We Need a Little Christmas

by Sierra Donovan

  Compared to that, losing a grandmother should be easier. Given Nammy’s age, it wasn’t a total shock. But it still felt a long way from easy.

  “How are you doing?” Rachel asked. “Are you okay?”

  Liv’s eyes prickled. “Yeah. Probably about the same kind of okay as you. It’s got to be so much worse for Mom.”

  Unshed tears blurred Liv’s vision, and she wondered if maybe that was why Mom tripped. Blurry eyes were to be expected at a time like this. Liv just didn’t want them.

  She blinked hard and sniffed. Rachel reached past her, snatched another tissue, and waved it in front of her. They both gave another shaky laugh.

  “Okay,” Liv said, once she’d stopped the leakage before it could really start. “The memorial. Is there any kind of a photo display?”

  Rachel contemplated her own crumpled wad of tissue. “Mom lent Pastor Tom a couple of framed pictures when he came over. One is that awful one of all of us in front of the Christmas tree, when I had that hideous perm—”

  “And I’m wearing the sweater that made me look like a linebacker?”

  “No, you didn’t,” Rachel said, unconvincingly.

  “Anyway. What if we raid the old pictures and try to put something together? You know, something people can look at in the lobby. We can start while Mom’s lying down. I don’t know how hard it’ll be for her. After we get some photos picked out, we can show her what we’ve got and see if she wants to change anything.”

  “Like that’s going to keep us from crying.”

  “Maybe not. But at least it’ll keep us busy.”

  Chapter 3

  Scott contemplated the board of photos propped up on a table in the front lobby of the church. In the pictures, Liv’s grandmother progressed from a bride on black-and-white film to the woman he’d known these last few years. The display hadn’t been here a couple of hours ago when he arrived to help set up tables and chairs in the fellowship hall. Liv and her family must have brought it. He had a feeling they’d been up most of the night putting it together.

  The last photograph showed Nammy poised behind a birthday cake, candles aflame, trying to wave the camera away. Her eightieth, he guessed. People didn’t usually go in for that many candles every year.

  She hadn’t colored the gray out of her hair, but she wore a red dress, and her eyes sparkled. Two things older people often lost: color and sparkle. Nammy never had.

  Scott cleared his throat and stepped back. In the lobby behind him, people were filing into the church’s main sanctuary for the service. A lot of people; he’d better go in and find a seat. He turned and crossed the gray slate floor of the lobby to accept a single-sheet program—was that the word for those things?—from Millie Bond, another older lady who didn’t look her age. Unlike Nammy, Millie colored her hair a pale blond that was probably her original shade; it looked good on her. Of course, it ought to. Millie ran the hair salon just off Evergreen Lane.

  “Scotty.” How anyone over seventy could so be perky was beyond him, but Millie managed it. “Nice of you to come.”

  “Thanks, Millie.”

  He noticed that she wore a bright green scarf—one that she’d knitted herself, if Scott knew Millie. The splash of green reminded Scott that this was the Christmas season, and that Nammy had let it be known that she didn’t want somber, drab clothes at her memorial. He’d taken her to heart and worn his blue pullover sweater, hoping he wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb, so Millie’s scarf was encouraging.

  He stepped in through the sanctuary’s oak double doors and stood aside so he wouldn’t block traffic while he got his bearings. It felt a little like going to a wedding where you weren’t sure whether to sit on the bride’s side or the groom’s. He didn’t know where he fit here. But then, most of the people at the service didn’t appear to be family. They were faces he saw around town every day. A lot of them were older folks, but by no means all.

  He saw Sherry Poehler from the Pine ’n’ Dine walking down the center aisle by herself, apparently searching for a seat. That might be a good way to go. They’d graduated in the same class, and they knew each other pretty well. Or maybe that would kick up a new rumor. He didn’t need that.

  Sherry sat down with Tiffany and Chloe, two other waitresses from the diner, rendering the point moot. Tiffany had broken up with Scott in March. There weren’t any hard feelings, but it would make for an awkward seating arrangement.

