“You know what Mae West said? The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. So what did they say?”
“That you’d joined the brotherhood after being in the slammer.”
“Heard I made the papers back home.” He ruefully smiled. “Took my vows a year ago plus a few days. I needed to completely change my life. I’d made a terrible mistake. Anyway, I give myself to service. Perhaps, in time, the good I do will outweigh the bad.”
“It will.” She reassured him.
“We all make mistakes.”
“Mine cost other people millions.”
“Yes, well”—she laughed—“that is a major mistake.”
“I don’t do things halfway.” He pulled his hands back into the heavy sleeve. “Would you like to come into the trailer? Warm.”
“Thanks. I want to buy a tree. Can you tag it for me?”
“Sure.”
They walked to the perfectly shaped tree that Harry had marked. Chris pulled a red cardboard tag from a pocket in his robe. “There you go.”
“Aren’t your hands cold?”
“Yes. I try to keep to the tradition—no gloves, no shoes—but I surely wear gloves and shoes when it’s cold.”
“No shoes?”
“Sandals. We can wear sandals, but I cheat and wear Thinsulate-lined boots when it’s this cold. Really is cold, too. I think we’ll have a white Christmas.”
He stepped back to admire the tree. “Remember old Mr. Truslow, who used to show White Christmas every year in assembly? I thought it was the most boring movie I’d ever seen, but at least we were out of the classroom.”
“Really? I liked it.” She paused. “I think he showed it to us because he was in the war. The idea of a reunion and all that.”
“Maybe. Want me to put the tree in your truck?”
“No, thanks, because Fair can’t get here until about nine. I want to make sure he likes the tree. Half of making a marriage work is letting your spouse in on every decision.”
“Another mistake I made. My wife bailed when the scandal broke about insider trading. I wished she’d loved me enough to stick it out, but I can’t say that I blame her.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. I was a fool. How much is enough? Made millions, Harry, millions, and I wanted more. I was a fool. Like I said, I hope the good I do now will make up for what I did then.”
“Will.” She walked back to her old truck.
“These old Fords go and go. When did you get it?” He walked around it, noticing the good condition of the F-series truck.
“When I graduated from Smith, in 1990.”
His gaze ran over the ’78 Ford again. “I miss my Porsche.” He shrugged. “Funny how you can love an inanimate object.”
“Makes sense to me.” She opened the truck door.
The cats hopped in, but she had to pick up Tucker.
“Good to see you, Harry. I’ll be here until ten. If you and Fair run late, call.” He waved as she drove off.
Heading toward the farm, she thought that the leopard could change his spots if he truly was motivated.
At least that’s what she figured.
“Where are we going?” Pewter wanted a nap.
“We’re here,” Mrs. Murphy said as Harry drove down the alleyway behind the old post office, where she used to work.
Once parked in Miranda Hogendobber’s driveway off the alleyway, she paused to notice that even in the snow, Miranda’s gardens, symmetrically laid out, still pleased the eye.
“Knock knock.” She opened the back door.
“Come on in. I’m in the living room,” Miranda, Harry’s surrogate mother and former workmate at the post office, called out.
The animals dashed in to be rapturously greeted, followed by Harry, who received a big hug and kiss.
“Wow.” Harry admired Miranda’s tree.
“Thought I’d do something different this year.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
A Douglas fir, reaching the ceiling, bore evidence of Miranda’s highly developed aesthetic sensibility. Plaid bows, shot through with some gold thread, were tied in place of balls. A lush gold garland wrapped around the tree. On the top, a single thin gold star finished the picture.
“You really like it? I haven’t been too severe?”
“I love it.”
“Sit down. Tea?”
“I’m on the run. Just wanted to stop by. We made the wreaths today. Are you nervous?”
“A little.” She chuckled. “A lot.” “You’ll be fab.” Miranda, a stalwart at the Church of the Holy Light, had agreed to sing at St. Luke’s Christmas party on the winter solstice. Her partner would be none other than Brother Morris, formerly a major tenor in the opera world.
“We’ve practiced. Brother Morris puts me at ease, but, Harry, that voice.” She threw her hands heavenward. “A gift from God.”
“So is yours.” “Now, now. Flatterer.” “Miranda, people wouldn’t have asked you to sing with
Brother Morris if you didn’t have the stuff.” “Oh, Herbie asked me.” “He’s a good judge.” She changed the subject. “Visited Phillipa Henry. Sinking fast.”
Racquel’s aunt had moved to the area when Racquel and Bryson did. Childless, the woman doted on her niece and Racquel’s two sons.
“Racquel said as much.” “You know, I’ve never been to the Brothers of Love
Hospice before. They do God’s work.” “I believe they do.” Harry told her about seeing Christopher Hewitt. They caught up on odds and ends, the glue of life in the country and small towns.
“Another thing.” Miranda returned to Aunt Phillipa. “Bryson was there. He stops by and visits Phillipa. Brother Luther was there, too, and says that Bryson makes a point of visiting each of the people in their care. I was impressed with how tender he was. I mean, since he’s . . . uh”—even though she was with Harry, she still paused, since a Southern lady is not to speak ill of anyone— “full of himself.”
“He is that.” Harry laughed. “But I guess to be really successful at anything, you need a big ego.”
“I conclude he’s very successful.” They both laughed, then Miranda added, “He seemed distant and tense. Not with the patients but in general.”
“Racquel’s suspicious.”
“I hope that’s unfounded.” Miranda shook her head. “Truly.”
“Me, too. How do people find the time for affairs? One man is all I can do.”
“Me, too.”
“Tell me what you think. We got into a discussion at St. Luke’s. Started about the Brothers of Love, how each man is trying to change, to make up for past sins. Do you think the leopard can change his spots?”
“Of course. One asks for Christ’s help, but, of course, Jesus represents change. Rebirth.”
“Never thought of it that way.”
“Honey, you’re a good woman, but you don’t have a religious turn of mind.”
“I don’t need it. You do it for me.”
They laughed again, then Harry kissed her on the cheek and went on her way.
3
The air was cold. The sun had long set, so the cold intensified. The tiny square of red and green lights appeared more festive than it had at two in the afternoon. Eleven people, three of them children, studied the cut Christmas trees with varying degrees of seriousness.
Pewter elected to remain in the truck, where she snuggled into an ancient cashmere throw. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker tagged along, little puffs of frosty air streaming from their nostrils.
A child’s shrill voice asserted, “Daddy, get this one.”
Harry looked to see the source.
A child, perhaps ten, wanted a beautifully shaped Scotch pine. From the look of his clothing and the expression on his father’s face, the tree must have been beyond the budget.
The economy was tanking and the high gas prices pinched pocketbooks. Harry felt a pang that the child had selected a lovely tree that his father couldn’t afford. She thought for a moment to buy the tree for him. On second thought, no.The kid had to learn about money. Better sooner than later.