket. And wear a hat. Maybe a muffler, too.”
“Yeah, good idea. Thanks, Mom.”
Maureen knew he was trying to tease her.
He was succeeding admirably.
“Can you give me a hand with some of these things?” she asked. Maybe if she put him to work right away, he’d be too busy to annoy her. She went around and opened the trunk of her Prius, which held several boxes of supplies.
“Damn, you got enough stuff here to put on a Broadway show,” Eddie commented.
“I like to be prepared.” She flicked a glance at his bare arms. “I asked the building steward to leave the heat on inside,” she said. “Let’s go get things ready.”
“I can hardly wait.”
She felt a lash of resentment from him, though his comment wasn’t directed at her. And then worry set in. She was sup posed to put on a pageant with this guy? Determined to make the best of it, she headed for the sanctuary. They walked under the portico—the one that had been rebuilt after he had crashed into it. She wondered if he thought about that every time he came here.
She unlocked the sanctuary, and he held the door for her with a gallant flourish. “After you.”
Glancing up at him was a mistake. Though she’d resolved to avoid letting his looks affect her, she was struck by the dazzling blue of his eyes, and that slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Good grief. For a second, she flashed on an image of the face that had captured the hearts of America all those years ago. He’d changed, though, perhaps losing some of his teen-idol perfection to true character. Nearly hidden at the edge of his hairline was a faint, thin scar, a remnant of the night their lives had collided, a night he remembered so differently than she did.
Flustered, she tore her eyes away and stepped into the church. At this time of day, it was deserted. The large, airy space was laid out in perfect symmetry, the long aisle forming a gleaming path to the front, pews fanning out on either side.
And in that moment, Maureen forgot her irritation with Eddie Haven, forgot her troubles and the quiet discontent with which she usually lived her life. She forgot everything. This was where it would happen—the voices lifted in song, the hearts soaring with joy.
“So here we are.” Eddie started down the aisle, his boots ringing on the polished floor. “What time do auditions start?”
“In about thirty minutes. It’s on the schedule I gave you.”
“Didn’t really have a chance to check it out. You’re pretty organized.”
Of course she was. A person couldn’t take on a production like this without being organized. Her goal was to put on the kind of pageant that embodied everything joyous and bright about the season.
She set down her things and unbuttoned her coat. He was hardly the first to question her ability to fill Mrs. B’s shoes. Members of the church council had raised their eyebrows, as well. Maureen didn’t understand all the admiration of Mrs. Bickham’s productions. It was true, she’d done a fine job for at least three decades. A perfectly adequate job. She’d been a new-school-type of pageant director, jumping on trends each year. She had subscribed to the belief that people would better relate to a show with elements that were recognizable and relevant in their lives. Over the years, the pageant had featured prominent pop culture icons such as Care Bears and Barney. Depending on the year, Shrek might be one of the wise men and marching penguins could be seen in the stable. The angel’s call had been delivered in any number of ways, from Western swing to hip-hop, and “Joy to the World” might be sung by characters from Harry Potter. Under Mrs. B, the pageant had been produced with every theme imaginable, and some unimaginable—Camelot, the Old West, the Age of Aquarius, disco. Maureen’s father used to joke that he was waiting for the “Christmas in Hell” theme.
Maureen had her own ideas. She believed deeply in tradition and ceremony. Bringing the greatest story ever told to life was a sacred duty to her, and she didn’t want to mess it up or lose the message by trying to be trendy. And this year, she was going to prove that tradition, not trendiness, was the most powerful way to deliver the message of Christmas. She wanted to revive the old ways, yet make them fresh and relevant. Were she and Eddie Haven going to succeed?
He had to buy into her vision.
She went to shrug out of her coat when she felt the gentle embrace of a pair of hands on her shoulders.
“Here, I’ll help you with that,” Eddie said, lifting the coat away from her.
Barely able to stifle a gasp, she surrendered the garment, murmuring, “Thank you.” The cavernous room suddenly felt hot.
