by Lexi Eddings
Shirley’s eyes danced with excitement. “Next January, we’re going around the world!”
“We won a world cruise, ‘a’ being the operative word in that sentence,” George said emphatically in his best lawyerly tone. “As in referring to one. Singular.The prize was for one of us to circumnavigate the globe.”
“So, of course, we had to buy a second passage,” Shirley said as she offered her husband a snickerdoodle. “I’d have so hated to leave George at home alone.”
“You could always send me postcards,” he said morosely, but he didn’t turn down the cookie.
“Stop it, silly.” She gave George’s knee a playful swat. “You’re just as excited about this as I am.”
“My bank account is, that’s for sure.”
“Well, anyway,” Shirley went on, “the prize was for an inside cabin. And I don’t know how you’d feel about it, but if you’re trying to see the world, you won’t see much of it from inside a tin can.”
“We could always go find a couple of deck chairs,” George said. Seth had the feeling his uncle had already tried this reasoning and lost with it, but old lawyers never like to give up an argument.
“I’ve heard the wind can be horrible on a top deck.” Shirley patted her elaborately styled hair. “So we upgraded to a balcony cabin. That way we can enjoy the view any time we like and be a bit sheltered while we’re at it. You’ll love it, George, you’ll see.”
“With my luck, the ship will sink.” Seth’s uncle sighed. “And we won’t even be able to use those prepaid funerals.”
Chapter 4
Cremation Deal to Die For. Call Limeberger’s
Mortuary for more info on this pre-need special.
—The Coldwater Gazette classifieds
“But you kids don’t want to hear about the pair of us and our cruise,” Shirley said. “You’re here for the pageant book.”
Angie set her mug of coffee on the table. Her hands were finally warm, but she hadn’t taken so much as a sip. Even without Seth’s warning, she would have steered clear of drinking the pitch-black liquid. It smelled all right, but it looked like tar that hadn’t set yet. “There’s a book?”
“Oh, yes, the pageant book.” Shirley Evans dragged an oversized binder off the coffee table and plopped it into Angie’s lap. Filled with newspaper clippings, fabric swatches, and Polaroid pictures from pageants past, it must have weighed ten pounds. “This is the collected wisdom of twenty years of running the Christmas pageant. You’ll find sections on lighting and costumes and—oh! While I’m thinking about it, you really should replace Mary’s blue cloak. Lucinda used a cheap grade of wool for the last one she made, and it pilled something terrible when it came out of the wash.”
“The Virgin Mary looked like she was covered in tiny blue meatballs,” George said.
“I thought that was because of the borax snow,” Seth put in.
George nodded. “Might have been a combination of the two.”
“In any case,” Shirley said, wrestling the issue back from the men, “the one we have in storage is completely unusable. We need to make sure we present just the right picture for the live nativity. So we can’t have Mary looking like a bag lady.”
“Well, she did give birth in a stable.” Angie figured it wouldn’t hurt to show she knew a little about the Christmas story, even though she hadn’t been in Sunday School for years. “It’s not like she was a fashion queen.”
A quick breath hissed over Shirley’s teeth. “You are talking about the Virgin Mary.”
Angie nodded. “Who was probably a pregnant teenager and—”
“Oh, we don’t say pregnant, dear. Not about the Virgin Mary,” Shirley corrected. “We say ‘with child.’ ”
“Okay, she was ‘with child’ out of wedlock, and had just ridden ninety miles on a donkey, so I doubt she’d have made the cover of Vogue.”
Shirley Evans’s cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. Angie wasn’t sure, but she thought there might be wisps of steam coming from her ears.
Time to change the subject.
“What else is in the notebook besides lighting and costume notes?” she asked.
“Well, there’s the script.”
“A script?”
“Yes, of course,” Shirley said. “You can’t expect the live nativity players to be mimes, after all. Besides the conversation between Mary and Joseph, each person who delivers a gift to the Christ Child has a piece to say, too. Of course, if it’s cold, sometimes the microphone doesn’t work too well. When that happens the actors just have to shout their lines.”
Angie tried to imagine Mary and Joseph shouting at each other and drew a total blank. Any semblance of family in her past had been a hodgepodge of uncertainty. She’d bounced from home to home, sometimes placed with families who were looking at dysfunctional in the rearview mirror. But she expected more from something called “the Holy Family.”
“Don’t worry, dear. The cast knows what to do.” Shirley patted her forearm. “There’s a list of names and phone numbers after the script. Unless they’re dead, they’ll agree to do the pageant again this year.”
Angie wasn’t so sure. After all, Mr. Cooper had already tried to beg off being a wise guy.
Wise man, she corrected herself. After her comments about Mary, if she called the magi “wise guys,” she’d probably get an earful about how she wasn’t taking the pageant seriously.
“But you’re not dead and you’re not doing the pageant,” Angie said. “You said yourself that the cruise doesn’t start till January.”
“Yes, but there are ever so many things to do between now and then. We have to get passports and visas and vaccinations—”
“Vaccinations?” George sputtered.
