Chapter 4

4

* * *

“But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round . . . as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

—Scrooge’s nephew

Sis?” Charlie drew out the name as she placed the last of the washed-and-dried china in the dining room hutch.

“Yes?”

Charlie turned to see her grandmother standing before her with the two crystal goblets they’d used earlier during their quiet Thanksgiving dinner. She took them gingerly and moved to place them in the hutch. “Sis, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Sis’s boots clomped across the floor as she left the dining room and headed back into the kitchen. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ve lost your job and need to move back in with me for a while?”

Charlie’s shoulders dropped as she closed the glass doors, sealing the family china and crystal in safety until Christmas. “How do you know these things?” She followed Sis to find her folding the drying cloth over a metal hanger near the window.

“Call it a gift.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “Want to clarify?”

Sis turned and smiled. “Your friend from school called.”

“Marjorie?”

“She was wondering when she should mail your boxes.”

Charlie allowed a sigh to escape her lungs. “Fine.” She threw up her hands. “So you’re on to me.”

Sis laughed lightly. “How about we go into the living room and talk about it?” When Charlie didn’t answer right away, she added, “I’ll light a fire.”

Charlie nodded, then dutifully followed her grandmother into the sunken living room. While Sis went to work at the stone fireplace, Charlie sank onto the oversized brown leather loveseat. She grabbed one of the five mismatched throw pillows and wrapped it in her arms as she kicked off her shoes and slid her feet under her.

“I always loved this room,” she said, her eyes glancing up to the exposed beams in the ceiling and then over her shoulder to the French doors leading out to a small patio. Darkness had already fallen on the other side, and she could barely make out the wrought-iron patio furniture that would, soon enough, be covered until spring.

The crackling of the newly lit fire drew her attention back to where her grandmother knelt at the hearth. Sis stood, slapped the debris from her palms, and walked to her favorite chair. The old Boston rocker, which had been in the family for three generations, creaked under her slight weight as she eased into it, then pushed back and crossed her legs.

“Marjorie wouldn’t spill the beans,” Sis said with a tilt of her head. “But she did insist that you would be honest about it all.”

Charlie punched at the pillow. “That nasty ole Clara Pressley,” she said. “Everything has to be her way.”

“The headmistress?”

Charlie nodded.

“Of course it has to be her way, Charlie. She’s the headmistress.” Sis’s hands clasped the ends of the armrests. For the first time, Charlie noted a swelling of her grandmother’s joints. Sis wasn’t as young as she used to be.

Charlie threw her head against the back of the loveseat. “But she has no imagination,” she whined, knowing full well she sounded every bit of five years old.

“In what way?”

“Everything has to be old. Old music. Old plays.”

“Classic, you mean.”

Charlie rolled her eyes with every ounce of the dramatic flair she hoped she’d exude. “You would say that.”

Sis didn’t respond immediately, but when she finally did, she said, “Sometimes, Charlie, the old can be made new again.”

“You mean like a revival?”

Sis chuckled. “Something like that.” She sighed. “What’s next then?”

Charlie collected herself long enough to stare at the fireplace where the flames had grown fat. She repositioned herself to stretch across the length of the loveseat, still cuddling the pillow to her chest. “I’m hoping to stay here until after the first of the year.” She pursed her lips. “It’s not going to be easy to find another position in the middle of the school year, but I thought I’d go online . . . put out some feelers . . . send in some résumés. I’ve got enough severance to get me through for a while.”

“You know you always have a home here,” Sis said, her face brightening in the heat of the fire. “And who knows? Maybe something will come open at the high school here.”

Charlie rolled her eyes and laughed. “I can already see where this is going.”

* * *

Sunday morning dawned with the wind whipping around the corner of the house where Charlie snuggled under the warmth and weight of her favorite quilt. Sis had made it for her out of her old tees and jeans and given it to her for her eighteenth birthday. She’d taken it to college but brought it back to cover her childhood bed after she’d declared herself an adult.

Charlie stretched, then rolled over to reach for the cell phone charging on the bedside table. “Seven,” she whispered into the chill of the room. Why, now that she was unemployed, she couldn’t manage to sleep at least until seven thirty was beyond her.

She climbed out of the antique sleigh bed, threw the covers back over, fluffed her pillow, and then went into the bathroom where she showered, applied the little bit of makeup she wore on special occasions and Sundays, brushed her hair, braided it, and then wrapped herself in a thick terry robe. Moments later, she stepped into the kitchen where Sis stood at the counter, preparing the coffee. She smiled over her shoulder. “Well, good morning, sunshine.”

Charlie kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “Backatcha.”

“Sleep well?”

Charlie pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard, then her favorite almond milk from the fridge. “Fabulously. Just not long enough. We’re going to church, right?” she asked.

Sis brought two bowls from a cabinet near her head. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

Charlie nodded her head. “That it is.”

“You know . . .” Sis said, placing the bowls on the table, “Dustin and his son now attend our little church.”

