Bluegrass Christmas

by Allie Pleiter

  Gil fiddled with the large ring of keys he always carried. He had a habit of clanking them against his wedding ring. “You’ve showed me ads for four new cars in the last three months. New cars start catching your eye when you get antsy.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “You’ve been reading Emily’s magazines with all those quizzes or something. Wanting one new car does not constitute a midlife crisis. Pre-midlife crisis, rather,” Mac corrected, as his grandfather was now in his late nineties and still remarkably sharp. He leaned back against a hay bale. “What are you getting at?”

  “You like to stir up trouble, Mac. Always did. And a man with a weird bird and a fast sports car could just be scouting the next diversion.” Gil looked serious.

  “Meaning?” Mac knew lots of people who changed cars every two years.

  “Are you running for mayor because it’s what you want, or just because it’ll get under everyone’s skin?”

  Mac was fully aware of his tendency toward shock value. He certainly could have thought he’d heard the Lord tell him to run for mayor when it might just be his appetite for ruffling feathers.

  The truth was, actually, that Mac had been feeling restless. “Okay,” he admitted to Gil, “I’m…how’d you put it? Antsy. But running for mayor isn’t about that. I sat on this a long time. God’s been after me for months, and yeah, I wasn’t so sure it wasn’t just me looking for a new thrill at first.” It was something larger than that, something harder to explain. As Mac stared down the barrel of his thirtieth birthday, it felt as if life was sucking him into the expected routine. As if everyone else had figured out who he was supposed to be except him. He had no desire to “settle down” at the moment, but lots of folks—Ma chief among them—viewed him as simply staving off the inevitable. Predictability and inevitability chafed at Mac like he’d seen one of Gil’s unbroken horses react to a bit in their mouths. If staying “unsettled” got under everyone’s skin, they’d just have to get used to it.

  “Only you,” Gil said, “would think of running for mayor as ‘a thrill.’ Couldn’t you just buy a horse or find a girl or something?”

  Mac groaned.

  “Relax, MacCarthy, I’m just pressing your buttons. I’m not out to trash your freewheeling, nonconformist lifestyle. Not that your mama hasn’t asked me—repeatedly—to yak at you about the virtues of marriage. I just mostly want to know you’re in the right place about this.”

  “That’s just it. I’m not in the right place. I’m supposed to be someplace else.”

  Gil raised an eyebrow. Mac had been in Middleburg his whole life.

  “Not geographically. Ever heard of a metaphor? I’m restless on the inside. Things don’t feel comfortable any more. Or too comfortable, I don’t know. I don’t want to fade into the landscape here. Fall into some predictable rut. I really want this. I think I’m the guy, Gil. You know I’ve got a lot of ideas, and I think it’s high time Middleburg even remembered they had a choice when it comes to a mayor.”

  “Sounds like a campaign slogan to me.”

  Mac was growing irritated by the fact that every time he voiced a well-phrased or complex idea, someone said “sounds like a campaign issue” or “that could be your campaign slogan.” Middleburg’s mayoral race wasn’t large enough to even warrant a slogan. He didn’t want to be the kind of guy whose civic agenda could fit on a bumper sticker.

  “There are lots of ways to stand out in the world that doesn’t cause so much trouble.” Gil folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve hashed this out? Seriously?”

  By “hashing something out,” Gil meant praying over it. Seriously. Gil Sorrent took his job and his faith very seriously. It’s what had made him able to withstand the tremendous pressures and setbacks of the criminal rehabilitation farm he ran. It’s what made him the kind of man who didn’t mince words and never let down his friends. “Yes,” Mac replied, and he had. He’d felt like he’d wrestled forever with this decision to run. His ability to shake things up had led him down a few wrong turns over the years, and this seemed like a chance to finally channel that “talent” into something useful. To make his mark on the world before he slid into the bland predictability of…gasp…middle age. Shaking up was a far better choice than settling down, and this was a perfect opportunity to shake up for the good of Middleburg.

