by Carolyn Hart
Susan smiled and took the plate. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without the best pralines in Adelaide.”
They settled near the electric fire, she in her chair. He sat opposite her in a Morris chair.
Susan peeled back the covering, offered him a piece of candy.
He grinned. “Cindy would rap my hand with a ruler, but hey, I think it’s okay if I take just one.” He patted a slightly bulging waistline. “You can’t be married to the best holiday cook in town and not put on a few pounds. Tomorrow she’s making pfeffernuesse cookies.”
Susan chose one of the smaller pralines. She took a bite, nodded in appreciation. “The pecans are wonderful. Thank you and please thank Cindy. And”—her face was suddenly serious—“thank you for taking time to come to the house. I wanted to talk to you in person. As I told you when I called, everything is upside down here, but for a wonderful reason.”
Wade licked one finger, his face wrinkling in concern. “It is certainly amazing news.” He paused, appeared to pick his words with care. “However, don’t be too hopeful, Susan. Let me check everything out.”
She wasn’t disturbed. “That is precisely what I want you to do. I need verification, but I have no doubt”—she held up the manila envelope—“that these papers are authentic. And these”—she touched the medals ranged on the table next to her chair—“were Mitch’s. But, of course, we must prove that I am Keith’s grandmother and can properly take custody of him.” Her face changed from one of sharp intelligence to somber sadness. “Poor little Keith. He must scarcely remember Mitch, if at all. And then to have his mother die from pneumonia. It is very important that I gain custody of him as quickly as possible. We’ll need to see about school and his vaccinations, all that kind of thing.”
The lawyer’s big face was anxious. “I know you are excited, Susan. Maybe everything is exactly as it appears. However, it still seems odd that the person who brought him left him alone on the porch. That worries me.”
“We’ll find out the reason.” Her smile was confident. “That is, you, dear Wade, will find out the truth. I know I can count on you. And now, if you will please indulge me, I want to ask a great favor. I know the holidays are almost here and you and Cindy will be off to ski, but I want this settled as quickly as possible. Move quickly. Spend whatever is necessary. It is the age of the Internet. Please try to confirm Mitch’s marriage and Keith’s birth no later than tomorrow.”
For an instant, he looked stunned, then, with a crooked smile, he nodded. “For you, Susan, I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”
I breathed deeply of cold air scented by burning leaves and exhaust fumes. The December sky was as clear and distinct and blue as a Delft plate. Cars circled the jampacked Wal-Mart lot seeking a newly vacated spot. Garlands of evergreens decorated light poles. Scotch pine and firs drew shoppers to a side lot. Outside the main doors, a Salvation Army lady rang her bell.
I kept sight of Peg’s car as she turned into an empty space. I ached to be part of this Christmas scene, the bustle and the crowd, the jostle and the rush. What harm would it do for me to appear? No one knew me. I ducked behind a huge blocky van and swirled into being. I tried not to take too much pleasure in a sea green turtleneck and a boldly patterned plaid wool skirt with a matching block of green. Beauty is always admired in Heaven. Are you listening, Wiggins?
Knee-high saddle-toned suede boots were perfect for crunching through an icy crust left in the parking lot from an earlier storm. Wind gusted from the north. A suede jacket was just right. I reached up, caught the ends of a cashmere scarf, and tied them under my chin. I was invigorated.
I sensed a walrus mustache quivering in distress. If Wiggins appeared, I’d simply urge him to listen to the cheer of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” that echoed through a loudspeaker. Wasn’t I purely and simply in the moment?
Inside, I ducked around family groups, children tugging toward the toy department and impatient women pushing carts piled high with clothes, housewares, electronics, toys, picture frames, and boxes containing furniture to be assembled.
Peg wheeled first to the children’s department. It took a moment for a harried but cheerful sales associate to help her find an appropriate car seat for Keith. Peg picked a sturdy one and plumped it in the basket.
I was close behind Peg and Keith when they reached the boys’ department. Women shifted piles of jeans on tables. Babies cried. A little girl stamped her foot and demanded a Barbie. I was in shopping heaven.
