“You didn’t tell me what to do, I know that, but you encouraged me, listened to me while I worked things out for myself. Thank you.”
He nodded as wisely as a man with a mouthful of muffin can. “We’ve started work on my studio in the attic, decided to install a skylight up there. George figures it will increase the value of the house, and I’m happy to have more light.”
He nodded again. What he really needed was a cup of coffee or a glass of water because, as tasty as the muffin was, the density nearly defeated him.
“I have to warn you.” She smiled at him.
He thought about smiling back at her but felt chocolate probably covered his teeth. Instead, he raised his eyebrow as if asking a question.
“We’re coming to the Christmas Eve service, the whole family.” She laughed. “I didn’t want you to keel over in shock. Carol is excited about the candles and Gretchen loves being in church.” She shook her head, the action a nice counterpoint to his nods. “They want to come so George and I have to. They like church and I have to admit attending hasn’t hurt them.” She stood, waved, and turned toward the door.
By the time Adam finally swallowed, she’d disappeared.
He was glad the girls liked church, glad it hadn’t hurt them, and delighted George and Ouida would attend Christmas Eve. Everyone he loved would be gathered in the sanctuary that night.
Well, almost everyone.
“Hello, Preacher.”
Adam looked up to see a professorial-looking man who squinted at him through thick glasses.
“I’m Martin Hanford, the organist for Sunday.”
“Hello, Mr. Hanford. Good to meet you.” Adam stood. “What can I do for you?”
“Yes, well, I’d like to practice on your organ. I’ve played here a few times, before you arrived. Your organ has a recorder in it. I’d like to record the music for Sunday. At the right time in the service, I just mash the PLAY button.” The organist showed how he’d do that. “Boom, the music starts and plays with no mistakes.”
Makes you wonder why we need an organist, Adam thought but didn’t say. He did say, “Sounds fine. Let me show you…”
“No, no. I’ve been in the sanctuary before and your secretary gave me a bulletin so I know what to play. But I would like to know if there’s anything special you’d like for Sunday because it is the first Sunday in Advent.”
“Can’t think of anything.”
With that, Mr. Hanford strode off and Adam returned to work on his sermon.
* * *
Not nearly as easy as it had sounded, Adam reflected. At the beginning of the service that Sunday, Mr. Hanford played—at least the organ did—a lovely prelude. With that nearly completed, the organist glanced at Adam, who waited in the narthex. Before Adam could give the signal for him to play the opening hymn, it began.
Startled at the rapid change, the congregation leaped to their feet and Adam hurried down the aisle after Nick, who served as acolyte. Because the acolyte’s candle hadn’t been lit yet, Nick arrived in the chancel area with no way to light the other candles.
Still, the opening hymn boomed out from the organ. Nick look at Adam, confusion in his eyes. “What do I do,” he whispered.
Willow ran forward from the narthex with a book of matches. She struck one, lit Nick’s candle, and hurried away. As soon as the candles were finally lit, the second hymn emerged from the organ while Adam was still making his way to the pulpit.
The organist cursed as he madly pressed buttons and attempted to turn the recording off. He looked up, aghast that his words had echoed through the sanctuary. “I’m sorry. I’ll rewind.”
As Adam made announcements, he could hear a few notes coming from the organ as Mr. Hanford attempted to find the correct place. When they stopped, Adam believed the problem to be solved.
Not so fast.
When he asked the congregation to rise for the second hymn, instead of the notes of “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus,” the prelude began. The congregation stood motionless, then smiled, then titters began when the organist again muttered, “Damn.” This time, he didn’t apologize, just glared at the organ as if it were possessed.
He mashed a few buttons on the recorder again, harder. By the time the correct hymn began, Adam felt sure no one could sing because only he and the pillar could keep a straight face. However, Miss Birdie, with Hector and Bree doubled up next to her and nearly hysterical by this time, didn’t look as if she could keep it up much longer. For that reason, Adam began the hymn in his shaky tenor. Fortunately, Janey recovered when she heard his pitiful voice and began to sing. Her clear voice filled the sanctuary and returned the congregation to a worshipful air.
