always translate into “happiness.”
It was, in fact, happiness she was speaking of—at least to Dave. “You know, Dave,” she continued carefully, “I’m worried about how much people are expecting out of this Christmas drama.”
He smiled. “You’ll do fine. Actually, when you think about it, you can’t help but do fine. You’re our first drama coordinator, so folks don’t have anyone to compare you to. You can’t help but improve us. And they like you already—I can tell.”
How to say this? “It’s not the drama I’m worried about. It’s the…well, the result you’re looking for. Don’t you think town unity’s kind of a high expectation for a little church drama?”
Pastor Dave sat back in his chair. “That’s because you’re expecting it to be a little church drama. It will be church, it will be drama, but I guarantee it won’t be little. Complications might be just what the doctor ordered in this case.” His eyebrows lowered in concern. “I want you to pour your creative energies into making this as all-consuming as possible.”
“Aren’t there more direct ways to resolve the town’s conflict?”
“I suppose there would be—if the town was willing to admit they had a conflict. Most of them want a big Christmas extravaganza to make them feel good. Just you and I and a few other wise folk realize they need something to agree on to take their minds off the many disagreements.”
“What about Mac and Howard?”
The pastor chuckled. “I think Mac knows he stirred up a hornet’s nest. He enjoys it—always has been one to whip things up a bit. I think Howard feels the conflict, but he’s likely to read it all wrong. He feels attacked because I think he’d much rather change on his own terms, not on those of someone like Mac.”
“But Howard was bound to retire someday.” Mary leaned one elbow on the corner of Dave’s desk. She was still sorting out the complexities of “simple little Middleburg.”
“I’m not so sure Howard’s caught on to that truth yet. He’s been mayor for so long he may not remember how to be anything else. We’ve got sixth-graders who’ve never known Howard as anything but mayor. You have to respect that.”
“All things considered, I’m not so sure a Christmas pageant is the way to cope. We’re sticking a tiny bandage on a great big wound here.”
“Miss Thorpe, you ever been a parent?” He got up from his chair and walked over to his office windows overlooking the preschool. “Ever given a toddler a bandage?”
“I’m sure I have at some point.” Mary didn’t really see where he was heading.
“They believe it makes things better. A child may get stitches for a nasty gash, but they won’t calm down until somebody puts on a bandage. It’s the stitches that do the real healing, but they still need the bandage. You and I know it’s an illusion, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.” He grinned and pointed at her. “Some of my best work is done with Band-Aids.”
Mary blinked. “I’m a diversionary tactic?”
He walked toward her. “Would it make it easier if I said you were a coping mechanism?”
This had started out as a simple job. A calmer life serving an undiluted purpose, a chance for Mary to get away from the agenda-laden world of professional music and advertising. Suddenly she had more agendas than a diplomat and a goal so complex and obscure she could no longer say what it truly was. “I’ve got a headache just trying to make sense of this.” She looked up at him. “Can I have a Band-Aid?” It was supposed to be a joke, but Mary couldn’t quite muster the confidence to pull it off.
“Take two rehearsals and call me in the morning,” Pastor Dave joked.
Mary sat in her living room that afternoon, trying to make sense of it all. How many people thought of the drama as just a nice holiday event? How many of them were aware of its secondary goal of unifying the community? How to balance the two? Lord, I prayed for hours over this job. I asked You to take me someplace where I could figure out all this faith stuff. Someplace easier than Chicago. This isn’t looking easier.
Mary smiled as the faint strains of Pavarotti’s tenor voice singing “Ave Maria” reached her ears. She wondered if Mac found it an improvement over the Mozart aria. It was hard to think of that bird crooning a ballad. Too bad it wasn’t summertime; she’d have been able to hear Curly through the open window.
Then again, maybe it was better all the windows were shut. She wasn’t entirely sure Curly the cockatoo was up to the high note at the end of the song.
Laughing at the thought of the bird straining to hit the note, his creamy neck extended and his feathers fluttering, Mary reached for the mail that had been forwarded from her old Chicago apartment. She sorted through the envelopes until she spotted the familiar gray stationery of Maxwell Advertising. She’d forgotten, until now, that she had one more bonus coming. She opened the envelope and slid out a substantial check. How ironic that her “swan song” had been her most lucrative project ever. God had given her enough resources to take whatever job she wanted, wherever she wanted. And He had brought her here. Maybe, for now, she could trust that, despite the growing complexities.
Mac shut the door to his office with a fierce thunk and walked briskly toward Deacon’s Grill. A piece of pie couldn’t really do anything about the storm of aggravation he carried around, but it couldn’t hurt, either. At least a warm cup of coffee might soothe his annoyance. “Peace on earth, goodwill toward men?” Today felt more like “profits on earth, bad will toward any consumer.” No wonder Ma had asked him to handle the procurement of one of those idiotic Bippo Bears for his nephew, Robby. Finding the fuzzy blue singing bear proved to be more like warfare than Christmas shopping. Not counting the two trips to two separate malls yesterday, Mac had just spent three hours on the phone and Internet in search of a Bippo Bear. He sat down on his counter stool at the Grill with such force that the thing rocked under his weight.
Gina, no stranger to diner psychology, read his body language and immediately swapped out the ordinary sized stoneware mug at the island for a much larger one she produced from under the counter. Gina was smart. “Regulars” who obviously had a bad day were quickly given what she called a “comfort cup.” That was Gina’s entirely-too-female term for “the really big mug of coffee.” He accepted it gladly, needing the hot beverage too much to care that it announced his disgruntled mood to the rest of the diner. He was pretty sure his entrance had already done that, anyway.
“And a Merry Christmas to you, too, sugar,” Gina said as she slid the sugar container in front of Mac withholding the cream pitcher. Apart from baking the best pies around, Gina also had a great memory for customer preferences. “Rough going on the campaign trail?”
Campaign? Who had time for a campaign when Christmas shopping was sucking half his day into the trash can?
Gina’s reference to the mayoral campaign halted Howard Epson in his conversation. Mac hadn’t even noticed Howard as he came in, he was so annoyed. Epson and his wife were sitting in their favorite corner booth with Mary Thorpe of all people, probably advising her on the mayor’s expected role in all holiday ceremonies. Divine drama aside, he was sure Howard took pains to stay a highly visible mayor during the MCC’s Christmas season.
Mac swallowed a gulp of coffee, telling himself to back down off his soapbox. Howard could get to him so easily these days. They’d
