As if the atmosphere weren’t carnival-like enough, the four frantic shepherds were trailed by at least a dozen cackling chickens. They looked vaguely familiar—not surprising, since it wasn’t that long ago that they sashayed through our front door and free-ranged through our home. Apparently in the busyness of preparing for the program tonight, no one had noticed a herd of hens cruising the streets like a pack of rebellious teens. I knew what I’d be doing on Christmas Day. An electric fence was sounding better by the minute.
I glanced over at Sadie, who had taken up her spot in a group of angels milling around the outskirts of the village. She looked mortified, but to her credit, didn’t say a thing. But about five seconds later, the ring leader, Francine, dangled from Sadie’s vice-like grip. The furious woman took the equally-irate chicken to the side of the road and flung her halfway back to the coop. Francine put up a mighty protest but wisely took the hint and moseyed on down the road. Thankfully, her cohorts followed and within five minutes, the chickens were out of sight.
My joy was short-lived, however. I cringed when I spotted a small, silver, four-legged figure slinking after the flock. Pewter. Good grief.
The sheep took a little longer to round up, but the men were as vigilant about pinning down their woolly quarry as they’d been about blowing up Hummers and clobbering bad guys. About the same time Mel managed to wrest her broom from the goat, the men had cornered their escapees. Ten minutes after the entire fiasco began, things were once more under control.
In the mayhem, I didn’t notice the arrival of Mary and Joseph. I don’t know why I was surprised. After all, they’d managed to find four sheep and a goat, but it startled me to see Mary atop a donkey. Bristol told me later that all the livestock came to us compliments of a petting zoo just outside of Richmond. He’d made the most of his recent trip into the city to talk to the detectives by stopping off at the farm and bringing home a few bit players to add a little authenticity, and excitement, to the program. His heart was in the right place, even if, in hindsight, it appeared he’d clearly taken leave of his senses.
I would probably have spent more time gaping at the donkey if I hadn’t been distracted by the sight of Mary sitting side-saddle on its back. If I thought the surprises in store that night were behind me, I had another think coming. I took a closer look at the diminutive figure sitting astride the plodding animal and my mouth fell open. I glanced at Mel and she gave me a knowing grin. I was looking at the last person on this earth I’d have expected to portray the mother of our Savior Jesus Christ.
I was looking straight at Emma River.
Chapter Fifty
Nobody was more surprised than Emma to find herself sitting atop a donkey portraying the virgin mother of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Just a few days ago, she’d been vehemently denying His existence, and here she was taking part in one of Christendom’s most revered annual traditions. She wasn’t oblivious to the stares of the townspeople; apparently many of them were just as shocked to see the rich old recluse smack-dab in the middle of their Christmas pageant as she was to be in it.
She had to admit, though, it felt right. For the first nine years of her life, before their mother died, the girls had attended church and Sunday school, and Emma remembered wistfully the Bible stories their mother told them night after night.
While Emma recovered from the rigors of the blizzard and the encounter with Isaac Benjamin and his cohorts at the inn, memories of those long-ago nights rushed back. She remembered what a comfort it was to end the day with a prayer to Jesus; how reassuring it felt to ask for His blessing, His guidance, and His protection throughout the night. Their mother’s commitment to the Lord had created a calm oasis in the storms of their tumultuous lives. When had she lost that sense of belonging? Of peace? No doubt the death of their mother played a huge part in the absence of that part of Emma’s life—and losing her sister so soon after that had cemented the feeling of despair and loneliness. Certainly their father had never believed in the Heavenly Father. He’d made it very clear he considered his wife’s devotion to Jesus Christ as nothing more than silly superstition and weakness. Without the nurture and care of mature Christians in their lives, the girls’ faith had withered on the vine.