At least, until what sounded like small explosions sounded from the inside of the organ.
All eyes turned again to Mr. Hanford, tie loosened, suit coat off, and sweat pouring down his face as he glared at the organ. He pressed the buttons again but nothing happened.
“Shh—” Mr. Hanford started.
“Shucks,” Adam shouted over him. Now what? “Shucks, folks, let’s not sing the next hymn. Let’s go straight to the scripture.”
While the worship leader began the Gospel text, Adam walked to the organ and asked sympathetically, “Problems?”
Sadly, Mr. Hanford didn’t recognize the concern in Adam’s voice. He said, “Okay, if you’re so smart, play it yourself,” then grabbed his jacket and stalked off.
Another organist down. Another sermon shortened. Another congregation that arrived early at the Subway.
As folks filed out, Hector said, “Pops, don’t ever get a regular organist. The subs really make the service fun.”
Lord, how Adam wished he could share this with Gussie.
* * *
The ladies of the church and the few men they could force to help them had decorated the parsonage for Christmas weeks earlier. As usual—well, at least like last year—the house smelled and looked wonderful and felt even more like home. Electric candles stood at each window, ready for Adam to turn on at sunset. Pine boughs wound around the staircase and decorated the fireplace. Mistletoe hung over the doors, and red ribbons and plaid bows filled any empty spaces.
Adam leaned back in the sofa, took the beauty in, and sighed with contentment. He’d just read a card from the Smiths, who’d stayed in the parsonage a year earlier. Deanne and Missy were fine. They sent love and gratitude and a huge box of homemade goodies.
“Pops, we need to buy a tree from the Letterman’s Club,” Hector said, interrupting his moment of peace and joy to snatch a cookie. “It’s our big fund-raiser of the year and we all have to bring people to the lot.”
“We have a tree.” Adam pointed at the beautiful fir, huge and full, its branches laden with ornaments and other baubles the ladies had donated. It nestled in the corner of the living room with splendor.
“I was thinkin’ we could move it into the front hall, by the curve in the staircase.”
“It would look good there,” Adam agreed.
“Then we’ll put the new tree in the corner.” Hector pointed. “I’ve got the rope in the car to tie the tree up there to bring home, and Miss Birdie gave me some ornaments.”
Adam knew he wouldn’t get out of this. Hector—and, therefore, Adam—had to support athletics. With a sigh because he’d hoped to spend the evening on the couch watching a college football game, Adam stood.
* * *
“Pops, what time is it?” Hector asked once they were in the car. “They close at five.”
“It’s three twenty.”
“How do you know that? The dashboard clock says four twelve.”
“Subtract an hour and add eight minutes,” Adam explained.
Hector sighed deeply. Adam knew he wanted to say, Why don’t you get a new car? One on which most of the stuff works. But Hector also knew that ministers of small-town churches didn’t make a big salary.
* * *
The selection of trees wasn’t great.
�
��They’ve been picked over a little, Pops.”
Because of the disappointment in Hector’s voice, Adam boomed, “Nonsense. I’m sure we’ll find a great tree,” with much more confidence than he felt.
The best one turned out to be four feet tall, spindly and crooked, and uglier than any tree Adam had ever seen, but the expense supported a good cause. He pulled out his wallet and handed one of the parents who ran the lot a twenty. The man kept his hand out.
“Ten more,” he said.
Adam wanted to tell the man, You’ve got to be kidding, but he didn’t. That statement would embarrass Hector. Instead he asked, “Throw in a stand?”
After he paid, Adam picked up the stand and tree, which weighed less than a middle-size cat, and carried them toward the car. As he did, needles showered off.
“I’ll help you carry that.” Hector took a few steps toward Adam and his burden.
