Chapter 2 Cece #2
Before I can respond, Mrs. Whitaker appears in the doorway, her face pinched with importance.
“Reverend Montgomery, there's an issue with the nativity scene.
Jimmy Henderson says someone's stolen baby Jesus and replaced him with what appears to be a...well, an adult toy.” She blinks rapidly, clearly scandalized.
Dad's face flushes. “Good Lord, not again.” He turns to me with an apologetic look. “I need to—”
“Go,” I say, waving him away. “I'll start sorting what we have.”
Mrs. Whitaker clears her throat. “Actually, Reverend, I think you should come immediately. Mayor Kincaid is out there threatening to call the sheriff if we don't remove the...offensive item...before the children's choir arrives for practice.”
At the mention of Kincaid, my stomach knots. He’s here—loud enough, dramatic enough, that I don’t even need to see him to know he’s already causing trouble.
“Cecelia, I'm sorry—” Dad starts.
“It's fine. Really.” I force a smile. “Go save baby Jesus.”
Mrs. Whitaker practically drags him out the door, her sensible shoes squeaking against the linoleum as she launches into a detailed explanation of exactly which anatomical features the offending item possesses.
And just like that, I'm alone with nothing but empty tables and my own spiraling thoughts.
I trace my finger along the edge of one table, the silence of the room pressing in around me.
This is so much worse than I imagined. It's not just that the Kincaids pulled their donation.
They've made sure everyone else has too.
I can picture Ethan's mother on the phone, her manicured nails tapping against her designer desk as she calls every business owner, working through her list of country club contacts.
“You simply must reconsider donating to the church toy drive this year. The Montgomery girl is back in town, and you know what she did to my Ethan...”
The thought makes my blood boil. I've spent my entire life in this town, watching the Kincaids throw their weight around, but this is a new low. Using children as collateral damage in their vendetta against me.
I'm reorganizing the sad little pile of stuffed animals when the fellowship hall door swings open again. Mrs. Whitaker bustles in, her face flushed with excitement.
“The Reverend asked me to tell you he'll be tied up for a while. The mayor is absolutely beside himself.” She lowers her voice dramatically. “Apparently, someone took pictures.”
“How terrible,” I mutter, not even trying to sound sincere.
Mrs. Whitaker studies me like I'm a suspicious paragraph in a romance novel. “I suppose you think this is amusing.”
“A dildo in the manger? Kind of, yeah.”
Her gasp could suck the oxygen from the room. “Cecelia Montgomery!”
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “I forgot where I was for a moment.” Before she can lecture me, Barbara Fletcher appears in the doorway, flushed and breathless.
“Judith!” she calls to Mrs. Whitaker. “You need to come quickly. The mayor is threatening to cancel the Christmas parade if someone doesn't remove that...thing...immediately!”
Her eyes go wide. “He wouldn't!”
“He most certainly would,” Barbara says, glancing at me with undisguised accusation, like I personally placed a sex toy in the manger scene. “He's saying it's a deliberate attack on Christian values.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Christian values? That's rich.”
Mrs. Whitaker's lips press into a thin line. “Well, I never—”
“Judith, please!” Barbara interrupts, grabbing Mrs. Whitaker's arm. “Reverend Montgomery is asking for you. He says you're the only one who can reason with the mayor.”
Mrs. Whitaker straightens, puffing up with self-importance. “Well, Richard and I have known each other since high school. I suppose it falls to me to talk some sense into him.”
She shoots me one last disapproving look before bustling out, Barbara in tow, leaving me alone.
I sink into a folding chair and stare at the empty tables. I don’t know if I could hate the Kincaids more than I do at this very moment.
The fellowship hall door creaks open, and I tense, expecting another church lady with an update on the Great Manger Scandal of 2025. Instead, I'm surprised to see Jillian peering in.
“Cece? Is that really you?” She bustles toward me, arms outstretched. Before I can respond, I'm enveloped in a cloud of lavender perfume and wrapped in a hug that threatens to crack a rib. “Oh, honey, I've been meaning to call since I heard you were back!”
“I thought you were at the hospital with your husband,” I manage once she releases me. Unlike the vultures outside, her smile is genuine. She taught my Sunday School class when I was little and always slipped me extra cookies when Dad wasn't looking.
“I just had to stop by to check on things,” she says, glancing around at the empty tables with a frown. “Oh my. This is...concerning.”
“That's one word for it,” I mutter.