Charlie pulled one of the chairs from the table and sat as she fought the grin working its way up from her heart to her lips. “You don’t say?”

* * *

Dusty Kennedy’s son looked more like his father than his father. “The apple didn’t fall far from that tree,” Charlie whispered to Sis as they stepped out of the row at the end of the service.

“You’re not going to have a crush on him, too, are you?” Sis teased.

Charlie playfully pinched her grandmother’s elbow beneath an oversized thick sweater.

“Charlie!”

Charlie turned toward the sweet voice she’d grown familiar with during her past several visits to Testament. “Ashlynne,” she greeted the leggy blonde, who walked alongside her equally tall husband, William Decker. “I hoped I’d see you today.”

Ashlynne looped one arm through Will’s as the other fell gently over the rise of her belly. “We saw you from the back when we came in.”

“Late,” Will supplied. He leaned over and kissed Charlie’s cheek. “Which is becoming the norm, I’m here to tell you.” His head jerked toward his wife, and he smiled.

“Leave her alone,” Sis chimed in with chuckle. “She’s carrying around a human being in there.”

Ashlynne sighed. “Only two more months and then . . .”

“And then,” Sis added, “you’ll really have an excuse to be late.”

Charlie peered beyond William’s shoulder to see Dusty walking toward them against the direction of the small crowd of exiting parishioners. She smiled.

He returned it.

Ashlynne and William noticed her gaze and turned. “Dustin,” Ashlynne said as William extended his hand, and Dusty took it.

Charlie glanced at the young tyke standing next to his father, hands held together in a protective fist. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Charlie, an old friend of your dad.”

“Miss Charlie,” Dusty interjected quickly.

Charlie smiled as the young boy turned pink, feeling certain her cheeks matched his own. “Miss Charlie,” she corrected herself. She looked at the adult faces. “Sometimes I forget where I am.”

Dusty cleared his throat. “This is my son,” he said. “Jeremy.”

“I’m five,” the child said.

Charlie sat on an arm of the pew so as to bring herself to an equal eye level with him. “Then I suppose you’re in kindergarten.”

Jeremy grinned, exposing a gap where a front tooth had once been. “And I like Miss Thornton a lot.” Without the tooth, the name came with an emphasis on the th, which brought an easy smile to Charlie’s face.

“His teacher,” Dusty said. He squeezed his son’s hand. “We all like Miss Thornton, don’t we, son?”

Charlie searched her memory for the name. “I don’t remember a Miss Thornton, I’m afraid.”

“She’s new at the school,” Sis said. “Like Dustin.”

A hint of jealousy tickled the back of Charlie’s neck. Was Miss Thornton someone who might have caught Dusty’s attention? And, if so, why should she care, really? She wasn’t staying long, after all . . . only until—

“I guess you’ll be shoving off sometime today,” William said suddenly.

Charlie glanced up, then stood. “No, actually. I—”

“Charlie has decided to stay until after Christmas,” Sis said.

The crowd in the center aisle of the church had thinned to only two or three. Charlie raised her chin toward it. “I suppose we are free to move about the cabin,” she joked.

Their small cluster moved farther into the aisle, then ambled slowly toward the front door. Dusty asked, “What was that funny look about?”

Charlie cut a sideward glance. “What look?”

“When Jeremy mentioned Miss Thornton.”

Charlie stopped. “I had a look?”

“Green-eyed. And over a woman who is fifty-five if she’s a day.”

Charlie opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “And she’s new here?” she asked innocently enough.

Dusty laughed in answer. As they continued forward, he added, “I know he’s not your type,” Dusty said, his attention fully on Charlie, “but if you’re going to be here until the first of the year and you want to help with the play . . .”

“Who’s not your type?” Ashlynne asked her.

“Dickens.”

Will chuckled. “How can Dickens not be anyone’s type?”

“Hear, hear,” Dusty exclaimed over his shoulder.

“Hear, hear,” Jeremy parroted.

Dusty stopped and turned. “We’re planning to form a Dickensian choir of sorts.”

“Of four or—?” Charlie asked.

“Four. Yes.”

“Then you won’t have a Dickensian choir per se. You’ll have Dickens carolers.”

Dusty feigned a cough into his fist as he said, “You got me there.”

Sis placed her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “What do you think? You’re certainly suited for it and—”

“The entire event is for such a good cause,” Ashlynne said, her face lighting up. She beamed at her husband, and he smiled back.

“Which is?” Charlie asked.

“The homeless shelter over in Morganton,” Dusty answered. “And the indigent here. Your grandmother’s idea really.”

“But isn’t that over in Burke—”

Sis pushed them onward. “If we don’t hurry up and leave this church,” she stated with authority, “we won’t get home in time for supper, much less Sunday dinner.”

Charlie frowned at her grandmother. Knowing her as well as she did, Sis’s behavior meant she was hiding something. Some reason why she didn’t want her granddaughter to know she’d come up with a donation to charity.

And more to the point, why that particular charity? And why in Burke County?