“I can handle it.” Instead of tying it to the top of the car, Adam squished the fragile tree into the trunk because, after all, very little could make it look worse. He tossed the stand inside, tied the trunk shut with the tree hanging a bit out the side, and walked around the car.
Once home, as they moved the thing inside the parsonage, it shed needles down the hall and into the corner of the television room.
“Janey,” Adam shouted up the staircase. “Want to help us trim the tree?”
He could hear her hop down the stairs and skip into the room. The fact that she now hopped and skipped and sang delighted him.
Then she stopped short and looked at the tree, her eyes moving slowly from the top, down to the trunk. It didn’t take long.
“What’s that?”
“It’s our Christmas tree,” Hector said with obviously artificial enthusiasm.
“I like the one in the hall better,” she said.
“Wait until we get this set up and decorated and have all the presents underneath,” Adam said. “You won’t recognize it.”
First problem: The stand was too big. Hector held the tree and Adam twisted the screws but when Hector let go, the tree tipped out of the stand and fell onto the floor, leaving half of its remaining needles there in a pile.
“I’ll clean it up.” Janey ran into the kitchen, came back with a broom and dustpan, and started sweeping at the front door.
“Duct tape,” Adam said. “Get some from the tool chest.”
When Hector came back with the silver roll, they put the tree back up and Adam attached it to the stand. It took nearly four feet of tape, but, at last, the stand grasped the trunk firmly.
“It’s crooked,” Janey said from her observation post on the sofa.
Unfortunately, when Hector let go of the tree, it fell over again, taking the tightly attached stand with it.
“It’s never going to balance, Pops.” Hector lifted the tree. “Center of gravity’s on the front and right.”
Adam walked from one side of the tree to the other as Hector held it. “I’ll be right back.” He ran to the kitchen, grabbed the tool chest, pulled a roll of string out, and came back. “We’ll have to attach the tree to the wall to keep it from falling.”
“What?” Hector shook his head.
“Hold the tree. I’ll fix it.” With that, Adam twisted several eyebolt screws into the frames of the window behind the tree, then cut the string in four-foot lengths, threaded each piece through the eye in the screw head, and tied it to the tree, attempting to center it.
Hard to center a tree with two thirty-degree curves.
“Hector, let go now.” Adam stood back. The tree didn’t fall over, but the string showed white against the dark wood of the window frame.
“That should do it,” he said.
“I like the one in the hall better,” Janey said.
Although he had to agree, Adam said, “Let’s get the ornaments on and that Christmas tree skirt around the bottom. That should hide the duct tape. You won’t recognize it when we’re finished.”
They got busy decorating, but, sadly, when they finished they could still recognize the tree. Only ten ornaments found a secure home on the fragile, twisted, and nearly naked branches. No amount of tinsel or shiny balls could hide the fact that this was the same skinny tree they carried in, tied up, and taped in place.
“It’s really pretty,” Janey said, probably in an effort to make the two men feel better.
Adam and Hector took a few steps back and studied it before all three started to laugh.
“Pops, we can never let anyone else see this tree.”
Maybe they could find a big bag to cover it, but Adam didn’t think one would fit—not with all those strings holding the thing up.
“It’s going to be bald by Christmas.” Hector choked the words out and they all started to laugh again.
Chewy wandered in to investigate all the noise. He glanced at Janey, then at Hector and Adam, then discovered the tree. He moved into attack position. His usual attack position consisted of lying on the floor with his tummy up for any thief to scratch.
But not this time. When he caught sight of the thing in the corner, he turned into a ferocious guard dog, primed to protect his home and loved ones. The hair on his back bristled, he leaned forward ready for action, his big bottom up in the air, then began to bark at the scrawny, nearly bare intruder. Although they finally got him quieted this time, every time he walked through this room, the barking and the challenge began anew.
* * *
Running late as usual, Gussie pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store about four fifteen. She’d promised Kathy Grant at the Ministerial Alliance of Austin that she’d help for their holiday food drive. She parked, leaped from the car, and ran inside to the manager’s office.