  If his parents hadn’t left last week on a holiday cruise, like a couple of crazy kids, this would be easier.

  Reluctantly, Scott moved forward and made the obvious choice: there was still an empty seat next to his uncle, Winston Frazier. Winston would talk his ear off if he got half the chance, and of course he’d sat near the front, where Scott’s head had more chance of blocking someone’s view. His uncle did, however, have the distinction of being the one person in town who actually called him Scott.

  “Hi, Winston.” Scott noted that his uncle had gone with a stern gray suit.

  “Scott.” Winston turned without surprise as Scott took his seat, and Scott grinned at the old man’s concession to Nammy’s wishes: an electric-green tie with a cartoon image of Frosty the Snowman. “Fashionably late, I see.”

  “I’m not late, I—” Scott turned to see that the crowd filing into the church had slowed to a trickle. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “One-o-two. You’d know that if you ever wore a watch.”

  “They kept breaking.” Or getting lost. Or he’d forget and wear them into the shower. He’d finally settled for keeping time on his cell phone, but that involved getting the thing out of his pocket. If it stayed in his pocket, he was less likely to lose it.

  “The flowers are nice,” Winston said. It was always refreshing to hear his uncle say something positive. “She didn’t want people to buy anything they’d just have to throw away.”

  Scott followed Winston’s eyes to the front of the church. The stage was clustered with potted plants, mostly poinsettias because of the time of year. Scott hadn’t realized poinsettias came in so many colors. Most were the traditional red, and several were the pale yellow-white variety, but he also saw some streaked with pink, blue, or even lavender. Other potted flowers dotted the stage in shades of red, orange, and purple. Very little white. It looked as if Nammy had gotten her message across.

  No casket, of course. That would have been at the top of the list of things Olivia Neuenschwander didn’t want.

  On the center of the communion table at the front of the church, someone had set a Christmas cactus between two framed photos of Nammy: a larger version of the wedding picture and a photo of her with Liv, Rachel, and their mother in front of a Christmas tree.

  The family photograph made Scott’s eyes go where he realized they’d wanted to go all along: the front row of pews.

  Nammy’s little family sat in the front row of the center section of pews. Liv was at the end, with their mom in the middle and Rachel on the other side, flanking their mother like two red-haired sentries. From his seat a few rows back, Scott was close enough to see Liv’s profile as she gazed toward the photos on the table, her features composed and serious. Her rich chestnut hair spilled down the back of her dress, which was a deep plum color. Her mother had worn dark green and Rachel, a pastel blue.

  Scott’s eyes swept over the rest of the church and saw a slightly muted rainbow of shades scattered through the rows of pews. With Pastor Tom’s help, the town of Tall Pine had definitely gotten the message.

  Well done, Scott thought, glancing once again at Nammy in the center of the group photo.

  Liv turned and said something to her mother, whose crutches were propped awkwardly between them. Faye Tomblyn smiled and dabbed her eyes with a wad of tissue.

  Pastor Tom stepped forward, apparently satisfied that enough people had found their seats, and started to speak.

  * * *

  The service didn’t turn out to be as difficult as Liv expected. Pastor Tom had known Namm
y for a couple of decades, after all. He had plenty of stories to tell, and he kept the tone lighthearted and positive.

  It had been harder to deal with the friendly concern from everyone they ran into before the service started. Liv quickly lost count of the number of times someone asked her How are you doing? or Are you okay? She heard it from everyone from Nammy’s friends to Liv’s former classmates. Every time someone asked how she was, it felt like an invitation to crumble.

  She couldn’t crumble. Mom needed her. Rachel needed her.

  So far Mom seemed to be doing as well as Liv or Rachel, but she supposed mothers were conditioned to put up a strong front for their kids. Or maybe the pain medication was acting as a buffer.

  At the pulpit, Pastor Tom sounded as if he was wrapping up, and Liv realized she’d missed the last ten minutes of what he’d said.