“Yes, dear. Some of the places we’ll visit require them. And then there’s the packing and planning excursions and—”
“And frankly, I put my foot down and told her flat out she had to either do the pageant or the cruise because she wasn’t doing both,” George said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Shirley wore herself to a frazzle last year what with the wedding and the cancer and then the pageant to boot.”
“And so I chose the cruise this year,” Shirley said. “I hope that’s not selfish of me.”
“Of course not,” Seth said. “You won the cruise fair and square. Nobody turns down a grand prize.”
“Why couldn’t it have just been a leg lamp?” George grumbled under his breath.
“About the cast,” Angie said, hoping to steer the conversation back to the pageant. “I was thinking we might have auditions for the parts this year. You know, just to give someone else a chance. You never know who might want to step forward.”
Shirley sniffed, as if she smelled something worse than the old suitcase. “I suppose you can if you want to. You’re the director. But mark my words. You’ll be borrowing trouble.”
Angie didn’t have to borrow trouble. It had been heaped upon her from the moment Heather staged that totally rigged vote this morning.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” Shirley took the book back from her and began thumbing through it frantically.
“What are you looking for, Aunt Shirley?” Seth asked.
“Great-Granny Higginbottom’s donut recipe.”
“What does a donut recipe have to do with a Christmas pageant?” Angie asked.
“Why, we always have Granny Higginbottom’s donuts at the cast party after the pageant is over. Without fail. It’s tradition.”
Angie’s mental dictionary leaped into high gear.
Tradition: (n.) An excuse for doing something the same way over and over far beyond the point where it makes sense.
“What if the new cast wants something else for their party?” Take-out pizza sprang to mind.
“Oh, they won’t. Everyone loves Granny’s recipe. These donuts are heaven on a paper plate. And they’re a perk for being in the pageant. It’s the only way to get one,” Shirley said. “How else do you think I’ve been able
to keep the same folks working on the pageant year after year?”
Um . . . a combination of guilt and bullying?
“But there’s a problem this year,” Shirley said.
Angie was certain of that.
“Granny’s recipe is a family secret,” Shirley explained. “No one but a Higginbottom can make it.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I don’t want to upset your family,” Angie said with relief. The best thing she made in the kitchen was reservations. “We’ll serve something else for the cast party.”
“I’m a Higginbottom.” Seth leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “On my mother’s side.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Pleased, Shirley clapped her hands together. “And you’re the codirector, aren’t you?”
“Manger builder,” Angie corrected, narrowing her eyes at him. She could have said “set designer,” but it would have been giving him too much credit.
“And codirector,” Seth said with a self-satisfied grin. He made her uncomfortable and he knew it.
Drat the man.
“Heather said we should hash that out later. So now it’s later,” Seth reasoned. “Codirector has a nice ring to it.”
“But—”
“If you want a new manger built, I’d say we just settled it.”
“Well, that’ll do then,” Shirley said happily. “As long as Seth guards the recipe from prying eyes and you promise me faithfully that you won’t pass it on to anyone, you can make the donuts, dear.”
“Me?” Angie couldn’t boil water without burning it. “Why can’t the codirector do it?”
“To be honest, there’s never been a codirector so I’m not sure what Seth is supposed to do, but making the donuts is part of the director’s duties. They’re all listed on page three of the pageant book,” Shirley said.
Angie flipped to page three and found a list as long as her arm.
“Now, I always make the donuts the night before the pageant so they’ll be good and fresh,” Shirley said. “Of course, you might want to make a trial batch ahead of time to be sure you’ve got it right. Some of Granny’s recipes can be tricky.”
Angie had no doubt. Messing with a tradition was like tiptoeing through a minefield. She wasn’t likely to make it through in one piece. In fact, this whole pageant thing was looking a lot trickier than getting high school kids to spout Shakespeare.
Seth leaned forward and helped himself to another snickerdoodle. His chest rose and fell under the black T-shirt in a way that showed how heavily muscled he was. Angie averted her gaze. The last thing she needed to be doing was noticing little things about Seth Parker.
“According to family legend,” Seth said, “Granny used to leave out a few ingredients or fudge on baking times so no one else could make the dish quite like she could.”
“And she had a few tricks you had to catch her at or you’d never learn them,” Shirley said. “For instance, when she moved to town and finally had an electric range to cook on instead of a wood stove, she’d get up and do the donuts at two in the morning so she could be certain she’d be able to heat the oil good and hot.”
Angie’s brows shot up. “And it needs to be two in the morning for that?”
“Not now,” Seth said. “Electrical service wasn’t as reliable back then. If too many people were on the line at the same time . . . pfft!”
Angie’s shoulders slumped. “Any donuts I make are likely to pfft, no matter when I fry them.”
“Don’t worry,” George said. “Seth here will help you.”
“Hey, I only volunteered to build a manger.”
“Sounds to me like you insisted on being codirector a minute ago, son,” George said. “The job is yours with all the risks, responsibilities, and appurtenances thereto. Here, Angela, let me warm up that coffee. I think you’ve let it go cold.”
