Chapter 13
13
* * *
Perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge’s clerk’s; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit’s dwelling with the sprinkling of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen “Bob” a-week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!
What do you mean?”
Ashlynne stood on one side of the table near the back of the music room fifteen minutes before the carolers were to arrive. A bin—open and in the center—held fabric and the recently purchased Victorianesque wraps, gloves, and hats. With her hair pulled back in a high ponytail and her makeup expertly worn, she looked so much like a Barbie doll, Charlie had to smile in spite of the seriousness in her voice.
“Ashlynne, in one second flat, he shifted from flirting with me and kissing me to talking about the play.” Charlie blew into her cupped hand. “Italian food. Maybe it was my breath. I can still smell the pizza.”
Ashlynne shook her head as she placed the thread they’d bought earlier into the bin. She’d take it to the seamstress that afternoon. “Charlie, really.” She chuckled. “One thing I’ve learned about men in the short while I’ve been married is that they put their thoughts in boxes.”
“What?”
Ashlynne looked around the room, then walked to a shelf where several sheet music containers had been placed. She stacked them and brought them over to the table, then set one beside the other.
“See these?”
Charlie nodded.
“This,” she said, waving her hands over the table, “represents a man’s brain. Inside his brain are little boxes.” She pointed to one box. “See this one? We’ll call this box Finances. Inside this box, a man thinks about money. See this one?” She pointed to another one.
Charlie smiled. “Let me guess. Women?”
“And all that entails,” Ashlynne said, her hand resting on the swell of her stomach. “Good. Now you’re getting it.” She took a deep breath. “So, a man can only think inside one box at a time. Us? We can think about ten different things at once. Our brains are like—how did Will once put it?—worms in a wet dirt bed.”
Charlie burst out laughing. “So what you’re saying,” she added when she’d sobered, “is that last night Dusty was in this box.” She pointed to the second box. “And then he shifted—for some odd reason—to this box.” She pointed to the bin holding the costumes.
“You have now graduated from Man 101.”
“Then I shouldn’t have taken it personally. Or worried that I’d scared him off with my declaration of a lifetime crush.”
“I sincerely don’t think so.” Ashlynne returned the boxes to the shelf. “Are you ready for me to take the fabric and patterns and stuff to Miss Anise?”
Charlie glanced at her watch. “Yeah. The singers will be here in about fifteen minutes.”
Ashlynne secured the green top to the bin and slid it toward her.
“Let me do that,” Charlie said. “You shouldn’t be lifting anything so heavy.”
Ashlynne raised the bin. “Give me some credit here. It weighs approximately three pounds.”
“Seriously. Let me,” Charlie insisted, taking the clear bin from her. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“All right then.” She looked toward the front of the classroom. “I’ll get the door.”
“The very least you can do,” Charlie teased.
She was halfway back from Ashlynne’s car when she rounded one of the outside corridors and ran—literally—straight into Dusty. For a moment, they were a fumble of hands and heads. Then, after righting themselves, Dusty managed to say, “I see you made it.”
“I did.” Charlie felt a tender blush rising through her. “I met Ashlynne up here a little while ago to get things together for the seamstress. I’m a little worried she won’t have time to sew the costumes my singers are wearing for the performance.” She paused. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like what box are you in right now?”
“What?”
Charlie waved her hands between them. “Nothing. A little joke. A bad one.”
Dusty reached over and tugged at the thick braid falling over her shoulder. “You’re back to the braid.”
She pointed to her face. “And no makeup.”
He rested his hands on his hips. “And you still look pretty.”
Charlie grinned. “I do?”
“Mm-hmm. Amazing.”
Charlie struggled for something to say, settling on, “Well, I’d best get to the classroom. I’ll see you at what? Three thirty?”
Dusty pulled his cell phone from his hip pocket to check it. “Yeah. Sounds good. Just bring the singers over to the auditorium then.”
They cautiously moved around each other. When they’d separated by a few feet, Dusty said, “Oh and—”
Charlie turned. “Yes?”
“Jeremy is really looking forward to tonight.”
She smiled. “So is Sis. She said it’s been a long time since we’ve had a child in the house. And, you know, there’s something magical about all that.”
Dusty smiled back. “That there is. Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
Charlie’s father arrived at five o’clock—only fifteen minutes after Sis and Charlie returned from rehearsals—toting a platter full of sliced baked ham. He presented it like a peace offering as soon as he entered. “Not sure what you had planned, Mom, but I figured I’d add to it with this.”
Sis lifted the clear plastic wrap and inhaled. “Gracious, but doesn’t that smell good.”
Charlie stood across the room, her stomach churning at the aroma. “How about I open a jar of applesauce and heat it up?”
“With some little English peas?” John asked his mother.
Sis took the platter. “This will be the easiest meal ever,” she said, placing it on the breakfast nook table. “And here I wondered what in the world I was going to fix.”
Charlie went to the pantry and pulled out the jar of applesauce. “We’ve been at rehearsals all day. Sis worked with the actors, and I worked with the singers.”
Her father began opening overhead cabinets. “Where’s your cinnamon?”
“Over there,” Sis answered, pointing.
“So?” he asked, retrieving the spice. “How’s it going?”
Charlie busied herself warming the applesauce and opening a can of sweet peas while Sis and John sat at the table with mugs of coffee between them, and Sis gave a detailed report on the show.
“Oh,” Charlie said from the stove, “and Dusty and Jeremy are coming over tonight to help with the tree.”
Sis winked at her son. “I think we may have a romance blooming.”
John straightened. “Do we now?”
Charlie returned to stirring the applesauce and adding pats of butter to the peas. The last thing she needed—wanted, really—from her father was a sudden “daddy-kins” attitude. They’d only just begun speaking again. She’d let down her guard, but she didn’t want him thinking he could interrogate Dusty the minute he walked in the door. “Can we not go there?” she asked, keeping her focus on the food preparation.
“Of course not,” Sis said.
John slapped his hands together. “Okay, then. Change of subject. I had another meeting today with the manager of A Second Chance. Since there’s no homeless shelter here in Testament, they’re organizing with the Board of Education to bring a busload of folks—homeless or simply poor—from here to Morganton for Christmas dinner. We’ll use the proceeds from the play to cover the costs. We’re figuring about a hundred to a hundred and fifty men, women, and children for the meal.”
Charlie turned. “That many?”
John wrapped his hand around the coffee mug and brought it to his lips. “Could be more. We’ll have an exact number as we get closer to the twenty-fifth.”
“I had no idea,” Charlie breathed out, then turned to reduce both burners to low. She joined her father and grandmother at the table, choosing the chair next to Sis. “Seriously. No idea.”
“About what?” her father asked her. “The number of indigent in our two towns?”
“Yes. I mean—”
John looked at his mother. “I’m only grateful that Mom came up with the idea of joining forces and using the money from the play. I had no idea where or how I was going to come up with the funds to feed even the folks from our shelter on Christmas.” He winked across the table. “We figure at five dollars for an individual ticket and ten dollars per family, we should make around fifteen hundred to two grand. Maybe more.”
“It will go a long way,” Sis added, “toward feeding those kind souls, and you should still have a little left over.”
“I guess living in the loveliness of Miss Fisher’s, I stopped thinking about how the other half lives.”
John blew on his coffee before taking a swallow, then returned the mug to the table. “Hey, I have an idea,” he said, looking at Charlie.
“What’s that?”
“What are you doing Monday?”