Brenda flipped through the catalogs as she headed toward the door and dumped the whole lot of them in the trash can by the parking lot.
She checked her watch. She was going to be late for work, but she didn’t give a damn. Let Louella Pender, the owner of A Stitch in Time, where Brenda worked, behave in her usual passive-aggressive manner. Nothing mattered now that Brenda knew for certain Ella wouldn’t be coming home.
It was just another reason to hate Christmas. But then she’d hated the holiday for a very long time, and not one thing had ever happened to change her mind about the whole jolly season. In fact, it was sort of a sign that she’d gotten a postcard today, on the same day they’d hung that tacky reindeer over Magnolia Harbor’s main street.
* * *
Jim Killough laughed right out loud the moment the work crew swung Rudolph into position. Tonight the reindeer’s red nose, along with the ethereal light coming from his insides, would cast a glow over the town’s central business district.
A few years back, Patsy Bauman had tried to retire the glow-in-the-dark Santa and his reindeer. It was a testament to the good people of Magnolia Harbor that her efforts to “upgrade” the holiday decorations had failed.
Santa’s sleigh and reindeer had been flying over the main street since the 1960s, and there were lots of folks, Jim included, who viewed his arrival as a harbinger of the holidays. A memory of Julianne, laughing as she stood in the middle of the road looking up at Rudolph, came to mind. He’d fallen in love with her that night.
He still loved her, even though she’d been gone for a long time.
No, not completely gone. Standing there, with the South Carolina sun warming up the morning, Julianne’s memory rode shotgun in his mind. He would never stop loving her, or missing her, even though more than twenty years had passed. Memories of her never failed to buoy his spirit, especially around Christmastime.
He turned away and continued his walk up to Bread, Butter, and Beans. The coffeehouse smelled like cinnamon and fresh baked croissants as he stepped up to the counter and accepted a dark roast coffee in a to-go cup from Brooklyn, Julianne’s younger sister. His morning visit to his sister-in-law’s business had become a ritual for him. He’d been stopping in for coffee before heading off to his medical office for years.
As usual, Brooklyn had something to say the moment she handed over the paper cup. “Do you really think you can convince Brenda McMillan to fill in for Simon as the director of the Christmas Chorale this year?”
Boy, the Magnolia Harbor rumor mill had been working overtime. He’d only decided to ask Brenda last night after a long conversation with Donna Cuthbert about Simon Paredes’ health issues. But then again, Donna was the oil that made the gossip machine work in this town, and she had given him less than a ten percent chance of convincing the town Grinch to lend a hand. So he shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone would know his plan by now, even though he hadn’t yet put it into action. He wouldn’t even be surprised if the guys down at the firehouse had started a pool on whether he’d succeed or not.
He took a sip of his coffee and chose his words carefully. “Brenda McMillan isn’t as scroogey as people say. She’s lonely is all. And right now she’s the one person in town with the skills necessary to get the Christmas Chorale in shape.”
“She’ll never do it.” Brooklyn crossed her arms over her chest.
“We don’t know that until we ask.”
“And you, dear man, are a dewy-eyed optimist. That’s what Julie loved most about you.”
He shook his head but didn’t argue the point. In truth, Julianne had been the optimist. And for twenty-one years, he’d been keeping her alive by remembering the way she used to say, “Things will work out. You wait and see. I have faith.”
There was only one time she hadn’t used that saying—when she’d been diagnosed with glioblastoma, a deadly form of brain cancer. That time she’d known better than to make a promise she couldn’t keep.
“Well, you can’t fail if you don’t try,” he said.
Brooklyn shook her head. “I’m not sure I even understand that. But good luck. I don’t know what the clinic will do if we have to cancel the Christmas Gala.”
“We’ll do without, I guess. And things will work out. I’m sure. I have faith.”
Brooklyn gave him that sad, happy look. She clearly remembered too.
“Have a wonderful day,” Jim said and turned away, pushing through the coffee shop door out onto the sidewalk, where the work crew had started to hang red bows on the streetlamps.
