“Not to worry,” I said. “I’ve already arranged for Shuttleworth Bakeries to make and distribute the cookies. They’ll sell them all over the country and donate seventy percent of the proceeds to Saint Benedict’s.”
“S-seventy percent?” Julian said wonderingly. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“I’m a powder puff,” I confessed. “It’s my father-in-law who drives a hard bargain. But wait, there’s more.” I dipped into my shoulder bag again and waved an oversized manila envelope under Julian’s nose.
“Another recipe?” he guessed.
“Nope.” I felt a shivery thrill of anticipation as I announced, “Julian, it is my pleasure to present you with the title to the new Saint Benedict’s.”
“I…1 beg your pardon?” he said, blinking rapidly.
“My friend Derek Harris took a look at the old Saint Benedict’s while you and I were in London and he says it’ll take at least a year to renovate,” I explained. “It’d be ridiculous to have the men sleep in the streets for a whole year, so I bought a new building instead. I’ve cleared it with the bishop, and Derek’s ready to outfit the new place to your specifications.”
“It’s a magnificent gesture, Lori,” Julian said, frowning worriedly, “but are you sure you can afford it?”
I laughed out loud. “I guess I never mentioned that I’m the head of the Westwood Trust. Apart from that, I’ve got about a bazillion dollars of my own lying around, collecting interest. It’s time I put a chunk of it to good use.” I tapped the envelope excitedly. “The new building’s about six blocks from where you are now—four stories, blond brick, with a fenced parking area—”
“I know the place.” Julian put a hand to his forehead. “I prayed that it would somehow come to us one day, but I never imagined…”
I clucked my tongue in disapproval. “Isn’t there something about faith in your job description?”
“Lori,” he said huskily, “I—I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You’ve got it backwards, Julian. This is my way of thanking you.” I took his hand and tucked the envelope into it. “Merry Christmas, Father Bright.”
The call light above Kit’s doorway winked on and off. I tugged Julian into the room and left him standing near the door, staring dazedly at the manila envelope. As I approached the bed I saw the canvas carryall lying open on the bedside table and Lancaster nestled in the crook of Kit’s arm. The blue journal lay beneath Kit’s folded hands.
He was slightly flushed, but composed, and his violet eyes never left my face.
“Will you take the job at Anscombe Manor?” I asked.
Kit nodded slowly. “As soon as I’m strong enough.”
“What job is that?” Julian asked, emerging from his trance, but before Kit or I could answer, he exclaimed, “Good heavens, what’s happened to Lancaster?”
The little brown horse was no longer the patched and faded toy Kit had left behind at Blackthorne Farm. His brown cotton hide was smooth and spotless, his mane and tail were complete and neatly combed, and his black button eyes twinkled in the lamplight.
Julian came to stand beside me. “Did you restore him, Lori?”
Kit’s eyes danced as I struggled to find an answer that was both truthful and accurate, but he gallantly came to my rescue.
“Let’s just say,” he murmured, gazing down at the blue journal, “that Lancaster’s stay at the cottage did him a world of good.”
Julian nodded absently, too caught up in his own euphoria to worry over niggling details. He spied the wrapped packages on the windowsill and declared, “It looks as though a belated Christmas is in order. Shall we?”
“By all means,” said Kit.
We sampled Sally Pyne’s hand-dipped chocolates, stacked Mr. Wetherhead’s magazines on the bedside table, and draped the warm winter clothing from Kitchen’s Emporium across Kit’s bed. Finally, Julian scrounged three drinking glasses from a supply cabinet down the hall and poured a tot of the Peacocks’ homemade brandy into each.
“A toast.” He raised his glass. “To blessings shared.”
“To answered prayers,” Kit chimed in.
I looked from Kit to Julian to the blue journal, lying buried beneath a scattering of bright ribbons, and thought of my father, opening his heart and hand to heal a wounded world. I hoped that he was listening as I raised my glass and said, “To a truly perfect Christmas.”
Angel Cookies
1 cup softened butter
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
2 teaspoons vanilla
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
In a bowl, cream butter and sugar. Add the eggs and the vanilla. Mix until combined well.
In a bowl, sift flour and baking powder together.
Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture and beat until mixture forms a dough. If easy to handle, roll out immediately; if sticky, wrap in plastic and chill for two hours or overnight.
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Divide dough in half. On a lightly floured surface, roll out half the dough into a 1/4-inch-thick round. Cut out angel shapes and arrange 1 inch apart on lightly greased baking sheets. Repeat for remaining dough.
Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until lightly golden around the edges.
Transfer to racks to cool. Frost with Confectioners’ Frosting.
Yield: about 2 dozen cookies.
Confectioners’ Frosting
1/3 cup softened butter
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
2 tablespoons cream
Cream the butter and the salt together, then beat in the sugar. Stir in the cream and beat well, adding more sugar or more cream as needed to get the proper consistency.
FB2 document info
Document ID: c78f4b8e-bb7c-4c50-ada6-bc73e3963bbd
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 11.4.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.26, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Nancy Atherton
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Aunt Dimity's Christmas ad-5 Page 19
