by Ann B. Ross
I knew that the secret was no longer hidden the morning a couple of days before Christmas when I answered the phone and heard Helen Stroud’s voice.
“Julia,” she said, “I’m calling to wish you a Merry Christmas and also to thank you for whatever you did to close down that group home. It just made me ill to think of all the time and effort I’ve spent on Thurlow’s house when, for all I knew, a 7-Eleven convenience store would be springing up across the street.”
“Why, thank you, Helen,” I said, wondering why she’d been so willing to raise funds for the house that she was now so glad to be rid of. I left that alone, though, for I recognized an effort to suspend hostilities when I saw one. “Like you,” I went on, “I’m pleased to see the last of it in our vicinity, but I really didn’t have much to do with it.”
“That’s not what I hear, but be that as it may. I also wanted to ask if you’d be interested in a beautification project of our west-side neighborhood. I’d like to get all the residents involved in improving their yards and gardens.”
“Of course I’d be interested. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I have access to a wholesale nursery, and I was thinking that if everyone in the neighborhood would agree to plant several azaleas in their yards, we would be the most beautiful area in town. I know that most of us already have azaleas, but I’m thinking of creating an explosion of color for blocks around—think how beautiful Charleston is in the spring.”
“That sounds wonderful, Helen. You can count me in.”
“Oh, good,” she said, then with a deep breath went on. “I also wanted to ask if you would be the greeter at the front door when Thurlow’s house is on the spring house tour.”
I noticed that she didn’t mention who would benefit from the spring house tour. But as the Homes for Teens was no longer a sore spot for either of us, we could safely join forces to raise funds for it.
Greeting at the front door was an honored position on a house tour—sort of on the same level as being asked to pour at a tea. So I took the invitation as an indication that Helen no longer held that ill-advised intervention against me, and I accepted with gratitude.
* * *
—
I also had to adjust my thinking about Helen’s relationship with Thurlow, for she had come up with a Christmas idea that showed her heart was in the right place. After consulting with Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens, both of whom eagerly assisted her, she dropped in at their house for a few minutes every day or so in the weeks before Christmas. While there, she took pictures of Ronnie eating, Ronnie sleeping, Ronnie on guard, Ronnie playing with the little girls, Ronnie running around the yard, Ronnie doing everything except adoring Mr. Pickens—a sensitive decision that revealed Helen’s concern for Thurlow’s feelings.
Then she put those pictures in a minature computer-like device—a digital frame, Lloyd called it—that ran them like a movie for Thurlow’s viewing pleasure.
* * *
—
Helen’s thoughtful care of the worst patient in the world, along with the phone call to me indicating that I was back in her good graces, lifted my spirits immeasurably. I had not realized how deeply her animus toward me had darkened my life until it was removed. In my euphoria over a renewed friendship, I could almost, but not quite, forgive the church its headlong rush to be all things to all people.
But there was still LuAnne, and she weighed heavily on my mind, especially now that Helen had graciously forgiven me for the same kind of humiliation that I was holding against LuAnne.
I sat at the folding table in the guest room wrapping the last small gifts late on the day before Christmas Eve. I had vacillated about sending a present to LuAnne this year. She knew how deeply offensive she had been by luring me to that so-called prayer meeting, knowing what was going to happen. I had thought at the time that I could never forgive her, but Helen had forgiven me for the same offense—could I not now do the same?
Yes, I decided, I could, but unfortunately I had ordered LuAnne’s gift while I was still furious with her. Even Neiman Marcus couldn’t manage a mailed exchange this close to Christmas. So I sat and studied my usual—though slightly different—gift to her. Every year I gave her a boxed set of bath powder with a small bottle of Joy by Jean Patou parfum. This year, however, as I couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened between us, I had ordered the box of bath powder, but had changed the parfum to eau de toilette. I knew she would recognize the downgrade.
Well, I thought, sighing, it was either that or nothing. So I wrapped them up and promised myself to make it up to her on her birthday. If, that is, she didn’t run roughshod over my feelings again.
* * *
—
We were late getting to bed on Christmas Eve, but it had been a lovely day of short visits to various friends to drop off gifts, ending with an intimate eggnog party at Mildred’s. We would be going to Hazel Marie’s early on Christmas morning for breakfast and to see what Santa had brought the children. They would then come to our house for a midafternoon dinner, which Lillian had been preparing for days. She and Latisha would be with us not only through dinner but afterward, too, when we would have another great unwrapping of the gifts that waited under our tree.
“Whew,” Sam said as he turned off the lamp and sank back onto the pillow. “It’s been a long day—a nice one, but long. And getting up early in the morning means facing another long one. I’m getting too old for all this socializing.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Sam. With that young heart of yours, you’ll never be too old. Besides,” I went on, already looking forward to the morrow, “we’ll have time for a nap between breakfast and dinner—although I dislike making plans for a nap before even starting the day. It’s a sign of age, and I don’t like it.”
“Well, me, either, but I do like the naps.” We laughed a little at that and snuggled down, getting ready for sleep.
After a few minutes, Sam said, “Julia?”
“Hmm?”
“When you were little, did you ever lie in bed imagining Santa Claus landing his sleigh on the roof?”
“Not only imagined it, I could hear tiny little hooves tapping on the housetop.”
“Well, how would you like it if Santa came early this year?”
“That would be nice, I guess, but why would he?”
He laughed and reached for me. “Come over here and I’ll show you.”
About the Author
Author Photograph: Saran Sneeden
Ann B. Ross is the bestselling author of nineteen novels featuring the popular southern heroine Miss Julia, as well as Etta Mae’s Worst Bad-Luck Day, a novel about one of Abbotsville’s other most outspoken residents: Etta Mae Wiggins. Ross holds a doctorate in English from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and has taught literature at the University of North Carolina at Asheville. She lives in Hendersonville, North Carolina.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