“Your father mentioned the Kincaids pulled their donation, but I had no idea it was this bad.” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “Shameful.”
I feel a rush of gratitude that at least someone sees this situation for what it is.
“I've been trying to help from home, making calls to some of my contacts,” she continues, “but it's been difficult with Harold still in the hospital. My nephew who lives in Carlsbad is trying to pull some strings to help. You remember him, don’t you? Brayden?”
“Brayden Cole?” I can't hide my surprise. The last time I saw Jillian's nephew, he was a lanky teenager with a perpetual scowl and a habit of disappearing whenever adults entered the room. “I didn't know he was still in touch with you.”
“Oh, he tries to pretend he's too busy for family, but that boy calls me every Sunday like clockwork. Works with some club now, doing...well, I'm not entirely sure what. But he's got connections, he says.”
I try to picture teenage Brayden as a grown man. All I can conjure is a taller version of the same sullen kid who used to smoke behind the church during potlucks.
“That's nice of him to try.”
“He said he might be able to help with the toy situation.” She pats my hand. “Don't you worry, Cece. God provides.”
I force a smile, not wanting to dampen her optimism. “I'm sure we'll figure something out.”
“That's the spirit.” She glances at her watch.
“I should get back to the hospital. Harold gets cranky if I'm gone too long.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“It's good to have you home, honey. Don't let those vultures get you down and don't you work yourself too hard,” Jillian says, giving my arm a final squeeze.
“And tell your daddy I'll be praying for that...situation...out front.” With a knowing wink, she bustles toward the door, her floral perfume lingering in the air behind her.
I watch her go, feeling oddly comforted by her brief visit. At least someone in this town doesn't blame me for my marriage falling apart.
Once the door swings shut, I force myself back to the task at hand.
The pitiful collection of toys won't sort itself.
I separate them into piles by age group—a depressingly quick job given how few items there are.
The dolls have seen better days, their hair matted and clothes stained.
Most of the board games are missing pieces.
I find myself wondering if the kids would even want these cast-offs, these physical reminders that they're an afterthought.
I check my watch—only ten-thirty. Dad's still outside dealing with the anatomically correct nativity scandal.
I decide to take inventory, grabbing a notebook from Dad's office to make a list of what we have versus what we need.
The numbers are grim. Three hundred and eighty-seven families on the list, and we have maybe enough decent toys for thirty kids, if I'm being generous.
The hours crawl by. I answer a few calls from people asking about drop-off times, arrange the canned goods by expiration date, and try not to think about strangling the entire Kincaid family.
I'm lugging the last box of donations from the fire department's truck when my arms start to tremble.
Their collection was better than expected—not great, but at least enough to bump us up to maybe fifty kids covered.
Fire Chief Donovan apologized three times while we unloaded, mumbling something about “unusual pressure this year” that we both knew translated to “the Kincaids got to us too.”
“That's the last of it,” I call to him, forcing brightness into my voice. “Thanks for everything.”
He gives me a quick nod, clearly eager to escape before anyone connects him to the Montgomery charity disaster. “Wish it could've been more, Cece.”
The fire truck pulls away, leaving me standing alone on the church steps with sweat dampening my back despite the December chill.
Inside, the fellowship hall still looks pathetically empty, even with the fire department's contribution spread across the tables.
I've spent the entire day organizing, counting, and trying not to cry from frustration.
I’m about to start labeling age groups when I hear it—a steady, rhythmic rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. At first, I think it might be thunder, but the sky outside the windows is clear blue. The sound grows louder, a mechanical growl that can only mean one thing.
Motorcycles. Multiple motorcycles.
I move to the window, curiosity overriding my exhaustion. A procession of bikes rolling into the church parking lot—not just a few bikes, but over a dozen of them and a small box truck.
The engines cut off one by one, leaving an almost eerie silence in their wake.
For a heartbeat, I just stand there, blinking at the sight of so much leather and chrome glinting in the afternoon light.
Helmets come off, revealing everything from shaggy beards to a shock of pink hair.
The box truck door slides open with a metallic clatter, and I catch sight of wrapped toys stacked to the ceiling.
My jaw drops.
A laugh bubbles up from my throat, part disbelief and part relief, because—well, you don’t see that every day in San Salona.
Somewhere behind me, I hear the creak of the fellowship hall door and the sharp gasp of one of the church ladies. No doubt she’s already clutching her pearls so hard they’ll need to be pried loose with the jaws of life.