Rituals of the Season

CHAPTER 22

The pleasure of your guests, as well as the beauty of the rooms, will be increased by the elegance of your arrangements; and by the judicious management of wreaths, bouquets, baskets, and flowering plants in moss-covered pots, a scene of fairy-like illusion may be produced.

Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873

Now that we were into single digits—seven days and counting—the next three days passed in a blur. Two luncheons and another dinner. Friday was my last day of court until after the Christmas break; and with the investigation of Tracy’s death and Don Whitley’s suicide winding down, Dwight, too, was finally able to give more attention to our wedding. It hurt him to know that one of his deputies had fallen to the same temptation of easy money that had overtaken one of my own colleagues, a temptation coupled with the rationalization that drug money, like insurance money, was there for the taking and therefore wasn’t quite like stealing.

Now Russell Moore was disbarred and sentenced to three years of hard time, and Don Whitley was dead by his own hand.

The only bright spot for the sheriff’s department was that the media, ignorant of any subtext, were treating Whitley’s acts as motivated solely by passion. Unfortunately, men killing their women and then themselves is so commonplace these days that the story barely made it through a full news cycle.

Dwight and Bo planned to reorganize the drug interdiction procedures after the first of the year, but for now, Bo had told Dwight to go act like a man who’s getting married.

Accordingly, Seth, Reese, and Andrew drove their pickups over to Dobbs Friday evening to finish moving him out to the farm—lock, stock, and nice leather furniture that would replace the ratty castoffs April had given me when I first moved into my new house.

I drove on ahead to clear space in the garage for his boxes. The temperature had dropped again and the house was like ice when I got there. I quickly pushed the thermostat up, built a fire in the living room, and sprinkled cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg into a small pan of hot water, then turned the flame on low so that it would simmer and fill the house with a spicy aroma. Yeah, yeah, I know that’s cheating, but I wanted it to smell like home to Dwight and I really did plan to bake next week.

Honest.

Maidie and Miss Emily had both sent over enough casseroles to get us through these last few hectic days and I slid a chicken pot pie into the oven with silent gratitude. Wineglasses and matching towel sets and steak knives are all well and good, and I knew we would enjoy them for years, but a freezer full of casseroles when there’s no time to cook? Now that’s a truly inspired wedding gift.

We still hadn’t painted my old bedroom, but the paint was there in the empty room, the cans turned upside down so the color would stay mixed. I changed into jeans and a paint-speckled sweatshirt, spread out tarps to protect the carpet, and used a brush to cut in the corners and around the molding. The white paint on the ceiling still looked fresh and clean, and we’d agreed to finessse it till the next time. Midnight blue might be Cal’s idea of a cool color, but using it on four walls and the ceiling, too, would turn the room into a black hole. Or maybe that was the whole idea? Dwight keeps saying that Cal’s fine with the wedding. He was so young when Dwight and Jonna split that he really doesn’t remember when they were a family, but I still worry.

By the time the caravan pulled into the yard, I was almost ready to start rolling the walls. Seth and Andrew quickly unloaded their trucks, then reloaded them with the old couch and chairs for one of Robert’s grandsons, who was setting up his first apartment. They declined my invitation to supper, but Reese had no one waiting for him at his trailer so he volunteered to stay and help paint.

It was heading for one in the morning before they finished the last bit of trim. I had hung all of Dwight’s clothes in his side of our big new walk-in closet, and his socks and underwear were now neatly tucked away in dresser drawers.

Saturday was spent rearranging cupboards, cabinets, drawers, and bookshelves to accommodate Dwight’s things. We both culled ruthlessly and wound up with several large boxes to donate to various charities.

I’m always amazed by how much you can get done if you just keep doing, and we emptied his last box shortly before eight.

Dwight put a fresh log on the fire and sank wearily onto the couch. “We’re not supposed to be anyplace tonight, are we?”

“Tomorrow night’s your mother, and Monday is Daddy’s, but nothing tonight.” I loaded the CD player with Christmas music and turned the volume down low. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really. Let’s just sit a minute.”