Emma spent hours in the Jefferson Room, rocking in the chair, its runners still screeking and scrawking. Sometimes she watched the world outside her window slowly thawing its way back to the way it looked before the storm. Sometimes she jotted her thoughts in the journal that rarely left her side. This one was No. 146. She’d filled two of the leather-bound journals each year after her sister’s death. Emma’s life—if you wanted to call it that—was meticulously chronicled, day by day, in dozens of dusty volumes stacked away in her bedroom closet at Rivermanse.
Her thoughts during those days of rest and recovery ventured to places they hadn’t visited for decades. She asked herself why, after all these years, she was willing to forget the conspicuous absence of the residents of Road’s End after the death of their mother. She came to the conclusion that it wasn’t a lack of compassion that fueled their actions—or inaction—but rather the formidable behavior of their father toward the townspeople and any attempts they made to reach out to the girls. Loathe to believe in God to begin with, he certainly wasn’t about to turn the spiritual nurturing of his girls over to the “common folk” who inhabited Road’s End and attended the Christ Is Lord Church. From the vantage point of seventy years later, Emma realized her friends and neighbors had no more been to blame for their behavior as her mother had been at fault for dying.
No, any culpability for their stalled faith lay squarely on the shoulders of their unyielding father; both girls paid a dear price for his stubborn refusal to listen to the Word of God and failure to pass those convictions on to his children. Emma wondered just where she’d be right now if she’d spent the last seven decades of her life in pursuit of the life God planned for her from the beginning, rather than living a lie that grew larger and more painful by the hour. Probably not feared by everyone in town. Not regarded as the one who killed Rachel.
But she had no one but herself to blame for that; it was all her doing. She’d been selfish and spiteful in her attitude toward everyone in Road’s End, hoping to find someone on which to lay the blame, some way to relieve herself of the horror she felt over the death of her sister.
The tears surprised her, but she let them fall unchecked. What have I done, Lord? Why have I been so selfish?
She cried for a long time after that. The lies and the pain and the unshed tears slowly seeped away and bit by bit, they relinquished their painful grip. It felt good to be free of them. Better than anything had felt in a long, long time.
Riding the donkey was easier than Emma expected it to be, but facing the crowd was every bit as daunting as she anticipated. She could almost hear them asking one another, “What on earth is she doing portraying the mother of our Lord?” What indeed. She almost laughed when she saw the look on Hugh’s face. Was she that unlikely a candidate?
But she was and she knew it. Aside from the virgin part, she and Mary had absolutely nothing in common. Never mind the difference in age—Mary at the beginning of her life, Emma nearing the end—their attitude toward others, willingness to obey God, the way they spent their lives here on earth were all in direct contradiction to one another. Yet isn’t that the way God works? Take an impossible situation and turn it around to suit His purposes? Well, He certainly did that this time.
They were nearing the inn where Hugh would turn them away and direct them to the stable fashioned from the cave. Emma hoped Hugh recovered from his shock in time to remember his lines. She glanced at Melanie, who winked, and was relieved to hear Hugh say to Joseph, a.k.a. Bristol, when they stopped in front of the doorway, “Sorry. No room at the inn.” Still gaping at Emma, Hugh pointed to the cave. No Academy Award here.
Bristol picked up the rope around the donkey’s neck, nudged it forward, and it plodded slowly toward the stable. Once there, Bristol
reached up to lift Emma to the ground. She had to steady the padding under her costume to keep it from tumbling downward, but the gesture served to reinforce the look of her faux pregnancy. She clutched her belly as though in pain and hobbled over to the straw scattered around the cave’s interior. That part wasn’t acting; riding a donkey wasn’t comfortable. With Bristol’s help, she lowered herself to the ground and laid against the wall.
As three angels moved into the scene and shielded her from the eyes of the audience, Emma thought about her counterpart of two thousand years before. What had Mary thought? Did she wonder if some huge mistake had been made concerning the birthplace of the Son of God? Did she resent giving birth to this miraculous Child in a common stable? Emma would.
She closed her eyes and let the voices of her neighbors wash over her as they sang “Mary, Did You Know?”
No, she probably hadn’t known, but then again, Mary had faith that what God had wrought was for the best. Mary knew all she needed to know.