  Gil took his answer at face value. Their friendship had lasted long enough to put sugarcoating or lying out of the question. “And you’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Gil sat back in the hay. “Well, you’ve actually got the personality to pull it off. Mostly. Emily’ll burst out laughing the first time she has to say ‘Your Honor’—I’m glad I don’t have to.” Emily and Gil had been on the city council before they’d married, and Gil had been the one to step down because spouses couldn’t both remain in office.

  “Maybe my first official duty will be to change that silly protocol.” Mac gave his friend a nudge. “It might be worth it just to hear you say “Your Honor’ to me. Who knew I’d have to run for office to get any respect from you?”

  Gil stretched a foot out in front of him. “I haven’t said I’d vote for you yet. Howard’s a bit hard to take sometimes, but he does a halfway decent job.”

  “You complain about Howard all the time. We spent half your time on the council fighting Howard.”

  “That’s just it. When you’re mayor, who will I have to complain to?”

  “Maybe you won’t have to complain at all. Have you considered that possibility?”

  Gil grinned. “Not in the slightest.”

  Mary waved back at yet another person as she made her way up Ballad Road toward her apartment, half spooked and half amazed by how quickly she’d come to feel at home. So many people believed in God here. And not just the Sunday kind of belief. These were day-in, day-out believers. It was the perfect place for her to grow her shaky new faith.

  Almost from the time she had committed her life to Christ, Chicago had begun to vex her. Her earlier jobs—however enviable—felt hollow and unsatisfying. Her own parents had trouble understanding how anyone could leave an orchestral position and freelance ad agency work to lead a Christmas drama, but it was just too hard to be a new Christian in her other world. That verse about “rather be a gatekeeper in the house of my God” kept running through her head. A fresh, humble start felt so much easier.

  She stopped at the window of an adorable shop called West of Paris. A charming blue glass vase caught her eye. A housewarming gift for myself, she thought, picturing it with a few sprigs of holly on her tiny dining room table. She couldn’t pull off a decorated tree this Christmas, even if her mom and dad came as planned, but the vase seemed just enough of a luxury to suit her mood. As she entered, a wave of wonderful scents and music-box Christmas carols washed over her.

  “Merry Christmas,” greeted the woman behind the counter. “I’m Emily Sorrent, we met at church. You’re Mary, right?”

  Mary was still adjusting to strangers calling her by name. “That’s me.”

  “Must be hard to be in such a new place for the holidays. Away from home and family and all. Are you settling in okay?”

  Mary imagined such a new start might be a challenge around Christmas—for other people. For her, it was the best present of all. “Just fine. It’s so peaceful here.”

  Emily smiled. “Peaceful? Are you sure you’re in Middleburg? I haven’t seen our little town so worked up in years. No, Ma’am, ‘peaceful’ is not a word I’d use to describe Middleburg these days.”

  “That’s okay. People used to think the big city orchestra where I worked was glamorous, but I wouldn’t ever describe it that way, either.”

  Emily got a funny look on her face and turned away for a moment under the guise of arranging some holiday ornaments. Mary couldn’t figure out what she’d said wrong. Maybe being new in town wasn’t all fresh starts and clean slates. “I saw that blue vase in the window,” she offered, changing the subject. “I think it would be perf
ect for my dining-room table.”

  “It’s made by an artisan in Berea,” Emily described, brightening. “That color is his trademark. Look, here’s an ornament he made in the same style.” She held out a brilliant blue sphere with a sparkling gold center. “For your tree.”

  “Oh,” Mary interjected, brushing her off. “I don’t think I’ll get a tree up this year.”

  Emily looked surprised. “No Christmas tree? You can’t be serious?”

  Mary took in the store, and realized there must be six fully decorated trees in Emily’s shop alone. The woman took her holiday decorating very seriously. Even for a retailer.