Peg was quick. Soon the cart contained three corduroy trousers, fire-engine red, chestnut brown, and cream, several pairs of jeans, a half dozen nice thick fresh long-sleeved cotton pullover shirts, and a nifty dark blue snow coat.
Keith glimpsed me as she turned him to see how a shirt looked. His eyes brightened and he smiled.
Peg looked at him in surprise.
He pointed and I heard his low murmur. “There’s Jerrie.”
Before Peg’s gaze swung in my direction, I ducked behind a table piled with sweaters and crouched low, pretending to pick something up from the floor. It was fine for Peg to equably accept Keith’s invisible friend, but she might be more than a little curious if Keith’s redheaded friend appeared.
A little girl under the table gazed at me. Pixie glasses gave her eyes an owl-like stare. “I like caves. Do you?”
I smiled. “I love caves. Be sure to say hello to the dragon who lives in the cave.” I pointed behind her. “The one with big sweet brown eyes and green scales. If you give him a hug, it will bring you good luck.” I slowly rose and peered over the mound of sweaters.
Peg was absorbed in finding the right sizes. Finally, she pushed aside a stack of jeans. “These will be perfect. I think we have everything we need. Now, let’s go to the toy department.” She swung him up to ride in the cart.
When they reached the toy department, Keith’s eyes rounded in amazement.
Peg helped him down. “Let’s pick out three toys.”
Overwhelmed, Keith simply stared.
Peg took him by the hand and they went up and down the toy aisles. When they finished, he clutched a Mr. Potato Head Spider Spud box and a LEGO building set. Peg pushed him in one cart and behind her pulled another carrying a Cozy Coupe II Car.
I was smiling as I disappeared.
What a lovely day.
A plump dark-haired woman bustled about the Pritchard kitchen. Christmas cookies cooled on racks on the countertop. Her placid face was relaxed and cheerful. “I’ve baked six dozen cookies. I’m making popcorn balls and candies. We’re going to have the best neighborhood Christmas party ever. This tray”—and she pointed to a lacquerware tray at the end of the counter—“has treats for the house.” She placed a glass of milk on another tray with cookies and a teapot and cups and added a handful of red napkins. “Miss Susan’s excited as she can be. I hope she’s not overdoing. She’s come to the stairs and called down a half dozen times to see if you’re back. You go right up and show her everything.”
Peg smiled and took the tray. “Thank you, Tess. And thanks for the loan of the car seat. I put yours back in your car. I bought a new one when we shopped.”
Keith was on his knees, his eyes excited as he carefully petted Duchess.
“That car seat’s been warmed by all my grandkids and I’m glad you could use it for Keith.” The cook bent down. “Here, Keith, I made this especially for you.”
He turned to take the small triangular-shaped piece of candy, brown with bits of pecans. “Thank you.”
“Your daddy loved Aunt Bill’s candy and I’ll bet you will too.”
As Peg and Keith walked up the steps, Keith nibbling his candy, I checked upstairs and down. I didn’t find Jake or Gina. With Peg and Keith in Susan’s bedroom and Tess in the kitchen, I was free to discover what I could.
Although I had arrived only the evening before, I feared Wiggins might feel I’d not made enough progress in learning about those connected to Susan Flynn. Although I was fairly clear on their rel
ationship to Susan, not blood kin as Gina had emphasized to Jake, I had yet to find out the full names of everyone present last night and where they lived.
I looked for an address book in the study. I checked near the telephone. I opened desk drawers. No address book. Possibly Susan kept her address book upstairs.
