me walk you to your car.” Ted smiled and held out his arm gallantly. “The sidewalk is icy.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you for lunch, Ted. Merry Christmas, Margot.” She marched away.
Ted stood on the sidewalk, watching her go. “Merry Christmas,” he called after her. “I’ll call you when I get back. We can finish talking over options for the boiler.”
Miranda didn’t say anything, just raised her hand over her head without turning around; a wave, but not a friendly one.
Ted looked at me. His shoulders drooped in disappointment.
“Did you buy her a Christmas gift?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I thought it was too soon. This is the first time we’ve gone out.”
I turned around and looked down the street toward the florist shop. “Kinsey’s is open. Go ask Marcia if there’s still time to deliver a Christmas arrangement to Miranda’s house today. Not a poinsettia. Too impersonal. Cut flowers, red carnations would be perfect.”
“Do you really think that will help?” he asked hopefully.
“Well, it sure won’t hurt. Merry Christmas, Ted.”
9
Margot
On Christmas morning, I got to church an hour early to save spots for my friends. It was an easier job than in years past because I only had to save places for Evelyn and Charlie. Virginia was supposed to join us, but Evelyn called early to tell me Virginia had woken up with a cold and decided to stay in bed.
“Will she be well enough to make it for dinner?”
“She said she’d try, but not to count on her. We brought her breakfast and opened presents with her this morning. Her nose is red and she’s sniffling, but she’s fine.” Evelyn chuckled. “Charlie and I gave her a new serger for Christmas. I think this cold is a convenient excuse to stay home and play with her new toy. If she doesn’t make it for dinner, we’ll drop off some leftovers on the way home. Don’t worry.”
It was just as well that I only needed to save two extra places. The church was packed—and beautiful. The candles of the Advent wreath and the long tapers fixed to evergreen swags at the end of every pew filled the air with a warm glow and scent of vanilla and melting wax; a sea of scarlet poinsettias carpeted the steps and the raised altar where Philippa sat in her black robe topped with a shimmering white and gold embroidered clergy stole, looking composed but serious and very ministerial while the organist played a prelude of carols.
It was a beautiful and reverent setting, but I had trouble keeping my mind focused on the sacred. Fifteen minutes before the service, every pew was filled—except mine. I’d lost count of how many times I had to explain to people that yes, the seats next to me were taken. The closer we got to the top of the hour, the more awkward I felt saying this.
Thankfully, just as the organ moved into the full-throated, pull-out-the-stops crescendo that signaled the end of the piece, Evelyn and Charlie came scurrying up the aisle. They squished past the knees of six other people to reach the center of the pew, murmuring apologies as they did. Evelyn sat down with a relieved whoosh of breath.
“Sorry.”
“Where were you?” I whispered.
“Fruitcake emergency. Don’t ask.” She cast a pointed look in Charlie’s direction.
“Is it my fault that you left the platter on the stove top, right next to an open flame?” he hissed. “It could have been worse. Before we got married you didn’t even own a fire extinguisher ….”
I closed my own eyes, but not in prayer. I was trying to keep from laughing. The prelude finished just in time and we rose to sing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”
It was a lovely service. No orchestras, or trumpet fanfares, or processions of live camels and donkeys to the nativity, but lovely. The music was sweetly familiar, carols I’ve sung since childhood, and the story of the first Christmas stirred me to wonder and gratitude, as it always does. And the sermon was … Well, it wasn’t bad.
The message was spot-on, very clearly laid out. In fact, I think if I’d read the text it would have stood up very well against just about any Christmas sermon I’d ever heard.
But I didn’t read it. Philippa did. Word for word, and rather slowly, in a voice that was still raspy from her cold. She looked into the faces of the congregation only rarely and when she did, it was with a startled jolt, as if she remembered one of her seminary professors or, perhaps, her father admonishing her to make eye contact with her audience. After she did, she’d look down at her notes, clear her throat and pause for a long, uncomfortable moment before beginning again, as if she’d lost her train of thought.
Evelyn leaned toward me and whispered, “This is our new minister?”
I nodded. “For the next six months. She’s very nice. I like her. You will too. But … first sermon and all. She’s a little nervous.”
“Does she quilt?” Evelyn asked, not unkindly. “She needs something that will help her relax. Otherwise, six months could feel like a long time.”
Philippa stood near the doors of the sanctuary, wishing the congregants a merry Christmas as they filed past. We were nearly at the end of the exit line, which gave me ample opportunity to hear what people were saying to each other about our new minister. The reviews weren’t great.
As we neared the door, I could hear what people said to Philippa as they passed. Reverend Tucker nearly always had compliments and congratulations heaped upon him after he preached. The response to Philippa was much more reserved. People welcomed her to town, thanked her for coming on such short notice, shared memories of sermons her father had given (I saw what Philippa meant about her father. He cast quite a shadow) and wished her merry Christmas. Hardly anyone complimented her sermon.
Waldo Smitherton was the only exception, but he’d slept through the whole thing. He always does and then he always stops to wring the minister’s hand and bellow, “Wonderful sermon, Reverend! Wonderful! Enjoyed it very much!”
Once I asked Reverend Tucker if that bothered him. “No,” he said. “I think he really does enjoy it. At Waldo’s age, a nap is as good for the soul as a stern rebuke.”
After saying the same to Philippa, Waldo started to totter away, then spun around to face her again. “Wait a minute. You’re Reverend Clarkson?”
Philippa nodded. “Yes, sir. I am.”
He hobbled back and shook her hand a second time. “Waldo Smitherton—oldest member of the congregation. Stick around and you may get to preach at my funeral.”
Philippa smiled. “I hope not. Not for many years to come anyway.”
Waldo looked Philippa up and down, narrowing his eyes. “Huh. You don’t look like your dad. Anyway, I thought they were sending your brother.”
“No, Mr. Smitherton. I don’t have a brother.”
“But Philip Clarkson is your father?”
“He
