“Girls, how about if a thorn stands between two roses?” Reverend Herbert Jones, a Lutheran minister, put his arms around the ladies as a photographer snapped a photo.
“Your red cummerbund is appropriately seasonal.” Darlene smiled.
“At these events, you ladies get all the colors, beautiful gowns and jewels. We’re stuck looking like penguins.” He smiled as he waved at Father O’Connor. “Harry, looks like Susan whipped the food operation in order.”
“She has. St. Luke’s can be proud. Jessica Hexham has everything organized for St. Cyril’s.”
Harry, Susan, and the others were parishioners at St. Luke’s. Reverend Jones had been the pastor for decades.
“Good. Good.” He released them, walked through the crowd, shaking hands, giving ladies kisses.
Each Christmas, churches distributed food and clothing. Some of the boys in the room would be receiving those items with their mothers, grandmothers, siblings. But tonight the excitement was high, thanks to the truck raffle, the band, the food, the music.
Susan Tucker joined Harry and Darlene just as Fair and Max de Jarnette delivered the drinks.
“Susan, let me get you whatever you need,” said Fair. “Your husband is over there talking about a bill on the floor that I think has something to do with cameras at stoplights. I tuned out, but if you wait for him, you’ll be parched.”
Glancing over at Ned, Susan said, “Fair, I would kill for a scotch and soda.”
Seeing the crowd at the bar, Harry quipped, “You may have to.” She handed her best friend her own drink.
“Thank you.” Susan gulped down the entire restorative cocktail, to the amazement of Harry, Fair, and Darlene.
Jessica Hexham joined them as Harry said to Susan, “I’ve never seen you do that.”
Jessica laughed. “And it looks as though it will be a long night. She may do it again.”
As the small group complimented Jessica on the festive event, Fair trudged back to the bar to replace his wife’s drink and buy a scotch and soda for Susan. Given his six feet five inches, he could usually command the bartender’s attention with ease. He wedged in next to Pete.
“The truck’s a beauty.”
Pete beamed. “The city gas mileage is eighteen mpg, out on the highway about twenty-six mpg. Now, I give or take a mile or two. I like to get about twenty-thousand miles on an engine. I know, I know, I’m supposed to spout the company line, but I always give a little wiggle room on the estimated mileage.”
“All three truck brands have made such improvements.”
“They have, Fair, but you drive a Ford and you praise the Lord.” Pete slapped him on the back. “Your wife drives a 1978 Ford F-150. You know how good they are.”
“Tyler,” Pete called over Lou and Arden’s son, a weedy, pale fourteen-year-old. “Did your dad get in on the raffle?”
“Yeah.”
“You tell him to let you see if you can start the truck, hear?”
“Yes, sir.” Tyler scooted off.
“One of those brainy ones,” Pete remarked. “I sure hope the kid puts on a few pounds these next few years. No way he can play football skinny as he is.”
Al Toth rolled up to the bar. “If you boys had done this in high school I would have benched you.” The coach and two of his former outstanding players liked to joke about old times.
Harry, still waiting for her drink, waved to BoomBoom and Alicia. They would eventually reach her, but first she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“That is so becoming on you. Harry, your body is the same as when you took Algebra Two.” Esther Mercier Toth circled round to face Harry.
“That’s the truth,” said Susan. “I fight to lose every extra pound. She never puts them on.” Susan kissed her former teacher on the cheek, as did Harry.
“You look just the same,” Harry said to Mrs. Toth, and it was mostly true.
Esther smiled. “It’s thrilling what modern medicine can do. A nip here, a tuck there. Sooner or later, though, girls, the edifice comes tumbling down.”
They all laughed.
Pete took the floor as the band put down their instruments for a much-needed break. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your support of Silver Linings. Young men, come here.” The boys, varying heights, from barely five feet at twelve years to over six feet at seventeen, joined him. “Here is where your money goes. Our high school graduates will have funds for college thanks to you. Fellows, raise your hands.”
Five young men did just that, and one kid—not the best-looking fellow, but with a killer smile—called out, “Thank you.” He was then joined by the others.
Pete listed the event’s donors—an insurance company paid for the food, et cetera—thanked Father O’Connor, the Hexhams, Arden and her decorating crews. “I won’t bore you with a long-winded speech. I know you want to know who wins the truck, so come on, let’s find out.”
Up the stairs they trooped, ladies grabbing coats, for the snow fell harder now. Those with keys, one by one, tried the truck. No ignition. Tyler, key in hand, father by his side, tried. No.
Alicia Palmer, sliding into the bucket seat, swooping in her long gown, rolled down the window, put the key in the ignition. Rumble.
“I can’t believe it,” said the woman, who should have won an Oscar. “I never win anything.”
Arden whispered to Jessica, “She has more money than God. Ain’t it always the way?”
The group inside the front door cheered as Alicia came back in, key firmly in her grip. BoomBoom kissed her.
Alicia held up her hands. “Thank you, Pete. This is a wonderful occasion and I’m glad to be the lucky winner. I have been fortunate in so many ways and I have noticed that Father O’Connor’s old Mercury is fading away. I would like to donate this wonderful new F-150 to St. Cyril’s and Father O’Connor.” She looked at Reverend Jones, for BoomBoom was a staunch Lutheran, then kissed Father O’Connor as he came at her, beckoning for the keys.
“This is a small recompense for 1517,” he said.
Most of the gathered knew that was when Martin Luther nailed the ninety-five theses on the doors of the cathedral at Wittenberg. Those who didn’t were informed by their neighbors.
People laughed and cheered. Reverend Jones, never without his sense of decorum, strode up to Father O’Connor and shook his hand. Then the two men, priest and pastor, laughed.
Everyone who attended that evening’s Christmas fund-raiser remembered it both for the party and for what happened later.
Her windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the snowfall. Deputy Cooper struggled in a police department SUV to reach a wreck on Garth Road. Her siren blared. If she was having troubles, she wondered how long it would take the ambulance to reach the scene of the accident.
Finally, just beyond the sign for Barracks Road Stables, she saw a new Explorer pulled off the road on the shoulder. She parked behind it, quickly got out. The young man who had pulled over and had made the 911 call got out of his old Corolla. He turned up his coat collar.
Cooper nodded to him, and he stayed behind her as she opened the door to the vehicle in front of his ancient Corolla.
“He was dead when I pulled over, ma’am.”
Cooper noted that Pete Vavilov—dead in the driver’s seat—wore his seatbelt. No blood. She closed the door, checked the skid marks that were rapidly fading. He just slid off the road. She also noticed another fading pair of tracks behind the Explorer.
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No, ma’am—I mean, no, Officer.”
She looked around. No electric lights anywhere. The power died again.