He continued down Harbor Drive, in the opposite direction of his medical office, under Rudolph’s watchful eye. He reached A Stitch in Time, the local yarn and fabric store, and paused a moment on the sidewalk. It was a bit manipulative to corner Brenda at work. But it was probably the only chance he had of shaming her into helping out.
If he had merely driven out to her house and asked for help, she might have given him a swift kick in the butt and told him never to darken her door again.
This sneak attack might not be very nice, but sometimes the ends justified the means. And the benefit gala, featuring the town chorale’s performance of Christmas music, along with a silent auction and a visit from Santa, was the main fund-raising event for the Jonquil Island Free Clinic, which provided medical care for indigent people and those without insurance.
A lot of kids depended on that clinic. And the clinic depended on its Christmas concert. And the Magnolia Harbor Choral Society depended on its musical director, who was currently in the hospital and unlikely to recover in the next few weeks.
So Jim drew in a big breath, squared his shoulders, winged a little prayer to the man upstairs, and headed inside.
A couple of gray-haired ladies occupied the comfy chairs in the shop’s front sitting area, their needles clicking away. Joyce Kalnin and Paulette Coleman had their heads together and their mouths running a mile a minute, but they both stopped talking, seemingly in midsentence, as he walked across the floor to the checkout counter.
“What on earth are you doing here, Doc?” Paulette asked to his back.
He turned. “Would it surprise you if I said I was taking up knitting?”
“Yes, it would.” She frowned. “Oh my goodness, you’re here to talk Brenda into standing in for Simon.”
“What?” Joyce asked in an astonished voice. “What’s wrong with Simon?”
God bless, there was hope. Some people didn’t actually listen to Donna Cuthbert and the town gossips.
“Oh my word, you didn’t hear?” Paulette said in a breathless voice. “Well, I guess not, since you’re a member of Heavenly Rest Church. But it’s all over Grace Methodist. I’m afraid our choir director had a stroke day before yesterday. He’s in the hospital on the mainland. Sally said it was mild, and he’ll recover with a lot of therapy and whatnot. But he’s in no shape to direct the Christmas Chorale this year.”
“Oh, the poor dear. Does Sally need anything?”
“The altar guild has it covered, honey.” Paulette turned back toward Jim. “Good luck trying to convince that scrooge to do anything for anyone. She’s—” Paulette stopped abruptly as Brenda emerged from the stockroom at the back of the store, carrying a plastic bag filled with a dozen skeins of red yarn.
Paulette turned back to her knitting and pretended that she hadn’t just been unkind. But the words had been spoken firmly and a bit on the loud side since Paulette was slightly deaf and didn’t wear her hearing aids. Jim was pretty sure Brenda had heard them.
Good! This was exactly what he needed.
* * *
Brenda clutched the bag of Cascade 220 Superwash Merino wool to her chest as heat flushed across her skin. She wasn’t a Scrooge. She wasn’t even a Grinch. She just didn’t like Christmas. There was a big difference between not feeling celebratory and the fictional characters who were mean and cruel or tried to steal everyone’s joy.
She just wanted to be left alone at this time of year. She wanted to
hide out before some new bad thing happened to her. What the hell was wrong with that?
And why was Doc Killough here listening to Paulette’s loudly spoken opinions? Men didn’t drop by A Stitch in Time very often, and certainly not the town’s busiest family doctor and goodwill ambassador. How on earth could one man be that happy all the time?
In fact, the doctor was grinning at her right this minute, his blue eyes twinkling. And damn if he didn’t have dimples that were kind of merry and unruly salt-and-pepper hair that curled over his collar.
She wanted to step around him and take the bag of yarn to the proper cubby on the other side of the room. There’d been a run on red and white yarn recently, since everyone seemed to be knitting Faire Isle mittens for their grandkids this Christmas.
But the man blocked her path.