The documentary crew showed up—a cameraman named Chet and his assistant Garth, and an associate producer named Josie. “Try to forget we’re even here,” she said. “Ninety percent of what we shoot won’t make it into the piece. The more we shoot, the more we have to work with.”
“That’s fine. Pretty soon we’ll be too busy to notice,” Maureen said, indicating the students who had started to arrive. She saw that Eddie had turned away, busying himself with some sound equipment by the stage. “Camera shy?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Do you know how to work the sound system?”
“I can give it a try.”
“Can I help?” she offered. “I’m pretty good with A/V equipment.”
“You librarians,” he said. “Second only to super-heroes.” He laughed at her expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it all set up.”
Maureen hoped the camera wasn’t turned on her, documenting her blush. He was a trained musician, so he ought to know what he was doing. She left him alone while he assembled and tested the sound system. Already she could tell their styles were radically different. He plunged right in, figuring things out by trial and error. In this case, it was a good division of labor. She would have still been reading the table of contents of the user’s manual.
She clipped an evaluation form onto her clipboard and prepared one for him, as well. “I made a column for each person’s name and phone number, one for potential roles, and one for us to make notes.”
He nodded, but didn’t take a clipboard. “Okay. I don’t need that.”
“I expect to have several people trying out for each role. How are you going to remember?”
“You’ve got that covered,” he pointed out.
“I value your opinion,” she stated.
“My opinion is, I don’t need to rate people on a sheet of paper.”
“Do you have a real issue with this, or are you trying to get on my nerves?”
“Issue,” he said without hesitation. “Nerves, that’s just a bonus.”
His admission surprised her. “So what’s the issue?”
“It’s hard enough performing on stage. Having a couple of geeks with clipboards judging you only makes it worse.”
“You’re speaking from experience, aren’t you?” she said.
“So what if I am? Listen, how about you do things your way and I’ll do things mine, and then we’ll compare notes?”
She would have argued with him further, but Ray Tolley showed up to help with the auditions. Ray, who played piano, showed up straight from work to help out, still in his uniform. The kids’ eyes bugged out at the sight of his police uniform. Some of the high schoolers looked uncomfortable. Maureen wondered if Eddie felt uncomfortable around Ray, too. But they seemed like friends; Eddie went to help him set up his keyboard.
A few minutes later, she stood at the door, greeting people as they arrived for auditions—parents and their little ones, who would populate Bethlehem, and older students from middle school and high school who would fill the speaking roles and sing solos. She was gratified by the large number of older students, even though she knew many were there because they would earn release time from school and a half credit in drama and choir. She tried to figure out if Cecil Byrne was among the high school students. Was he the quiet-looking boy in the Argyle sweater? The husky one in the hockey jersey? The cutup with the faux-hawk? She hoped he’d be the heartthrob boy who sat surrounded by adoring girls, but given what Mr. Byrne had told her, that was unlikely.
It was chaotic at first, getting organized for tryouts, but eventually she had the parents situated in the back and the children in the front pews in order by age, so the youngest ones could finish early. True to their word, the film crew stayed discreetly in the background, though the camera stayed on the whole time.
Maureen stood up in front of the group and tapped on the microphone. “I’m excited for everyone to be here. Each person who wants to take part will get that chance. The auditions will determine where each of you fits in.” She had rehearsed that tidbit quite exhaustively. Her main goal was to include every student in some way. This, she knew, was a departure from traditions established by Mrs. Bickham, who had limited the cast each year.
“Do you mean that?” asked Eddie when she shut off the mic. “About including everybody?”
“If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t have said it.”
The auditions would start with the youngest, who would go in groups of three. Maureen thought it might be less intimidating than having to do a solo. She recognized most of the kids from the library. Not vice versa, though. Children tended not to recognize her out of context. When she was behind her long pickled oak desk at the library or seated in the big Kennedy rocker for story hour, yes. In the grocery store or elsewhere in the community, doubtful.
