Off and on during the church service that morning, I found myself, as I often did, thinking of families. My own family, now strong and united, stood in contrast to the Albrittons, with their legacy of a sibling taken from them and the eventual devastating consequences. I wondered what had motivated Gerry to return to Athena. Had she sought revenge against her adoptive sister? Against her blood relatives, Billy and Betty? I wondered if Billy would tell his father what had become of his youngest son. Somehow, I expected not.
Kanesha also told me that, as suspected, Jincy Bruce was the embezzler. Terrified that she might be charged with Gerry Albritton’s murder, she had gone to Kanesha and confessed. Though she promised to return the money, Jared Carter was still considering whether to press charges. I hoped he would be merciful. It was Christmas, after all.
Jared had also settled the question of why he had been willing to finance Gerry Albritton’s real estate wheeling and dealing. He and Ronnie Halbert had been best friends in junior high and high school. They had stayed in touch, at least intermittently, after Ronnie disappeared from Athena. Jared had been the only friend that Gerry had trusted with the true story of her journey from Jerry to Ronnie to Geraldine.
I settled in to listen to the choir. As the familiar notes of “Silent Night” issued from the organ, I smiled. Tommy Russum stepped forward to sing. His voice rose sweetly, seemingly effortlessly, over the organ and the choir as he sang the familiar words. I listened, deeply moved, as the notes poured forth from him, pure and true. By the time the hymn ended, I knew that mine were not the only eyes wet with tears. The sheer beauty of the young boy’s voice surely had reached even the most hardened heart that morning. Nothing could have projected the spirit of Christmas more perfectly.
Later that day, after the exchange of gifts, when my family and I were in the dining room enjoying our Christmas feast, I occasionally fancied that I heard Tommy singing over the hubbub of conversation. As usual, I felt a welter of emotions, but what I primarily felt was joy. I saw it in every face I observed from my place at the head of the table, and I hoped that, in the coming months, we could all remember this day and these feelings when we needed lifting up.
I also thought with sympathy about Chip Camden and Billy Albritton and the sorrows they faced, as well as the sad, painful legacy of Gerry Albritton. Now that I knew the truth about her, I wished I could tell her how much I admired her strength and courage in overcoming such a horrible childhood. I felt pity for Jack Albritton, now an old man in a nursing home, who many years ago had traded his child for money. It was not my place to judge him. He might have no memory whatsoever of what he had done. He had been desperately poor at the time and trying to take care of his family. I was profoundly thankful that I had never been faced with such a dilemma.
I turned my gaze toward Diesel, who sat by the bassinets on the side of the table. The bassinets that held my priceless, precious grandchildren. He stayed by them and watched them anxiously lest either one woke and turned fretful. He would remain their devoted servant as they grew, and I hoped they would love him in return.
I felt the prick of claws on my thigh. Sighing, I looked down to see Ramses starting to climb my leg. I thought I had left him safely in the utility room with his own version of Christmas lunch and plenty of water. But the little escape artist had somehow managed to get out. I must not have closed the door tightly. I plucked the kitten from my leg and put him in my lap. When Tommy Russum had showed up at the front door two hours ago with Ramses in a basket with a large bow on it, I didn’t have the heart to turn down his gift. I wasn’t sure I could handle a rambunctious handful like Ramses, but as he climbed up my torso to rub his head against my chin, I decided he would probably be worth the effort. He was one of the most memorable Christmas presents I ever received.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Miranda James is the New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries, including Claws for Concern, Twelve Angry Librarians, and No Cats Allowed as well as the Southern Ladies Mysteries, including Fixing to Die, Digging Up the Dirt, and Dead with the Wind. James lives in Mississippi.
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