And that’s all we said about the night before.
It was the best luck I ever had, that day being Varena’s wedding day.
And the next morning, Christmas Day, I drove home to Shakespeare.
I thought during the drive: I thought what would become of the baby, Jane, whom Eve (I had to think of her as Eve Osborn) regarded as her sister. I wondered what would happen in the days to come, when the Macklesbys would finally get to put their arms around their daughter. I wondered when I’d have to go back to testify at Emory’s trial. It gave me the cold shakes, thinking of going back to Bartley again, but I would feel more amenable when the time was closer, I hoped.
I didn’t have to talk to anyone or listen to anyone for four whole hours.
The tatty outskirts of Shakespeare were so welcome to my eyes that I almost cried.
The decorations, the smoke coming out of the chimneys, the empty lawns and streets: Today was Christmas.
If my friend Dr. Carrie Thrush had remembered, the turkey would be thawed and waiting to be put in the oven.
And Jack, having detoured to Little Rock to pick up some more clothes, was on his way.
The presents I’d bought him were wrapped and in my closet. The spinach Madeleine, the sweet potato casserole, and the cranberry sauce were in the freezer.
I shed the past as I pulled into my own driveway.
I would have a Shakespeare Christmas.
Charlaine Harris
Charlaine Harris is the author of Shakespeare’s Landlord and Shakespeare’s Champion, as well as the Aurora Teagarden mystery series. She lives in Magnolia, Arkansas.