“Hello, Doc,” she said in her best customer service voice. “Is there something I can help you find?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m in desperate need of a musical director for the Christmas Chorale.”
The tiny hairs stiffened on the back of Brenda’s neck, and she fumbled the bag of yarn as her fingers spasmed. “Oh,” she said as the yarn hit the floor. She and Jim simultaneously bent over to retrieve the wool, and she bonked her head against his. Well, one thing was clear, the good doctor had a very hard head.
“I’m sorry,” Jim said, handing her the bag of yarn.
She took the yarn with the numb fingers of her left hand while she rubbed her forehead with her right. She took a little step backward because the man was invading her personal space. It wasn’t far enough. If Paulette hadn’t been watching, she might have turned and run like a scared rabbit.
“I can’t,” she said, averting her gaze. She wanted nothing to do with the twinkle in his eyes or his Christmas Chorale.
“Please,” he said.
Her gaze bounced around the store. She wasn’t going to let him talk her into this. Or goad her into it. Or shame her either. She hated Christmas. She hated wintertime. She even hated the damned winter solstice that the public school systems celebrated in lieu of Christmas. No, she didn’t want to direct any kind of musical event tied to this time of year.
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she said, stepping around him and heading toward the cubby where the yarn belonged.
“You can’t, or you won’t?” he asked, following her like a pesky shadow.
“Both,” she said, not bothering to turn around.
“But we need you. Simon Paredes had a stroke and—”
“I know. But surely there’s someone else. I know Heavenly Rest doesn’t have a formal choir but doesn’t the AME church?”
“They do, but Jesse Cardwell, the choir director at Living Water AME Church, had a heart attack a month ago. He doesn’t want the stress. And as his doctor, I agree with him about that.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but the answer is still no.” She shoved the yarn into the cubby with a little more force than was necessary.
“Come on, Brenda. You’re the only person in town with a degree in musical education. Your mother recommended you highly.”
Momma. Of course Momma had recommended her. Momma also wanted her to ditch the dead-end job at A Stitch in Time and apply for a teaching position at Rutledge High. And when Brenda had refused to do that, Momma had gone behind her back to suggest to Rev. Micah St. Pierre that Brenda would make a perfect choir director for Heavenly Rest.
Brenda turned and faced the doctor. “Leave my mother out of it. The fact is, I was a high school orchestra instructor, not a choral director,” she said. It was a weak argument, because in the Muncie school district, where she’d taught for years, she’d done double duty when budgets got tight. She’d even taught elementary school music for a while.
“Your mother told Donna Cuthbert that you’ve directed choirs before. She even said that the folks at Heavenly Rest have been after you to organize a more formal choir there.”
Damn, damn, damn. She gripped the edge of the cubby as the room swam. The gossips of Magnolia Harbor were ganging up on her.
“I’m not going to direct the Christmas Chorale,” she said.
“But what about the people who depend on the—”
She turned on him and his twinkly blue eyes. “What part of ‘no’ do you not understand?”
“I was just saying that it’s for a good cause, and—”
“Look, I hate Christmas music. If you must know, I hate the whole season.”
“Why?”
“Just because. Trust me. I’m no good at Christmas.”
Across the room Paulette said the word “Scrooge” under her breath, but with Paulette that meant she practically shouted it out loud. The woman was deaf as a stone.
Brenda finally met Jim’s impossibly blue eyes. “I’m not Scrooge. I’ll gladly give you a donation for the clinic. I’m not the Grinch either. If you want to celebrate Christmas and sing like the Whos in Whoville, be my guest. I don’t want to steal your merrymaking. Just don’t ask me to participate.”
She turned and ran for her life.
Chapter Two
Told you so,” Paulette said as Brenda hightailed it into the back room. “That woman is a lost cause. Just the other day I heard her complaining about people buying Christmas fabric.”
“That was back in August, Paulette, before the shipment of holiday fabrics came in,” Joyce said. “You remember, don’t you? Millie came in here complaining about the dearth of Christmas fabric and blamed Brenda for it. You know how Millie can be when she’s irked.”
