head approvingly. “He’s a good man. Though, I hope you won’t mind me saying, you’re a darned sight prettier than he is. A darned sight prettier!”
Philippa laughed. “I don’t mind at all, Mr. Smitherton. Merry Christmas, sir.”
“Merry Christmas to you, Reverend,” Waldo said and toddled off, cane in hand.
I was next in line.
“Well, at least I’ve won over one member of the congregation,” Philippa said, still smiling as Waldo retreated. “One down, four hundred and ninety-nine to go.”
“Only four hundred and ninety-eight,” I said. “I’m already a member of your fan club.”
“And you can add our names to the rolls as well,” said Charlie as he put out his hand. “I’m Charlie Donnelly and this is my wife, Evelyn Dixon Donnelly.”
Charlie put his arm around Evelyn’s shoulders and beamed. Charlie and Evelyn have been married for more than a year now, but it’s clear to anyone with eyes in their head that the honeymoon is far from over. They’re so sweet together.
“Very nice to meet you,” Philippa replied, gripping Charlie’s hand, then Evelyn’s. “You’re Margot’s boss, aren’t you? She’s told me so much about you, all of it good. I feel like I know you already.”
“I feel the same way about you,” Evelyn replied. “And for the same reason. Welcome to New Bern, Reverend. I hope you’ll drop by the quilt shop sometime.”
“I intend to. I’m hoping to make the rounds of all the businesses and meet the merchants after I’m settled in a bit.”
“Fine idea. Be sure and drop by the Grill. Some of my staff could do with a dose of religion.” Charlie winked. “Seriously, come by the restaurant for lunch. My treat.”
“I might just take you up on it. Margot says the Grill is the best restaurant in town.”
“It is,” Charlie said stoutly. “I’ll not deny it.”
Evelyn gave Charlie an affectionate glance before returning her attention to Philippa. “We’re having an open house at the shop in January to kick off our winter classes. I’d love for you to drop by. It’d give you a chance to meet the teachers and a lot of very nice quilters. Who knows? You might even decide to enroll in a class yourself.”
Before Philippa could respond, Charlie jumped in. “Come for the food, if nothing else. I’m making basil chicken skewers with peanut dipping sauce, mini-quiche with Gruyère and dill, pea pods stuffed with shrimp, and some of those horrible little cocktail wieners wrapped in bread dough that Evelyn likes so much. What do you call those things?” he asked, turning to her.
“Pigs in a blanket,” Evelyn replied, ignoring Charlie’s eye rolling.
“Pigs in a blanket.” He made a face. “Terrible. How did I fall in love with a woman who has such plebeian taste in appetizers? Anyway, you should come, Reverend. The chicken skewers alone are worth the price of admission.”
“Thank you,” Philippa said. “I’d like to. It sounds like fun.”
“Good!” I said. “It’s the third Tuesday in January. Is that night good for you?”
Philippa grinned. “At the moment, my dance card is wide open.”
“That’ll change,” Charlie assured her. “And quickly. New ministers are always in demand. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right,” Philippa said. “It feels strange being new in town.”
By this time, the church was nearly empty; everyone had rushed off to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. It occurred to me that, perhaps, her arrival being so unexpected, no one had thought to invite Philippa over for Christmas.
“Philippa, I know it’s short notice, but do you have plans for the rest of the day? Why don’t you come over and have dinner at my house?”
“Oh,” she said hesitantly, “you’re sweet, but … I should really go home and catch up on some things, finish unpacking. I couldn’t impose on you.”
“Don’t be silly, woman!” Charlie barked, using his traditional rebuke, and then turned red as he remembered whom he was speaking to. “I mean … Reverend … Pardon me. It wouldn’t be an imposition. We’d be honored to have you join us.”
“He’s right,” I agreed. “We’ve got plenty of food. Virginia, Evelyn’s mother, was supposed to join us, but she came down with a cold. It’s thrown off my whole seating arrangement. You can’t spend Christmas alone.”
“She’s right,” Charlie agreed. “That won’t do at all. So get your coat and come along. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Evelyn laughed. “That settles it, Reverend. When Charlie makes up his mind about something, there’s no point in resisting. Charlie is quite irresistible,” she said in a slightly flirtatious tone, taking his arm. Charlie grinned and stood up a bit taller.
“Well, since you put it like that …. Just let me run home to change out of my party frock,” she said, glancing down at her clerical vestments, “and take Clementine for a walk. Can I bring something?” she asked and then laughed. “Not that I have anything. I haven’t had a chance to do much grocery shopping yet, but if you need some low-fat blueberry yogurt, I can help you out. Or dog kibble. I’ve got a fifty-pound bag of that.”
“Just bring yourself,” I said.
“And an apron,” Charlie added.
Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Charlie! Reverend Clarkson is a guest!”
“What? She can chop vegetables, can’t she? Anyone can do that. Besides, giving guests something to do helps them feel at ease.”
10
Philippa
I stood at the cutting board in Margot’s cheery kitchen, wearing a borrowed apron and chopping onions.
“Good knife work,” Charlie said as he looked over my shoulder. “You can always judge a cook by the way she handles an onion.”
Margot, who stood at the stove, stirring an enormous pot of mashed potatoes, turned to look at me. “Wow. You should feel very proud, Philippa. I’ve known Charlie for years and he’s yet to say anything nice about my cooking skills.”
Charlie walked over to the stove, picked up a spoon, dipped a tiny taste of potatoes from the pot, and frowned. “And today will do nothing to change that, Margot. You need more salt in these potatoes and more butter. A lot more butter. Christmas is a full-fat holiday. There’ll be no watching of waistlines today. Not in my kitchen.”
“Technically,” Margot said as she tossed a palmful of salt into the pot, “it’s my kitchen, Charlie. But I’m not trying to keep down the calorie count. I ran out of butter.”
“You ran out of butter?” he gasped. “On Christmas? How is that possible?”
“I