Photograph albums in a bookcase yielded many pictures of now familiar faces, but the inscriptions weren’t helpful. Those who identify family photos expect that first names will suffice. Nor could I utilize a phone book since I didn’t have surnames. In a flash, I realized the solution. The church directory. Susan Flynn was a lifelong member of St. Mildred’s, as had been her family before her. As I knew from my last sojourn in Adelaide, St. Mildred’s had a pictorial church directory, the better, of course, to encourage recognition and fellowship among members. Somewhere in this house there had to be a church directory. I would find plenty of names and pictures, including, I was willing to bet, the full name and address of Susan’s lawyer. As a staunch supporter of the church, Susan would be very likely to choose her lawyer from among its members. His office would contain all the information about the beneficiaries of Susan’s will.
The kitchen was the most likely spot for directories of all sorts. I sped to the kitchen and was immediately rewarded. A church directory hung on a silver cord from a hook below an old-fashioned wall telephone squeezed between a cabinet and the refrigerator. The directory dangled perhaps a foot from the floor, tantalizing as a tiara to a jewel thief.
Tess rolled out pastry crust on a wooden board. She whistled an off-key but energetic version of “Deck the Halls,” tapping time with her right foot. She stood at the end of the counter, very near the recess that held the telephone and the directory.
I didn’t have much room to maneuver. I edged sideways to reach into the narrow space between the cabinet and the refrigerator. If she didn’t look down, I could filch it with no problem. As I slipped the cord over the hook, the directory swung in an arc.
Fur pressed against my leg. The directory was yanked from my hand and dragged to the ground.
I jumped and gasped.
Tess jerked at the unexpected sound. She bumped into me, felt an undeniable presence—after all, I was there even if not seen—and gave a shocked yelp.
I scrambled backward, tripped over Duchess, and crashed to the floor, making an unfortunate thudding sound.
The calico cat howled, her tail straight up.
Tess pressed a floury hand against her chest. “My goodness me my, Duchess, whatever got into you? Look at that, you knocked down the directory. Bad girl. I’d put you out in the cold but my hands are all floury. Now you get yourself back to your cushion.”
Duchess’s tail switched and she gave Tess a malevolent look.
Tess snagged the cord, lifted the directory, and returned it to its hook.
Unblinking golden eyes followed the progress of the directory.
I was not going to be outwitted by a cat.
It was as if Duchess heard my thoughts. That malevolent stare settled on me.
It was time to make peace. I moved close, held out an invisible hand.
Duchess sniffed. She pushed her head against my hand, clearly inviting me to pet her.
I obliged.
Duchess dropped to the floor, rolled over on her back.
Still kneading pastry, Tess looked over her shoulder. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been into some catnip.”
Duchess came to her feet, moved close to me, twined around my ankles.
Tess stopped kneading. “Duchess, are you all right?”
It was time for finesse. I hurried outside, then turned and rapped on the back door.
By the time Tess opened the door, I was inside the kitchen. I yanked the cord attached to the directory from its hook.
“I declare, somebody knocked on the door and ran away.” Tess stepped onto the porch. “Who’d be playing tricks on such a lovely day?”
When unencumbered by material objects, my passage through space was as lively and quick as St. Nick in his miniature sleigh. I would be in one spot, envision my destination, and there I was. However, material objects, such as the parish directory, required portage.
I was in a hurry to get the directory and flee the kitchen. I reeled the directory up.
In a bound, Duchess was across the room. She snagged the cord with a determined paw and yanked.
The directory splatted on the hardwood floor.
Tess whirled on the porch, came shivering into the kitchen. She slammed the door behind her. “My goodness, I’m going to be vexed in a minute. Somebody knocking on the door and running away and you”—she shook her head at Duchess—“trying to cause trouble the minute I turn my back. Enough of this.” Tess grabbed the directory, evaded Duchess’s leap, and stuffed the booklet in her apron pocket.
I took a moment in the front hallway to catch my breath. My objective had once seemed so simple. Find the church directory, discover the identity of Susan Flynn’s lawyer, go to his office, and explore his files. Admittedly, nosing into files in a busy law office might be another challenge, perhaps far more difficult than the episode in the kitchen.
However, I was determined. I intended to have a parish directory. Why not go to the source?
I thought and there I was.