It was all so simple.
Chapter Fifty-One
Things started happening faster than I could process them. After the ladies finished their song—which was remarkably touching—and walked offstage, a small bundle appeared from somewhere. Our little Christ Child. Bristol gently placed the baby, who was wrapped tightly in the swaddling cloths, in the manger. I had no idea who they’d tapped to play the role, but whoever it was did a commendable job of lying there quietly.
Suddenly the spotlight shifted downstage from Baby Jesus.
Winnie’s moment had arrived. I didn’t hear any screams or raucous laughter; I assumed Dewey’s attempt to hoist his wife skyward was a success, or at least not a dismal failure. Winnie’s voice carried across the yard. I could hear the opening strains of “Joy to the World.” Here we go. Lord, forgive us if this turns sour.
To my delight, the rest of the angel choir chimed in to Winnie’s off-key rendition about four words into the song. Bless someone’s dear, sweet soul for thinking of that. Winnie had her moment in the spotlight, the scene was played to perfection, and now all we had to worry about was the condition of Dewey’s back over the next few days.
After Winnie’s performance, the sheep and goat reappeared, minus the pillaging this time, and the shepherds arrived, gaping and exclaiming to one another in appropriate awe after the entrance of the angel choir and its glorious announcement just moments before. Finally, with Sophie and Sherman in the lead, the wise men brought up the rear. Despite her obvious dismay at being stuck in Road’s End, in a converted henhouse, no less, Sophie played her part well—due, no doubt, to having executed this role on numerous other occasions. Sure, those other performances hadn’t involved a blinger of a blizzard, gunfights, exploding Hummers, or a slew of opinionated septuagenarians, but you can’t have everything all the time, now can you?
The shepherds and their livestock made room around the manger for the three wise men and Sophie. It was close quarters, but it went off without a hitch. The only exception was a sly swipe of Sophie’s purple tongue across Emma’s face. Emma has an admirer.
After their rendition of Away in a Manger, the angel choir drifted away. They had coffee and cookie duty inside after the inside candlelight service following the program, and they probably wanted to warm up a bit. Couldn’t say as I blamed them. As the spotlight dimmed, I could hear the strains of Handel’s Messiah rise majestically through the frosty night air. I shivered. Could have been the cold, might have been the music. Hard to tell. But it was a good shiver.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Emma closed her eyes. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her nervous stomach and fluttering heart by controlling her intake of air. It was working. With each breath she felt her body thawing, molding itself against the church pew, her muscles relaxing bit by bit and the warmth of the building seeping into her old bones. The tangy scent of fresh pine wafted on the air currents. People around her thumbed through their Bibles or hymnbooks and fidgeted against the pews. She wondered if they, like her, found comfort in the warmth of the sanctuary and the togetherness of the family of God as they settled in to hear a few words from their pastor and sing hymns to God’s glory.
She had to do this. She made her decision shortly after she and Hugh and Bristol and the others had overtaken the men who came to kill Bristol, but it wasn’t until Bristol brought her the tape earlier that morning that she finally gave her life and her soul to Jesus Christ, and it was then that she knew she’d have to ’fess up to the rest of the town. She’d discovered a strength she didn’t realize she possessed anymore—not just the physical kind, but an inner core of determination and peace that overwhelmed her. It had seemed vaguely familiar to her at first, but things were moving too rapidly to give her touch of déjà vu any thought at the time. Later, though, in the darkness and safety of her room at the inn, she gave her feelings free reign. It was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. Losing her mother and sister, accepting the fact that her father didn’t care enough to raise her, the lonely years she spent holed up in Rivermanse with only her stolen visits to River’s Bluff for respite, the guilt that haunted her every day for having a life to live when her sister did not—all of it paled to the anguish of this moment.