He stretched out, with his head in my lap, and I leaned back. The house felt warm and cozy and, all things considered, was amazingly tidy. The fire crackled and shot bright sparks up the chimney and an English boy choir sang ancient carols.

“Yeah,” Dwight murmured. “I could get used to this.”

“Ummm,” I agreed.

I only meant to rest my eyes for a minute. The next thing I knew Dwight was tugging at my hand. “C’mon,” he said sleepily. “It’s after midnight. Time for bed.”

I didn’t argue.

Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear. A beautiful high-pressure day of frosty crystalline air, blue skies, and brilliant sunshine. We decided it might be politic to show up for Mr. Yelvington’s sermon since he was going to marry us in three days, so we drove over to Dobbs and slipped into a back pew at First Baptist just as the choir was entering. Portland and Avery were across the aisle, two rows forward, and when she spotted us, she made a sad face and shook her head. I gave her my “What?” look, but before I could make out what it was she was commiserating with me about, Dwight nudged me to pay attention to the minister.

Despite being Baptist, the Reverend Carlyle Yelvington was less a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher and more of a come-let-us-reason-together mediator. The subject of the day’s sermon was gratitude—to live in the moment, to be grateful for what we had instead of pining for what we did not have. My eyes met Dwight’s and happiness flooded my soul like the morning sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows. From that moment on, I promised myself, I would truly try to live in every moment with a grateful heart.

That promise lasted about thirty-eight seconds after Mr. Yelvington pronounced the final “Amen,” when Portland hurried over to grab me and wail, “Oh, Deborah! What are y’all going to do?”

“About what?” I asked her.

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“The country club had a fire last night.”

“What?”

“A short in the dining room Christmas tree. They put the fire out before it spread to the rest of the building but the dining room’s a mess. Smoke and water damage everywhere. It’ll be at least six weeks before they can reopen it.”

Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash always sit near the front of the church, so it took them a few minutes longer to reach us. Aunt Zell was even more upset than Portland. “Oh, honey, I don’t know what can be done at this late date. Everything’s booked through New Year’s.”

“What about the fellowship hall here?” I asked. The hall was gloomy, its kitchen outdated, and no champagne would be allowed, but at least it was convenient.

It was also taken.

“The Hardisons are celebrating their fiftieth anniversary then,” said Aunt Zell. “I called around this morning and everything’s taken.”

Before I could go into a meltdown, Dwight put his arm around me. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure out something. It’s not the end of the world.”

Uncle Ash and Avery rumbled male agreement, while Portland and Aunt Zell and I rolled our eyes at one another. You don’t invite two hundred and fifty of your closest friends and relatives to a champagne reception and then say, “Sorry, folks. No champagne. No wedding cake. Check back in six weeks.”

But when we drove out to the country club, Job’s comfort was all we found. Ours was not the only event planned for the holidays, of course, and some of the county’s most prominent citizens were milling around the vestibule in anger and dismay. The club manager had barricaded himself in his office with insurance adjusters, but he had posted a large, hastily composed sign that apologized for any inconvenience and promised that all deposits would be promptly refunded.

“I’m sorry about your reception, Deborah,” said Mary Jess Woodall, not sounding very sorry at all, “but Doug and I had a charity auction scheduled for tomorrow night to raise money for the battered women’s shelter. We usually clear about eight thousand dollars so those women and their children can have a decent Christmas.”

“What’ll you do?” I asked.

“Tents,” she said succinctly.

“Tents? Mary Jess, it’s December.”

“That’s why they invented portable heaters, sugar. I’m having one set up around on the side there. The kitchen wasn’t damaged and they can still serve out of it.”

“Tents,” I told Dwight, charmed by the idea of a big white one.

“Better start calling right now,” said Mary Jess. “I rented the last one in Raleigh that’s available for tomorrow night. And that reminds me. Did I get your check yet?”

“In the mail tomorrow,” I promised and pulled Dwight out of there to go find the nearest phone book.

