Chapter Fifteen
“Adeste fideles, Laeti triumphantes, Venite, venite in Bethlehem. Natum videte. Regem angelorum.”
I glanced from my songbook resting in my hands to Gilda in front of me and then to my left at Anders.
Both were singing their hearts out as we stood on the front stoop of Ivy and George Yankowski’s house.
The elderly couple smiled widely at our small group of carolers.
Six in total, including Pastor Pete and Nigel.
Nigel had a fabulous voice, so he got all the solo work for a man, while Gilda and Kimmie got all the feminine solos.
Pete, Anders, and I were just there for the choruses for the most part.
Pastor Pete could not carry a tune, but he sure did love to sing.
Anders had a nice voice. I mostly sang in the shower but liked to think I did fair to middling when it came to belting out a tune.
Tiny flakes fell from the inky sky, which added to the whole holiday vibes thing our stroll along the side streets of Grouse Falls was hopefully spreading.
Many old folks were homebound, like Ivy and George, and seemed to greatly enjoy our stopping by to sing them a song or two.
Any tips or tiny gifts were donated to the church, even if the pastor’s crooning was not quite choir worthy.
There were two caroling groups, one working each end of Main Street and the avenues that ran off the through street.
Signups had been lean since many people were too busy after a long day at work or had already started their holiday trips to see family.
My daughter, the kind soul that she was, had signed us up last night at the bazaar.
Kimmie, the lone friend left in town until after the big day, was here because the family flight to Florida to see her grandmother was postponed due to her younger brother getting sick.
Seemed kids had a knack for illness when a trip was planned.
We would meet in the middle of Main Street at nine, ride out to the diner on Ox Back Road, have coffee and a cupcake, and get warm.
Chloe would be working there tonight since she was part-time help and had promised to save us some of today’s fresh-baked cranberry muffins.
How Chloe juggled all her various jobs, I had no clue.
She waited tables at the Ox Back Diner, helped out at the fire hall, and assisted with taxes at Wanda Hess’s tax service in the spring.
She just liked to keep busy, she had said numerous times.
Her boyfriend Bert was the same. Never still for a minute.
He worked all day for the gas company, hunted religiously, and was a volunteer fireman.
Ivy clapped loudly as the song ended. George, who was not doing well at all and was confined to a wheelchair with oxygen, smiled around his cannula and dropped a dollar into the mason jar Gilda was holding.
The same jar from my shop. Inside it was a neat roll of bills that Anders had slipped in, thinking no one had noticed, but I had as had Pastor Pete.
Leaving that home, we turned, saw our two shadows standing under a leafless oak, and gave Arne and Alfred a wave of mittened hands.
They nodded back. We’d come up with a story about the two men to alleviate some of the fears and stories flying around.
Anders had told Pete and Nigel they were his bodyguards, which was true, but not that he was insanely rich.
He seemed reluctant to say much about his life in ?stermon, so we said they were Anders’ assistants.
We’d not gone into great detail as to what they assisted Anders with, which probably left just as many questions about the behemoths as we’d answered.
Nigel and Pete had exchanged skeptical looks but had gone along with our limp lies.
I felt bad lying to a clergyman, so I dropped a twenty into the jar in the hopes that God would be okay with my deceit to a man of the cloth as long as I gave the church money. It felt icky as heck, to be frank.
Another hour passed, and when our noses and toes were frozen nearly solid, we heard the church bell ring nine times and sighed in relief.
With a wave, we all hustled to our cars, cranked them over, and began to slowly thaw.
By the time we arrived at the Ox Back Diner, my toes were starting to warm up.
Just. Once inside, we pulled a couple of tables together.
Chloe was on her phone, looking rather upset when I spied her.
She gave me a grimace before turning her back to us to finish her call.
No one took offense. We were still chattering merrily about the night out and what songs we had enjoyed the most. The second group of carolers rolled in, several Woolverines aside from Franny, who didn’t tolerate it well.
Not the cold, but the fact that she would have to sing to the Festerman sisters over on Dewey Lane.
