been my pleasure, Gracie. And I’ll see you on Wednesday evening.”
With our goodbyes said, Simon slipped on his overcoat, set his fedora at a rakish angle atop his head, and was out the door.
“Sister,” I said with an accusatory inflection, my back to Millicent, my shoulders arched like a predatory cat’s before I turned around.
She conceded with ridiculously raised eyebrows. Her tongue clucked. “That’s why the good Lord gave us sisters.”
Chapter 7
A strangely wrapped gift sat suspiciously tucked beneath the bare Christmas tree at the Carvers’ home on the night before Christmas 1930. Jim and Simon had wrangled the fir inside and stood it on the cross-member wood base that formed an X nailed to the trunk. They both backed away from the masterpiece and proudly huffed at their accomplishment.
Christmases past conjured up memories of the happy occasions of Mama with her beautiful dark hair twisted in a tight knot at the nape of neck, her contagious smile that lingered still as a reminder of her kind spirit. The love she’d had for me and Emma, Henry, and Millicent had shown in the way she prayed with us at nighttime and tucked us in with a kiss, read poetry to us, and made sure we appreciated literature and respected people of every description.
The vision of sacks of candy in knitted socks that hung from the mantle in the drawing room at Hillbound as Santa’s surprise for her “wonderful babies” and the kiss she had for Father as she encircled his waist with her arms caused a lump in my throat.
Then came the flood of memories of joyous laughter and the abundance of simple things in the summertime—food that grew in the garden and glorious flowers that flourished in beauty beside the picket fence before gracing our home because Mama insisted, and the natural goodness that fell from the sky to water the crops and nurture life as I knew it.
Plans to decorate the tree had been at Millicent’s command, while the kitchen duties were mine. It had been a test, and I knew it. Either from God or from her. In any case, the dinner was a disaster. Yet Simon managed to find a lovely way to compliment the lumpy mashed potatoes, and Jim suggested the fruit salad was the freshest anywhere in Elkton. Louise discovered the biscuits were in fun shapes, nice and hard so she could engage them in play and other creative antics. Berry jam helped the cause.
There was hardly a way to ruin the ham, but I found it. Dry as it was, “Simply delicious” seemed to be the less-than-truthful reassurance handed down. I wasn’t buying it, but neither was I going to leave the table in tears. Merely a test, I reminded myself. We still had dessert to go, so hope abounded.
As for the tree, garlands were strung and homemade ornaments hung, and when it came time for the star, there was none other than Simon Hagan qualified to place it on top of the tree. No need for a stool or a tiptoe. At six foot three, he could manage. And with a magnificent smile, he did.
Little Louise was ecstatic. “It’s so pretty. Will I leave cookies for Santa Claus? And milk?”
And our answers were exuberant, perfect for the child in every person in the room.
“What’s for dessert?” Jim said when all the hoopla had settled and the fire was dying down. “Want another log on, Millicent?”
“Oh, I think so. We’ll have cake and ice cream and sing a Christmas carol or two and call it a night. Miss Louise, I think you should run on to bed since Santa will be watching for little girls who are sound asleep. And tomorrow’s a big, big day. So fun, too, at Aunt Emma’s. Let’s go say prayers and tuck you in. You’ve had candy canes—a wonderful dessert—so come along, sweetheart. Tell everyone nighty-night.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Simon. Will you be here in the morning?”
“No, honey. I’ll be with my family, but I’ll be wishing that Santa Claus arrived down the chimney and was very good to you. Did you remember the cookies and milk?”
“Mother! No!” Louise gasped and was off to the kitchen in a flash.
Simon had saved the day, and my dessert cake was not the worst of the dinner. We finished it with the help of hot coffee and afterwards a quiet verse of “Silent Night.” My verse was extra quiet.
“I have a small something for y’all to share,” Simon said and walked to the Christmas tree. The gift was wrapped in butcher paper like the kind used at Carver’s Grocery and Hardware for raw meat. “It’s just a token of my appreciation, but it’s sincere. Here, Gracie, you open it.”
He handed the lumpy package to me and took a step back while I opened the biggest assortment of chocolate I’d seen—short what the candy case held at Jim’s store.
“My goodness! I do love chocolate. Look, y’all.”
“She does love chocolate, Simon. We do too.”
I stood and passed the package for Jim and Millicent to see. “Thank you so much, Simon. I’m afraid I don’t have a gift—”
“Tell you what. I was not at all expecting a gift. Being with your family is gift enough. Come, take a short walk with me. It’s a beautiful night. Cold, but I think we can brace for it. Just really quick.”
Millicent made a beeline for the hall tree and returned with our outerwear. We bundled up and stepped outside into a starry night. Simon was a head taller than I, and looking up at him I almost lost my balance.
“Watch out there!” He caught my arm and held it. “See, I’ve saved your life. How about returning the favor by going out with me on Saturday night? I could teach you the Charleston. Or maybe you already know it?”
“A little, but I’m not a great dancer. You’re the actor. I imagine you’re a great dancer. And I’ve already heard you sing . . . ‘Silent Night.’ You have a nice voice.”
“Guess I can cut a pretty mean rug, as they say, but let me, and I’ll teach you. We could be an attraction come New Year’s Eve.” He looked over at me, checking, I supposed, to see if I caught that he’d asked me to go out on two upcoming evenings. “Would you consider it . . . them . . . those.” He laughed, apologetically. “Look, Gracie, the thing is I’d be honored to take you out if you’ll go. And this may sound terribly forward of me, but it would be nice if we could squeeze in church on Sunday. This Sunday. Can you tell I’m trying to make the most of the time you have here? It’s so short.” He was breathless, either from the cold or the lengthy invitation.
“That’s very nice of you, Simon. And thank you, too, for the wonderful chocolates.” I was ever so comfortable with the name Simon, and I felt quite stunning myself, clinging to his arm under a spectacular sky.
“Simon . . .” I could feel his arm stiffen as if he were about to hear unwanted news.
“You need to understand that I have very high aspirations. Becoming a missionary is not a calling I’m taking lightly.”
“Calling? As in a voice from the blue—”
“You’re not taking me seriously. Perhaps you have plans, too, once this economic depression ends. Go back to school? It’s difficult nowadays to get an education, but you