She didn’t want to offend him. He’d been so nice, but that coffee of his had a sheen to it, like used motor oil. “There’s no need, Mr. Evans—”
“George, please.”
“George,” she repeated. “I really must be going. It’s an in-service day for teachers but there’s still work for me to do.”
Shirley Evans smiled brightly at her. “Well, I expect you’re a bit overwhelmed anyway.”
That was an understatement. Angie would have to climb out from under the pageant book weighing down her lap and claw her way up the drapes to be just overwhelmed. But she thanked the Evanses and handed the big honking book to her “codirector.” She and Seth made their way back through the kitchen and out the garage door.
“If you have any questions, give me a ring,” Shirley called after them.
“Or just stop by,” George suggested. “Coffee’s always on.”
“He’s not kidding,” Seth said under his breath as he opened the truck door for her. “Just don’t drop by after Wednesday. By that time in the week, the coffee’s been reheated so many times, it has a life of its own.”
After he closed the truck door, Angie watched him go around to his side. Seth Parker had an easy gait, a confident stride, that made him eminently watchable. And even though the gentlemanly ritual of opening and closing a lady’s door had gone the way of the dodo, he did it so naturally, not a single feminist bone in her body rebelled.
It was a small thing, but she couldn’t remember the last time a guy had done something like that for her.
Sorry, Gloria Steinem. It still feels nice.
“So where can I drop you?” he asked as the truck’s engine rumbled to life.
“The Bates College library is fine.” She would have rather gone home, but if she wasn’t going to sit at her desk in her classroom, she should at least use the day to research which play she’d tackle with her ninth graders next spring.
“Want me to keep the pageant book for you?” he asked. “It’s a step from the college to your place and that notebook is so big, it’d be awkward for you to carry it that far.”
“Okay. Thanks.” If he’d said it was too heavy, she’d have tried to carry it just to spite him. But the book was unwieldy and filled with so many loose clippings and notecards and swatches, she was sure to lose some of it. “How do you know where I live?”
“Remember where you are, Teach. Everybody in Coldwater is all up in everybody else’s business. Besides, Lacy Evans is my cousin. You think I wouldn’t hear who she sublet her place to?”
“Oh.” Growing up, Angie had drifted from one foster home to another. No one ever seemed to care where she was. Now a whole town was keeping track of her, which was a little disconcerting. Worse, the Neanderthal at the wheel—all right, the well-trained, polite, quite possibly intelligent in a nonverbal way Neanderthal—had also made her whereabouts his business.
She felt a little exposed, as if he’d somehow caught her naked.
“So I’ll bring the book by this evening.” He didn’t ask. He simply told her he’d be coming by.
“All right.” Angie couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t, but her insides fluttered uncertainly, like a sparrow caught in a sudden downdraft.
When they reached the charming little jewel that was the Bates College campus, they came to a stop in front of the two-story brick colonial that had been turned into the library.
“When you bring the book over, don’t be surprised if I can’t come to the door right away,” she said. “You’ll have to give me a minute to put Effie away.”
Seth chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Lacy’s attack cat. Heard you got saddled with that hairy bundle of badness.”
“Effie’s not bad. She’s just misunderstood.”
“Aren’t we all?” A crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Want me to bring pizza and beer?”
A pizza? Beer? He was coming over, and he was bringing dinner. Angie’s “man-on-the-move” defensive system sprang into high gear.
“Is that your ham-handed way of asking me on a date?”
“Heck, no. Get over yourself, Teach. I just don’t w
ant to starve while we figure out this pageant thing.”
“Oh. Okay, then.”
Before he could hop out and open her door, she did it herself, but she didn’t make a clean getaway. He stopped her from climbing out of the truck with a hand on her forearm.
“Just for the record,” Seth said, “if I did ask you out, it wouldn’t be for pizza and beer. See you around seven.”
Angie slid out of the cab and watched him pull away, his back tires spinning a little before gaining traction. Only after he turned the corner and was out of sight did she realize that she’d left her copy of Sense and Sensibility on top of the pageant book.
The margins were cluttered with her notes about the text. She’d underlined favorite passages. Angie groaned. She couldn’t have given this man, this perfect stranger, a clearer glimpse into her heart if she’d ripped it from her chest and presented it to him on a platter.
Chapter 5
“The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love.I require so much!”
—Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
“Well, that explains a lot,” Seth said with a grunt. Once he reached the high school job site, he noticed that Angie had left her paperback along with the pageant notebook in the cab of his truck. He flipped it open, hoping she’d written a phone number inside so he could let her know he had it and would bring it back to her when he dropped by this evening.
No joy. She had written her name in it, but not her number. So he thumbed through the book, hoping she maybe had marked her place with a business card or something. He ran across a highlighted passage instead.
The English teacher really did seem to require so much, and Seth Parker evidently didn’t come up to the mark. He’d never felt so weighed in the balance and found wanting.
She was as prickly a girl as he’d ever met. She had yet to smile at him. Not a real smile anyway. Oh, she’d cast a few sly grins his way, mostly when she seemed to think he was some sort of simpleton.That kind of smile he could live without, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to see if he could earn a real one from her.