  “There’s just me. I’d never be able to lug a tree up all the stairs to my apartment, and I own about three ornaments, besides. Christmas was my busy season in past years, and I never really had time to do all the trimmings. I’ll just take the vase, thanks.”

  Emily crossed her arms over her chest. “No, you won’t.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know where you came from, but if you’ve never had a real Christmas, Mary Thorpe, it’s high time you got one. And I am going to start you off. You can buy the vase, but it just so happens I’m running a special today. Every vase purchase comes with a free Christmas ornament. And I happen to know a whole bunch of big burly guys who will gladly lug your tree anywhere you want it. MCC’s new drama director will not be too busy to have her own Christmas if I have anything to say about it. And I’m on the church board and the town council, so you can bet I have something to say about it.”

  Mary could only smile. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” She’d just effectively been commanded to have a happy holiday, and she couldn’t be more pleased. She took the ornament and spun it in the sunlight, enjoying the blue and gold beams it cast around the room. “Dinah warned me about you.”

  Emily winked. “Oh, honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Chapter Three

  Curly was singing.

  This was a bit hard to take, especially because the bird insisted on singing the same piece of music he’d learned from Mary Thorpe’s stereo earlier. Even an extra dose of sunflower seeds had failed to quiet the cockatoo. Mac looked up from the drafting table a third time, then let his forehead fall into his hand. “Enough, bird. You were funny once—and not really funny at that—but you’re singing on my last nerve.”

  “Yep!” Curly squawked, and Mac regretted—for the umpteenth time today—teaching the bird to agree with everything he said.

  There was only one thing for it. Maybe the sheer repetition of the aria had stomped out his neurons, but Mac was relatively certain the only way to stop this bird from singing the same thing over and over was to give him something new to sing. And while the Kentucky Fight Song might have been a masculine choice, Mac also knew that would wear even worse than the opera.

  He felt like a complete idiot walking up the stairs to Mary Thorpe’s apartment with Curly doing the bird equivalent of humming—a sort of half whistling noise accompanied by a comical head bob—on his shoulder. He didn’t, however, have Mary’s phone number, and he was sure in another hour he’d be incapable of putting a sentence together. “Behave yourself for both our sakes,” he told Curly as he knocked on the door.

  She opened the door cautiously, trying not to broadcast her alarm at seeing Curly. “Hi there,” she said too kindly, forcing her smile.

  “Do you think,” Mac spoke, finding the words more idiotic by the second, “we could teach Curly something else? I’m living with a broken record here and it’s driving me nuts.” On a whim he looked at the bird and stated, “You need a bigger repertoire, don’t you, boy?”

  “Yep!” Curly squawked, nodding.

  “No offense to your opera,” Mac confessed, “but I don’t think I could take even my favorite song nonstop like he’s been doing.”

  She opened the door a bit more. He could see she’d gotten much farther in her unpacking, and the small apartment was starting to look like a home. “Haven’t you taught…” she inclined her head toward the feathered occupant of Mac’s right shoulder.

  “Curly.”

  “Curly any other songs?”

  Curly bobbed a bit at the mention of his name. “No, actually. I didn’t know he could sing until you moved in. Seems bluegrass doesn’t interest him, but whatever it was…”

  “Mozart,” she reminded, a hint of a smile finally making its way across her features.

  “…catches his fancy. So,” Mac continued, daring to bring Curly off his shoulder to sit on his forearm, “you got any more Mozart for Curly to learn? A CD of something quiet and background-ish to get me through these last two days?”

  Mary opened the door wide, raising one eyebrow. “Mozart didn’t write elevator music.”

  “There’s got to be something. As long as it’s not the 1812 Overture, it’ll be an improvement.”

  “I’m not in the habit of giving singing lessons. Not even to humans.”

  Curly started in on the aria again.

  “I’ll pay you. Another ten minutes of this and you can name your price.”

  Mary looked at the bird. “Hush up, Curly.” She had a teacher’s voice—gentle, but you knew she meant business.