“How about my office?” he suggested.

Ten minutes later, I was seated at his desk, walking my fingers through the yellow pages.

Forty minutes later, I had exhausted all the places open on Sunday in a forty-mile radius. Who would have thought so many Christmas parties were held under canvas? Oh, there were a couple of tents available for other nights, but for Wednesday afternoon? Three days before Christmas?

“I can give you a green one, but it doesn’t have sidewalls,” said one hopeful entrepreneur. “I’m pretty sure there’s no bad weather predicted before Christmas.”

I told him to hold that thought and called Minnie, who had already heard about the fire and who was properly sympathetic. “We’ve got the potato house half cleared out for Christmas dinner,” she said. “We could go ahead and clear even more space. It’s not very elegant, but it will hold two hundred and fifty people and if you don’t have any other choice . . .”

With its concrete floors and exposed rafters, the tin-sided potato house is fine for square dances, pig-

pickings, and big family reunions, but for a champagne reception? Minnie was right, though. How much choice did I have?

“It’s so much extra work for y’all,” I said weakly.

“So? School’s out and the farm is full of kids who can help shift potatoes and string up greenery.”

“Today’s our last day of work, so Dwight and I can help, too,” I promised.

“We’ll see,” she said. “Let me call around to the others.”

“Thanks, Minnie,” I said glumly.

“Don’t forget tomorrow night at Mr. Kezzie’s,” she reminded. “Adam and Frank are getting in this evening if that snowstorm in Chicago doesn’t hold them up.”

I told her we’d be there and wandered out in the hall to look for Dwight.

One of Bo’s officers came by with a large black plastic garbage bag over his shoulder.

“You look like Santa Claus,” I said.

The man laughed. “Feel like him, too.” He opened his bag and showed me the pile of toys it held. “Gonna be a good Christmas for a lot of kids who have nothing. It hurts to know how many are out there, doesn’t it?”

As he continued on down the hall with his sack of goodies, my internal preacher said, “And you’re annoyed because you’re going to have to drink champagne and cut a cake in a potato house?”

The pragmatist nodded, in complete agreement for once.

I thought about living in the moment.

I thought about gratitude.

“Hey, shug,” said Dwight when I found him down in the squad room. “Any luck?”

“Tons of it,” I said and told him what my family were going to do for us.

“Then let’s go Christmas shopping.”

“I’ve already done mine,” I said smugly, “but I’m always happy to help spend somebody else’s money.”

The family dinner at Miss Emily’s that night was made even more special by the eight-year-old towhead Velcroed to Dwight’s side.

Rob had driven to Virginia that morning and picked him up, a ten-hour round trip that would’ve taken Dwight fifteen hours, slow as he drives.

Cal and Kate’s young cousin, Mary Pat, were longtime pals. She was nearly six months older, but because of how their birthdays fell, they were at the same grade level. Four-year-old Jake was big enough to hold his own with them, so there were plenty of giggles and easy chatter around the table. Although Cal and I had been comfortable with each other back when Dwight was still acting like just another brother, he was wary of me now and I didn’t try to force it or play up to him. Eventually, he relaxed enough that I could throw in an occasional remark or question and he could respond normally.

The others had heard about the country club fire. “Minnie already called me,” Kate said. “I told her I’d help with the decorations.”

“Me too,” said Mary Pat.

“Such a shame,” Miss Emily commiserated, but Dwight shrugged and said, “I have to admit I’m not real sorry about the way it’s working out.”

I looked at him inquiringly.

“Sorry, shug, but I’m not really the country club type.”

“As if she hasn’t noticed,” his sister Beth sighed with a shake of her head.

Even though we had moved furniture back into the room that would be Cal’s, Dwight had decided that the two of them would sleep over at Miss Emily’s till after the wedding.

He walked me out to my car afterwards.

“You sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

“I don’t mind.”

“We’ll be over first thing tomorrow with a tree.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go to bed early and dream girlish, virginal dreams.”

“Not too virginal, I hope,” he said, and gave me a very experienced kiss.