Someone had stolen someone else’s boyfriend back in the late-’50s at a swim party at the old Grouse Falls Community Pool so the story goes.
Franny and the twin sisters had gotten into a fight, food and fists had been thrown, and in the end, Franny told the guy who had been necking—that’s the term she used—with Agnes Festerman to go fuck himself.
Ever since then, Franny had no time for those Festerman trollops. Her names for the old gals, not mine.
“Pull up a chair,” Pete called to the new arrivals. Alfred and Arne sat at a small table by the window. The lights strung around the window tossed multi-colored tones on their formidable faces. Everyone gave them a wary look but sat down to chat. “I hope we all had fun?”
Everyone started talking at once. I nodded along but caught Chloe waving at me from behind the register by the pie cooler. The diner was quiet this late at night. They closed at ten, so we were only here for a short while.
“Excuse me,” I said, rose, and made my way to Chloe.
“If you’re out of cranberry muffins, that’s fine. We can have a slice of pie instead,” I said with a smile that did nothing to ease the look of agony on her face. “What’s wrong? It’s not Bert, is it?”
She ran her hands nervously over her yellow apron. “No, Bert’s fine. They’re tidying up the fire hall after the bazaar.” She began to fidget with the cell phone in her hand. “I messed up.”
“We’ve not even ordered yet,” I reassured her as I sat on one of five stools at the retro counter. The diner was an old train car that had been converted to an eatery.
“I am so sorry,” she said again as she stuffed her phone into her apron. Her blue eyes were dewy with unshed tears. “I ruined everything for her.”
“Hey, hey, nothing is ruined.” I patted her arm tenderly unsure of what she could have possibly ruined.
“Yes, it is. I overbooked the fire hall, Mitch. Somehow, there are two parties on the twenty-sixth. I hate that new calendar they make us use. What was wrong with a paper calendar? This stupid computer one is so confusing. There are too many slots and colors and…I booked two events at the hall on the day of Gilda’s party.
Bert was just looking over the schedule to see what they needed to set up for next when he found it. I am so, so sorry!”
Oh crap. I glanced over my shoulder to look at Gilda chatting away with Kimmie. I drew in a breath while Chloe sniffled then returned my attention to her. “It’s okay. We all make mistakes. What other event is taking place on the twenty-sixth? Can we possibly go before or after them?”
“I doubt it. It’s Gillian and Paul’s wedding reception,” she said into a wadded-up ball of paper napkins under her nose. “Those take forever to set up, and it runs until nine.”
Well shit. “Okay, well, what openings do you have for anything else?” I knew it was a long shot. Our little fire hall hosted everything from gun shows to wedding receptions. They were always booked solid.
“We have tomorrow afternoon from four to six open. The Grouse Falls Poultry Lovers had to pull out at the last minute since the president was dealing with a bumblefoot situation. I’m so sorry.
Gilda is going to hate me.” She cried in earnest now.
The chatter behind us fell silent as I rubbed her arm to try to console her.
“I told Bert I was tech-challenged when he asked me to fill in dates for the hall.”
“It’s fine, truly. It will be fine,” I lied. I had no cake since that was ordered to be picked up on the twenty-sixth, no DJ as she was also booked for the twenty-sixth, and hardly any guests since most of Gilda’s friends had left to see family. Crap, crap, crap. “We’ll take that two-hour slot.”
She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m going to refund your fee and cover the rental myself.
” I started to argue. She held up a hand, the hand with her cell phone.
“No, do not think to argue. This mess is on me. I’m typing Bert now.
” And she did, even as I tried to tell her that her kind gesture wasn’t necessary.
“There. Done. Paid for out of my pocket. You’ll get a check tomorrow when you show up for the party.
” She looked over at Gilda and got teary again.
“I feel so terrible. Do you want me to tell her that I ruined her party?”
“No, I’ll tell her there was a mix-up with the hall and we’re going to celebrate a little earlier.
There is no fault. Mistakes happen. What is it that Pastor Pete says?
Only God is flawless, and that the rest of us fall a little short, but the Lord is patient and understanding of our human imperfections. ”
She nodded. “Yes, he does say that.”