She opened her eyes and looked around. The sanctuary blushed with the amber glow of dozens of flickering tapers, their flames undulating in a warped glimmer-dance mirrored by the centuries-old window panes. Bristol had brought in the straw-filled manger and placed it under the Christmas tree; its blue and white lights highlighted the blanketed babe as if it were illuminated from within. She could almost feel the hushed radiance permeating her body and mind; she wondered briefly if she, too, glowed.
Emma sat in the front row of pews with Melanie beside her. The younger woman’s strong hand wrapped around Emma’s frail one, squeezing it every so often for reassurance.
After a few words of praise and the singing of two Christmas hymns, Hugh looked at her and said something, but Emma wasn’t listening. Winnie and some of the other women stood, then a few of the men. At Melanie’s prompting, she stood for a moment and faced the congregation behind her, then sat down. Apparently Hugh was recognizing the cast members. Two more songs and then it was time.
Emma looked at Melanie and felt a small surge of confidence when she saw the younger woman’s sweet smile. “You can do it, Emma,” Melanie mouthed as she put her hand under Emma’s elbow and helped her to her feet.
Emma stood for a few seconds to steady herself. She was shaking more from dread than from any weakness on her part. She walked to the edge of steps that led to the pulpit. Hugh met her, took her hand, and helped her up the two stairs, then stood aside as she walked behind the pulpit. She stole a quick look at him before facing the audience. He winked. She dipped her head every-so-slightly in thanks, then placed her hands on the side of the lectern and faced her audience.
Hugh joined Melanie in the front pew.
The room was silent. Apparently, even Frank was staying awake for this. Emma had promised herself she wouldn’t do this halfway, that if she bared her soul to those who believed the worst of her, she was going to do it with honesty and humility.
“Neighbors and friends,” she said, looking around the room. “I don’t think introductions are in order since I’ve lived here all my life, but because I haven’t exactly been a fixture in this church”—several people smiled—“I’ll begin by saying that you probably recognize me as Emma River. I live, or rather exist, at Rivermanse back there on the hill.” She gestured vaguely behind her. Melanie caught her eye and nodded slightly.
Emma held her gaze momentarily then continued. “I guess you’re all wondering how on earth a mean old woman like me was allowed to play Mary in this Nativity program tonight.” She held up her hand when some of the more polite listeners started to pooh-pooh her remark. “No, please. I know that I’m about as opposite in character to the mother of our Lord Jesus Christ as I could possibly be, but there were forces at work here that we
re, to say the least, formidable.”
She waved her hand toward Melanie and a couple of the other ladies, then at Bristol who sat at one end of the front pew across the aisle from Melanie and Hugh. “Even Pastor Foster didn’t know what was going on, and he’s a tough one to fool. Took a smart woman like Melanie to pull the wool over his eyes.”
Melanie turned around to the crowd and raised her hand in victory while Hugh dropped his head to his chest in mock humiliation.
“The truth of the matter is that I’m not who you think I am. Yes, I’m the crotchety old rich woman who’s scorned everyone in town for the last seven decades. I’m the one who’s refused to join your church, to believe in your God, to be a part of this community, to even own up to the guilt I’ve carried around with me since the day my sister died. Before I touch on that some more, let me explain a few other things.” She looked around; she had their attention, no doubt about it. Not only was it rare to hear Emma River’s voice, it was rarer still to hear her make confessions. At least they’d remember what she was about to say.
“Many of you were about my age when my mother died. My sister and I were nine years old. After our mother died, my aunt and uncle moved into Rivermanse to take care of us while my father ran his banking business. From that moment on, we were forbidden to associate with any of the other residents. Some of you may remember—or perhaps your parents may have told you—that my aunt and uncle were snobs of the highest order. That doesn’t excuse my behavior toward all of you as an adult, but believe me, my sister and I were desperate for attention from someone other than our guardians. We would have welcomed your company, cherished your friendships. But that was not to be. We spent a couple of happy years together—as happy as we could be under the circumstances—but even that was snatched from us the morning of the accident.” Emma paused and looked down. Her fingers drummed on the sides of the pulpit; her nerves were showing.
Misstep (The Road's End Series Book 1) Page 29