“Here are your flyers,” he said. “There are boxes at each exit for shoppers to place their donations. You’re here to remind them to do that.”
Gussie took the stack of paper and found a place to stand next to the shopping carts. Not many people here yet, sort of a lull. The few shoppers who came through accepted the papers and glanced at them as they moved farther into the store.
At nearly five, the crowd hit. Hordes of women dashed through the door and inside. They converged on the line of buggies, each grabbed one, and advanced into the grocery area as if a race had started and the first to pick up dinner won.
Every time Gussie held out an information sheet, the woman either glared at her or ignored her. Not one took the piece of paper. Gussie could nearly feel a breeze from their quick rejection as they rushed past.
Perhaps she should be a little more assertive. Gussie stood in the middle of the aisle the women scooted through and blocked them from the carts.
A particularly large and determined group entered the store and nearly stampeded over her. She tried to stand her ground, but ultimately had to jump aside before she was knocked off balance as they jerked the carts free and whipped them around.
Standing in their way was not the way to go.
Recognizing failure, she tried another tactic. Looking and attempting to sound angelic, she reached out a hand and said, “Help a person in need have a happy holiday.”
The shopper didn’t look, didn’t listen, didn’t even seem to realize she existed.
After this happened several more times, the checker closest to her said, “That’s how they are on Friday afternoons. After work, these women have to pick up dinner, get home, put it on the table, then drive or send the kids off to their activities. This is the rudest time of the week. They’re unpleasant to us, too.”
Slight solace.
She glanced at the nearly empty collection box. Maybe she should just grab a cart and fill it herself. But first, she’d try once more.
As a harried woman moved past her, Gussie attempted to hand her a flyer. The woman ignored her and kept pushing her cart.
That was when Gussie lost it. “What’s the matter,” she shouted. “Don’t you care about hungry kids?”
Didn’t faze the woman. She
probably didn’t hear her words, but Gussie was horrified by her own behavior.
“I can’t believe I said that.” Glancing at her hands, she realized they shook. She was supposed to be a Christian. She had shouted at a perfectly innocent stranger. Worse, she was going to do it again, verbally attack the next person who ran past her. She was suddenly, inexplicably furious. She’d never lost control like this and had no idea how to leash it. She had to get out, away from everyone.
She dropped the flyers in a checkout lane and nearly ran out of the store with the anger still burning through her and no idea what to do with it. Gussie Milton didn’t lose her temper this way, never. She forgave trespasses. She handled life evenly. Yet this fury filled her, so thick and caustic she could almost taste it. She ran to her car. The rage grew stronger and hotter until it finally overwhelmed her. In the middle of the packed parking lot, she dropped her purse and began to pound on the hood of her car.
“Damn you, Lennie Brewer. Damn you!” She kept pounding, bruising her fists but not caring. “Damn you.”
Oh, yes, it hurt but it also felt wonderful, invigorating, even liberating. Emotion flowed out and she felt powerful and in control even though it seemed obvious she was not. “I hate you for what you did to me,” she screamed.
She had no idea how long she yelled and pounded and felt that power. Fortunately, because the motto of the city was “Keep Austin Weird,” no one paid much attention to her. If she’d been bleeding or on fire or unconscious, they would have helped, but no one would interfere with a good hissy fit.
Then, as the anger slowly dissipated, every bit of strength flowed out with it. She became so weak she nearly fell down. Leaning on the side of the car, she grabbed the door handle and, with great effort, pulled it open and slid inside
“I’m fine.” She waved a good Samaritan away. “Thank you.”
As soon as she closed the door and found herself in near privacy from the shoppers who raced around the lot, she burst into deep, gulping sobs that felt as if they were torn from inside her. Pain and agony—as physical as it was mental—filled her. She clutched her stomach and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
The Matchmakers of Butternut Creek Page 31
