Chapter 6
Six
Before Peter said goodbye to Goldie at the hotel, he promised to see her again soon.
She couldn’t help but wonder what that meant.
Did he mean on a date? Or in his capacity as editor of the newspaper?
Or did he simply mean it was a small town, and seeing each other was inevitable?
She thought about it while listening to the musicians in the lobby play one of their final numbers for the day, then she left the hotel and walked back to the church.
“Hello. Are you the lady with the hot buns?”
The comment caught her off guard. She started to look around at her butt, but then stopped.
“Excuse me?”
“The buns. The dinner rolls. Do you need help bringing them in?”
“Uh, no. I’m not, eh, the hot bun lady.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Then, you’re here for dinner?”
“No. I’ve already eaten.”
“Oh, now I understand,” the priest said. “We’re all downstairs.”
He walked past the box he was initially going for and stepped forward while extending his hand. “I’m still connecting names with faces, and I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Father David Fitzsimmons, but everyone calls me Father Fitz.”
“Karen Maraschino,” she reciprocated, shaking his hand. “Everyone calls me Goldie.”
“No doubt because you have a heart of gold,” the priest assumed.
“Sure. Let’s go with that,” she agreed.
“Maraschino?” he repeated.
“Yeah. I know,” she said.
He turned, returned to his box, picked it up, and then led the way. “I can’t recall seeing you in church. Are you Catholic?”
“Yeah, but I don’t usually go unless it’s one of the big four: Christmas, Easter, a weddin’, or a funeral.”
“Get all the answers you need going to church so infrequently?” Father Fitz asked, a few feet ahead of her.
“I don’t get any,” she answered honestly. “Hence the infrequently.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” he replied good naturedly.
The side hallway led to some stairs that went down to a finished basement.
It was a meeting room painted white where about twenty-five to thirty people were gathered: some sitting at tables, some standing and chatting, and small children darting around here and there.
Although there was no formal kitchen, a serving area was sectioned off with two long tables covered in tablecloths and several hot plates with extension cords plugged into wall sockets.
On the hot plates were platters with three golden-brown turkeys, ready for carving.
There were also bowls of mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, pots of coffee, pitchers of milk and juice, plates of carrots and celery, cookies, two pumpkin pies and one apple, and a stacked collection of plates, silverware, and napkins from several homes.
Over in a corner, a small radio sat on a box while the Andrews Sisters sang “Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me.
” It took Goldie just a couple of seconds to figure out she’d walked into a Thanksgiving potluck.
“Hang your coat on the coat rack over there, and there’s a clean apron under the serving tables,” Father Fitz instructed. “Once you’re suited up, go ahead and start carving one of the birds.”
Goldie looked around with a bemused smile, realizing that since she’d told the priest that she wasn’t the hot bun lady and that she’d already eaten, he assumed she was there to work.
“Okay, Father,” she said gamely. “You got it.”
The clergyman thanked her and went to set the box he was carrying down behind the serving tables while Goldie went to hang up her coat.
As she did, she noticed some wonderful black-and-white framed photos, evenly spaced and hanging on the walls around the room.
There was a photo of two young mothers waving from the front porch of one of the town’s historic houses in autumn.
There was another of a young girl holding her pet cat up close to her right cheek.
Still another of a grandfather and grandson walking away from the camera hand-in-hand in the woods, just as a beam of dappled sunlight struck them.
They were just simple slices of life, but they were executed with Annie Leibovitz precision.
Goldie admired them for a few moments, then slipped off and hung up her coat.
Next, she went over behind the serving tables and tied on an apron.
She also spotted some rubber dish gloves and slipped them on, keeping her cut hand in mind.
Then, she removed a turkey from a hot plate, put it on an empty plate, picked up a carving knife and fork, and started to carve it, putting the warm slices on an empty platter.
It wasn’t until she was well into her carving that Sheriff Johnson noticed her.
He’d been talking to an elderly woman at a table, giving her his full attention.
Stu Frey had spotted her before the Sheriff, but he, too, was engaged in conversation.
Finally coming over to her, the lawman looked at her, surprised.
“Howdy.”
“Doody,” she replied.
He looked at her, not understanding.
“See, I thought we were doin’ a Marco Polo kind of thing,” she joked, knowing he had no idea what she meant. But then, she waved it off. “Never mind. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Same to you. What’re you doing here?”
“I’m workin’,” she said, slicing some white meat off the back of the turkey. “What’re you doin’?”
“I heard you were having dinner with Mayor Banyan and his family.”
“I did,” she said matter-of-factly. “Now, I’m here.”
“How did you even know about this?”
“I’m a journalist with razor-sharp investigative abilities.”
Eli looked at her dubiously, so she amended her response.
“I was walkin’ home from the mayor’s and saw you, Stu, and some people comin’ into the church, and there’s squat to do back in my hotel room except count the roses in the wallpaper.”
He smiled a little. “Okay.”
“So, what is this?” she asked, wanting his explanation for the event.
“Some people in town don’t have much,” he explained in a slow, low voice. “Others are alone. Still others work at places like the hospital in Denver but don’t get off until late and don’t have time to prepare a meal.” He glanced around. “This dinner serves a lot of needs so nobody gets left out.”
“Including sheriffs who have to work and can’t be with their family?”