“Still, it shows a woman who is incapable of understanding the joy of the season.”
Jim tried to tune the women out as they continued to gossip about Brenda. He’d certainly started a snowball down the hill, hadn’t he? Now he wished he hadn’t taken this tack. Bullying Brenda would probably not work. He’d been wrong.
Something else was bugging that woman. His sixth sense niggled at him. That uncanny feeling had led him to medical solutions many times in the past, especially when a patient would come to him complaining about not feeling well but was unable to name specific symptoms.
Something was going on inside Brenda’s head. Some painful memory or deep loss stood between her and the joy of the season. He understood this well. There had been times in his life when all he’d wanted was to hide from the holidays. What had turned Brenda so sour on Christmas? He wanted to know. Not merely because he needed her help, but because he suddenly wanted to help her.
He turned and gave Paulette a little wink and said, “I haven’t given up on her yet,” before he headed through the shop’s door. As he walked up Harbor Drive, his son, Dylan, called. Jim fished his cell phone out of his pocket and connected the call.
“Hey,” he said as he continued up the street at a brisk pace.
“So? Did she say yes?” Dylan’s tone was faintly smug.
“Not exactly.”
“Ha. Told you so. We need to rethink. Patsy Bauman suggested that we do a talent show instead. We wouldn’t have to organize much for that.”
“Oh, heaven forbid. If we have a talent show, Harry Bauman will insist on playing the harmonica. I’m sure that’s why Patsy suggested it.”
“We could have tryouts.”
“What? And hurt Harry’s feelings when we say no to him? Now that I think about it, could we even say no to him? I mean, he’s on the town council and he’s a platinum-level donor to the clinic.”
“You have a point there. And Patsy would get huffy if we didn’t let him play the harmonica.”
“Exactly my point.”
Dylan blew a breath that vibrated in Jim’s ear. “You aren’t going to change Brenda McMillan’s mind. Everyone says she’s utterly immovable.”
“Interesting. I wonder why.”
“Come on, Dad, the answer to that is simple. She’s just a grumpy old lady.”
“No. I don’t think so. For starters, I’m sure she’s younger than I am, so she isn’t old. And I’m n
ot sure she’s grumpy. There’s something else going on. A musician doesn’t give up music, even when he decides it’s not going to be his vocation.”
“She isn’t a patient.”
“I know. She’s a neighbor.”
“Stay out of it. And don’t go putting on rose-colored glasses either. Your optimism about people is often misplaced.”
Jim swallowed back his argument. Dylan had not grown up to be an optimistic person. He tended to see the bad side of every situation and often missed the important things that patients didn’t say. He had much to learn about human nature if he was ever to become a really good family doctor.
“Well,” Dylan said a moment later, his tone as exasperated as his words, “if we can’t have a chorale performance, and we don’t want to do a talent show, what do you suggest?”
“I’m going to give Brenda a day to think about it.”
“Dad. I just said—”
Jim arrived at his office door and waved at Lessie, his receptionist. He headed down the hall and popped his head into Dylan’s office as he disconnected the line.
“I’ve heard all your arguments, Dylan,” he said. “But my plan is to let Brenda think about it for a day. And I also need to talk to her mother and figure out why she’s so angry about Christmas.”
“She’s a scrooge, and you’ll soon discover that,” Dylan said.
Dylan was thirty years old now—the same age Julianne had been when she’d passed away. To this day, it took his breath away sometimes when Dylan would look up like he was doing now. He was so much like Julianne, with the same sandy brown hair, the same unruly curl that dipped over his forehead. Oh, what would his mother have to say about him now? Would she be as worried as Jim was about the boy’s glass-is-half-empty view of the world?
“We need to make a decision on this,” Dylan said. “We can’t keep the members of the chorale hanging.”
“We can. For just a couple of days more.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Dad…people are not as nice as you think they are.”
A Little Country Christmas Page 30