  Wonder of wonders, Curly hushed. Now Curly gets cooperative? Where was all that avian obedience ten minutes ago? “Whoa,” Mac reflected, turning Curly so he could look him in one traitorous black eye. “Teach me that first.”

  Mary shrugged, as if she didn’t have an answer to that, and motioned Mac and Curly into her apartment. Mac was right—she had settled in. The place looked more lived-in than the months Cameron Rollings had laughingly called it his “bachelor pad.” She went to her bookcases, traveling through her CD collection with dainty flicks of her finger. “I’m thinking he needs voices, so none of the chamber music will do—that’s all mostly instrumental. Oh,” she noted and plucked a CD from the shelf, “this might work.”

  She inserted the disc into her player and a soft, high, female voice lilted out of the speakers. Curly cocked his head to one side. Mary looked at Curly and sang along, conducting with her forefinger. Curly began inspecting Mac’s watch.

  “I’m thinking that’s a ‘no.”

  Mary pulled another selection and popped it into her sound system.

  The same tenor voice as Curly’s previous obsession came over the speakers, but this time Pavarotti was singing Italian songs. The kind guys in striped shirts sang as they pushed boats through Venice. Not very hip, but still better than opera. Mary walked up to Curly and began singing along, conducting with her fingers again. This time Curly took notice, swooping his head around to match the movement of her hand. She caught Mac’s eye, and they both nodded. “I suppose technically I have you to thank for my job, since part of my job description is to take everyone’s mind off the mayoral conflict. This lesson will be on the house.” She sang a few more bars as the chorus came around again, and Curly began making noises. “Future lessons from the tonic for Middleburg’s mayoral malaise might cost you.”

  “Very catchy, but I don’t think it’s the civic disaster they’re making it out to be.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Mary said over the swelling music, “neither do I.”

  “There will be no more lessons. The floor guys will be done with my house by Friday. After that, Mr. Music here stays home.” Pavarotti launched into another song, a Dean Martin number Mac recognized from his ma’s record collection. “Who knew my bird has such questionable taste in music?”

  “Curly has very good taste, actually.”

  When she looked at him, he realized he’d just insulted her CD collection. Just hitting them out of the ballpark here, MacCarthy, aren’t we? She didn’t say so, but it glared out of her eyes just the same; better taste than you, evidently.

  “Could I make a copy of that CD?” he said sheepishly.

  “Music is copyrighted material, Mr. MacCarthy. I’m sure you wouldn’t take kindly to my Xeroxing your latest blueprints and
passing them around, would you?”

  “Okay,” Mac conceded slowly, feeling like this conversation had started off badly and was slipping further downhill fast.

  She softened her tone as she handed him the CD. “But you may borrow this one for the moment. If Curly needs further…inspiration…I’m sure you can find your way to a copy. An original copy, bought and paid for.”

  “Absolutely. You got it.” Mac took the slim plastic box from her, and Curly put his head up to it, rubbing against the corner in a disturbingly lovesick gesture. “And, well, I’m sorry you got hired to fix whatever it is people think I broke.”

  “I’m not sorry,” she commented, opening the door for them to go, “but if I get sorry, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know. I think it’s sort of sweet, actually, how much people care about getting along here.”

  “If people cared about getting along here, you could have fooled me,” Mac observed. “There’s a town hall meeting tomorrow night—come see how much getting along we actually do.”

  “Pastor Anderson,” Mary began.

  “Dave,” the older man corrected.

  “Dave,” she said, still not entirely comfortable with the concept of calling a member of the clergy by his first name. Up until this summer, she’d seen people like Dave Anderson as almost a different species. High, lofty souls who didn’t bother with the likes of “sinners” like herself. Not that she thought of herself as a sinner. She was pretty proud of all her accomplishments then. Back before she’d realized “achievement” didn’t always translate into “happiness.”

  It was, in fact, happiness she was speaking of—at least to Dave. “You know, Dave,” she continued carefully, “I’m worried about how much people are expecting out of this Christmas drama.”