  “Ecclesiastes isn’t one of the feel-good books of the Bible, so I’m not sure if Olivia would want me to quote it. But I think a few of the verses apply today. ‘To every thing there is a season . . . a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance.’ Most of you probably don’t feel like dancing right now. However, Olivia wanted every one of you to know, emphatically, that this is not a time to mourn. While she was here, she brought all of us a bit of her joy. And I know it’s her joy that she wanted to leave behind.”

  Liv closed her eyes, forced herself to relax, and wondered why she hadn’t stashed an extra tissue in her coat pocket. Oh, wait, she had. She’d given it to Mom.

  Finally they rose as Pastor Tom invited them to join in a few more of her grandmother’s favorite songs. When the worship leader started on “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” Liv knew she was in trouble. Because she knew exactly why Nammy had picked it.

  The song showed up in Night of the Hunter, a movie their family had watched with Nammy when Liv and Rachel were little girls. It was sung, menacingly, by Robert Mitchum, who played an evil preacher in the movie. Afterward, Liv and Rachel could never hear the hymn the same way again. They’d think of Robert Mitchum lurking in the shadows, and they’d elbow each other and giggle. And Nammy knew it.

  Liv did all right until they got to the chorus. Then she made the mistake of looking at Rachel, whose eyes gleamed with humor, because she got the joke, too.

  Crying at your grandmother’s funeral was understandable. Getting the giggles—no.

  Liv bit vigorously into her lower lip, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  She stood with as much decorum as she could, gave her mom’s arm a squeeze so she wouldn’t be worried, and headed for the nearest exit. To her relief, there was a side door on the right side of the room, not far from their row. She pushed her way through it and got as far as she could down the hall before the laughter escaped.

  She held her hands to her face, hoping to muffle the sound. The door had felt heavy; hopefully that would help, too.

  She stood against the wall, laughing until tears came, aware that those tears could turn into something else if she didn’t watch out. Nammy’s private joke was just the tip of the iceberg. So many emotions were close to the surface, she couldn’t name them all. So she bit her lip again, wiped her eyes, and started pulling in slow, deep breaths.

  At least no one had followed her out to ask her if she was okay.

  She strained to hear the music through the sturdy wooden door she’d escaped through and realized she couldn’t. Hopefully, that meant no one on the other side had heard her, either. But how many songs would come after “Everlasting Arms,” she wasn’t sure; probably just one or two. She hurried to the ladies’ room to patch up her makeup before the service ended.

  On her way out of the ladies’ room, she heard rapid footsteps and voices from the kitchen, just off the fellowship hall.

  “Kelly! It’s the last song!”

  “This platter’s almost full. But we still need at least . . .”

  Liv couldn’t make out the rest, but what she’d heard didn’t bode well.

  She walked through the kitchen’s open side door and found two young women, a large bowl three-quarters full of what looked like chicken salad, several loaves of bread, and one platter laden with sandwiches. Based on the crowd she’d seen in the sanctuary, those wouldn’t be enough to last five minutes in the buffet line.

  “Liv.” With her shorter haircut and a few extra years, it took a moment to recognize Kelly Billone from high school. “Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m fine. How about you guys?”

  The second woman looked a couple of years younger, and Liv remembered Kelly’s little sister. Ramona, that was it.

  Ramona’s words rushed out. “We came to set up the sandwich platters before the service, but there weren’t any sandwiches, and so Kelly ran out to get the stuff for the chicken salad—”

  “Who was supposed to bring the sandwiches?”

  “Jenny Ritter. She was fine when I made the reminder call last week. But we found out this morning that she had to have her appendix out—”

  “And so you two have been back here making sandwiches by yourselves for an hour?”

  “An hour and a half.”

  “Good Lord,” Liv said, then hoped that didn’t count as taking God’s name in vain. Especially in God’s kitchen.

  “Everything else is ready,” Ramona said. “We took care of the table settings, and I got the side dishes set out while Kelly ran to the store.”