“That too,” he agreed. “It was all Stu’s idea, but me and Father Fitz hopped right onto it.”
Eli limped his way around the tables to where she was, then grabbed and tied on an apron. As he did, the young clergyman came by.
“Everything coming along all right here?” he asked.
“Just fine, Father,” the sheriff replied. “Stu will be over in a minute, and then we can start the serving line. I guess you’ve already met our illustrious writer from Adventure Escape Magazine, eh?”
“Adventure Escape Magazine?” Father Fitz said, surprised. He looked at Goldie. “You-you mean, y-you’re not a—”
“Worker-bee for this here soiree?” she asked. “No. But I’m glad to help.”
“Hot buns!” a woman’s voice announced. “Where do you want, Father?”
“Oh, good,” the priest replied, turning. “Put them right over there by the cranberry sauce.”
A woman carrying a brown paper bag with a dishtowel over it approached the table but paused when she saw Goldie. It was the young Hispanic woman who had served dinner at the Banyan house less than an hour earlier.
“Ay, Lupe,” Goldie smiled. “How ya doin’?”
She approached the table timidly as Father Fitz and Eli looked at one another, wondering how the two knew each other.
“You won’t tell Senor Banyan that Margarita made extra buns in his kitchen, will you? I think he’d be angry.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she assured. “But I don’t think he’d mind.”
“You don’t know Senor Banyan,” Lupe chuckled, rolling her eyes.
Goldie explained to Eli and Father Fitz how she knew Lupe, and they likewise promised to keep silent about the Banyan’s cook using their kitchen to make extra rolls, although Father Fitz agreed with Goldie that he couldn’t imagine that Charles and Stephie would mind.
Within another couple of minutes, Stu Frey came around the tables to join them, and he, Eli, Father Fitz, Goldie, and Lupe stood ready to serve all the people dinner cafeteria-style.
Before they did, however, Father asked that the radio be turned off and everyone bow their head for a prayer.
“You know,” he began, “the first Thanksgiving back in 1621 was mostly a celebration of survival. Those who came to the New World on the Mayflower had to endure a harsh voyage, a harsher first winter, and disease. Many pilgrims died that year.
“Now, we’re involved in another kind of struggle for survival.
Some families have felt the effects more harshly than others.
So, let’s remember those who have died, those who bravely fight on, our leaders, and we ask God to bless this wonderful feast that we’re able to enjoy this day with family and friends. Amen.”
People came over and lined up as the rest of the servers put on aprons, and Duke Ellington and his Orchestra came over the radio.
Goldie was standing next to Father, and they started to chat while they served.
She learned that he’d only been in Sparkledove a couple of months and that this was his first assignment as a priest. She also learned the wonderful photographs on the wall were his.
He was a passionate amateur photographer who, at one time, intended to become a photojournalist but ultimately had a higher calling.
He’d taken the photographs as an excuse to meet his congregants, then hung several on the walls to spruce up the basement.
Goldie asked if he’d like to provide the accompanying photographs for her article.
She still didn’t know if she was going to write one, but she was thinking more and more about trying.
She even suggested that Charles Banyan might be persuaded to make a contribution to the church for Father Fitz’s services, and the young priest was both complimented and intrigued by her proposal.
Goldie was good at this kind of thing: hitting situations cold, then figuring things out, and formulating a plan of action.
After everyone had been served, she stood behind the serving tables with a little smile as she watched people eat.
Everyone was talking, chewing, laughing; some of the younger kids had gravy stains on their clothes, and she couldn’t help but feel this was what people were supposed to do on Thanksgiving.
Stu Frey, about five feet away, was also watching everyone, and she walked over and patted him on the shoulder.
“Good idea,” she said quietly. “Nicely done.”
“Glad you were here to see this,” he said. “Not for your article. But just—well—because.”
“Me, too,” she agreed.
“See that guy in the blue shirt?” he asked, subtly pointing.
“Yeah?”
“That’s Melvin Purdle. Brought his mandolin. Plays a mean “Jingle Bells.””
“I can’t wait,” she smiled. Then she walked over to Eli, who was helping himself to a chocolate chip cookie.
“Aren’t you gonna fix yourself a plate?”
“After everyone else has eaten,” he replied, taking a bite of cookie.
She nodded, then changed subjects.
“Hey, I wanted to ask you about the covered bridge at the end of town. Has anyone ever jumped off it?”
“You mean, like, kids in the summer?”
“No. I mean like a grown man committing suicide?”
The lawman looked at her. “Why on earth would you ask that?”
“Well, I checked it out last night, and it’s got those two open viewing windows on either side, and I was just wondering.”
“It’s not high enough for that kind of thing,” he decided, taking another bite of cookie.
“Normally, no,” she agreed. “But what if the guy couldn’t swim? What if the water was low, and he hit his head on a rock?”
The munching sheriff looked at her, confused. “The covered bridge is one of the most scenic, peaceful places in town. Especially for the river views. And this is what you thought of when you went over there?”
“Yeah. I’m romantic that way,” she cracked. “Do me a favor and look through your incident reports, will ya? Somethin’ like this might’ve happened before you became sheriff, and I’m curious.”
“I thought you were here to write about our Christmas festivities.”
“I am, and I will. J-just humor me, okay?”
He looked at her and took another bite of his cookie.
“You’re a very strange person,” he decided.