I know I am prejudiced but I always felt a thrill when I saw St. Mildred’s. Winter-bare elms and oaks provided a frame for the small gray stone church. Stained-glass windows sparkled bright as the richest jewels, ruby red, emerald green, royal amethyst, and ocean blue.
On the front steps, after a quick glance around, I swirled into being. Invisibility had advantages, but I was ready for the open, direct, uncomplicated approach. Besides, I was tired of not being. I hadn’t realized how much of a Heavenly day I’d spent in conversation. I’d never been reclusive when on earth and this was no time to start. I wanted to see people, talk, laugh, make friends. That such action was in direct contravention of Precept Four (Become visible only when absolutely essential…) bothered me not at all. In fact, I intended to suggest to Wiggins that, to the contrary, emissaries should appear as often as possible, the better to be part of the community.
I strode forward, invigorated, confident of my course. I didn’t bother with my chinchilla coat. I was going inside. I ducked into the church proper.
A brisk woman in coveralls directed two younger women as they placed potted geraniums in stands by each pew. She smiled a welcome, her prominent blue eyes friendly. “Are you with the Standish-Ellison wedding?”
I shook my head. “I’m a long-ago member of the church back in town for a visit.” I was pleased at my quick and honest response.
We discussed the floral swags and brown candles and the lovely effect when pink rose petals would be strewn in the aisle.
I pushed through the door into the main hallway. Direct and simple, that was the path to take. Soon I would have the parish directory in hand and I could obtain the information I needed. Wiggins would be proud of me.
Christmas artwork from Sunday school classes was taped to the walls of the corridor outside the parish hall: Christmas trees made of pasted strips of art paper, stained-glass windows created by pieces of colored cellophane, manger scenes, Mary cradling Baby Jesus in her arms, stars with gold glitter, red-nosed reindeer with toothy smiles and Santa Clauses with jolly smiles, bells with silver glitter.
I threw out my arms and began to sing “Silver Bells.” I couldn’t resist a sweeping dance with a curtsy here and a bow there. I reached the end of the hallway and the second stanza. Portraits of past directresses of the Altar Guild graced both sides of the corridor here.
It wasn’t pride that made me pause in front of my portrait, assuredly not. I was paying tribute instead to time past. I’d been proud to serve and felt I’d managed my terms with a minimum of acrimony, though there had been fractious moments. Hortense Maple, for example, had been very difficult to deal with over the matter of when to replace can
dles. Emmaline Wooster was slapdash when it came to ironing the linens. The time she’d been absorbed in an I Love Lucy episode and scorched the altar linen donated by the Templeton family didn’t bear thinking about. None of this long-forgotten past was apparent in my portrait. I looked gay and carefree though much older than I now appeared. I nodded in approval at the contrast between my flaming curls and a white organza hat. That frock of pale lilac eyelet lace had been one of my favorites.
Rapid footsteps clattered near.
I whirled around, possibly with a guilty start. It wouldn’t do for anyone to compare me to that long-ago portrait.
The steps paused. A graying pageboy framed a long worried face. The woman glanced at me uncertainly. “Excuse me, did something startle you?”
I gave her a friendly smile. “I’m looking for the church office.”
She looked reassured. “Right this way.” She hurried ahead, held the door wide. “I’m Lucy Norton.” She gestured toward a wicker chair with plump red cushions. “How may I help you?”
I looked around the familiar room, shabby and plainly furnished, but the chintz curtains at the windows were freshly ironed. As she took her place behind the desk, I settled comfortably in the chair.
The desk was neat, envelopes tidily stacked in the in and out baskets and several folders aligned with a church bulletin next to a copy of the afternoon newspaper. A church directory rested near the telephone.
“I used to live in Adelaide and was a parishioner. I’m visiting friends.” I was, after all, Keith’s friend Jerrie. “I want to pick up a copy of the parish directory so I can call old friends.”
“Call old friends,” she repeated. Her eyes fell to a story below the fold on the front page.
“You know how it is when you pack in a rush.” I invited understanding. “I didn’t bring my address book with me.”