  “Okay,” Liv said. “We can do this.”

  No point asking why they hadn’t hollered Mayday an hour and a half ago. Liv’s wheels started turning, because this was what she did best. Organize.

  “You guys need reinforcements,” Liv said. “Keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll see who I can round up. Then maybe we can get an assembly line going. Thanks for your help.”

  “I’m sorry about your grandma,” Ramona said as Liv spun for the door.

  * * *

  When the last song ended, Liv was nowhere in sight.

  Scott had seen her make a quick exit out the side door and wondered if she’d broken down. Now he rose from his seat with the others and watched as the ushers escorted Faye Tomblyn and Rachel down the center aisle toward the exit. Not my business, he reminded himself. He wasn’t family, after all, even if Nammy had almost made him feel like he was.

  Faye’s newly acquired crutches made their progress slow. When the two women and their escorts passed the last row of pews, the other attendees began to work their way to the center and side aisles. Winston was buttonholed by his old pal, David Radner, and Scott took the opportunity to break free. He’d probably end up having lunch with the two old men anyway, but for now, his steps drew him toward the main exit, weaving his way over to Faye, Rachel, and their ushers.

  Just before Rachel and Faye reached the open double doors at the exit, Liv entered the sanctuary like a salmon swimming against the current. Scott saw her catch each of the two women in a brief hug, say a few words to them, and continue upstream into the exiting crowd.

  She didn’t look broken up. She looked like a woman on a mission, and she was heading straight for Pastor Tom, who’d stopped to chat with Millie. Then she veered off to talk to Sherry, of all people, while Tiffany and Chloe stood by. As Liv spoke and gestured, the word that came to Scott’s mind was purposeful. After a brief conversation, Sherry nodded and moved quickly for the exit, both of her friends in tow.

  Scott caught up to Liv just as she caught up to Pastor Tom.

  “Pastor Tom—” Liv broke off and started over. “Thank you. That was a wonderful service. I know my grandmother would have loved it.”

  The pastor nodded pleasantly, as if waiting for the rest.

  Liv paused to take a breath. “We hit a snag in the kitchen. The sandwiches aren’t ready yet.”

  We? Liv was running the kitchen now?

  “Can you make an announcement that lunch is on the way? I rounded up a few extra volunteers, and I’ll get some appetizers on the tables while people are wa
iting.” Liv meshed her fingers together, the fidgety gesture the only indication that she was nervous. Her nails gleamed deep burgundy; when in the world had she found time to paint them? “We can start the open mic and . . . could I ask you to speak a little more? To fill some time?”

  Pastor Tom blinked, then shrugged amiably. “I’ll give it my best shot. But fair warning: I used up my best material in the message just now.”

  Scott knew Pastor Tom was rarely at a loss for words, but asking him—or any preacher—to ad lib was generally not a good idea. It could get a little . . . well, talky.

  Scott stepped forward. “I can help you fill.”

  They both turned, startled, to look up at Scott. With his height, it wasn’t often he went unnoticed for this long.

  “You?” Liv said.

  “Well, if you want, I could see if Conan O’Brien is available.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Trust me. I have a big mouth.”

  He saw confusion in her serious hazel eyes and felt a tug at his heart. She might be all business on the outside, but Scott suspected the outside was a pretty thin crust at this point.

  As she hesitated, he played his trump card. “Or I could have you go up and fill.”

  “Good—grief, no.” Liv shot an uneasy look at the pastor. It was pretty obvious what she’d been about to say.

  Good save, Scott thought, and winked at her. Liv reddened and bit her lip.

  If Pastor Tom noticed Liv’s near slip, he didn’t react. He turned his attention to Scott instead. “Thanks. You’re hired. I’ll make the announcement and turn it over to you to start the open mic. People are usually a little hesitant about coming up first anyway—”

  Both of them turned toward Liv, but she was already winging her way to the kitchen, making surprisingly good time on an improbable pair of deep purple high-heeled shoes.