14

Pouring the milk into a pan, Finn whisked in cocoa, sugar, a pinch of kosher salt, and a splash of vanilla. If he was at his Grandma Bailey’s house, he would have added a dash of cayenne pepper. Grandma Bailey loved a little kick to her taste buds when it came to sweets. Whisking the cocoa and milk made him wish his grandma was still around to ask for some advice. Grandma Bailey would have known exactly what he should do.

When he’d decided to leave his lucrative job as a sports agent, throwing away undergraduate school and law school, most of the family had thought he’d fallen off a dumb truck, except Grandma Bailey and Uncle Tom.

Uncle Tom understood the overwhelming call into full time, credentialed ministry. He’d followed a similar path bucking the family law tradition. But Grandma Bailey simply loved Finn regardless. Athlete. Academic. Agent. Apologetic. She didn’t care. “Are you happy, Sweet Boy?” She would always ask with his cheeks cuddled between her palms. His happiness was her only concern.

He glanced over his shoulder to Darcy. She straightened the mugs, shifting handles to perfect ninety-degree angles at the edge of the stainless-steel counter in the center of the lengthy kitchen. Matching plates of two snickerdoodles and two chocolate chip cookies were perfectly positioned with one sitting beside each of the appointed cups.

With a sigh, he refocused on the cocoa, and wished he could ask Darcy, “Are you happy, sweet girl?”

Lulu had shared Darcy’s unfortunate change in her employment status. He imagined, based on the biography he’d heard on Dr. Langston—female version—the lack of career stability wasn’t sitting well with her. Her aunt thought the distraction of the Christmas pageant would be a welcome relief from the worry over Lulu’s health and the double worry over her unknown career path, but Finn wasn’t so certain. On their best day, a Gibson’s Run Community Church production was chaos, but this Christmas program was disarray in all its pre-incarnate glory.

The play Lulu originally selected had mostly adult parts with a few kids sprinkled throughout the production. But as the Labor Day Carnival rolled into the Founder’s Day Celebration, and that rolled into Apple Butter Days which slammed into the Turkey Trot and the newly established Thanksgiving Day Parade, all the adult volunteer actors were overcommitted with town pride activities. At his and Lulu’s weekly lunch the Friday after Thanksgiving, Finn waved the flag of defeat—hoping for a live Nativity with the support of a few sheep and maybe a calf from a local farmer, but Lulu wouldn’t surrender.

“Life is all about how you navigate the valleys, my boy,” she said, “If you want to stand on the mountain top, you’ve got to sweat through desert.” And she presented her idea of having the kids’ church students perform A Guard-Ann Angel’s Christmas.

His cousin Tessa had written a series of children’s books about Guard-Ann Angel and her charge, Shelby, based on the imaginary friends of her soon to be step-daughter Emma. Somehow Lulu knew Tessa was writing a Guard-Ann Christmas book and convinced her to share the unpublished manuscript with the church. Finn imagined Lulu used Tessa’s pastor’s kid guilt against her, likely claiming Uncle Tom would have a repeat of last year’s heart attack if she didn’t pass along her latest story.

The guilt worked. By the Monday after Thanksgiving, Tessa presented Finn and Lulu with a rough play based on her latest book. They cast the play the following day, with Emma, the inspiration for the series’ main character, Shelby, playing the lead, and several other of the kids’ church children playing the friend roles. Bonus all adult characters—save Guard-Ann—were non-speaking angel roles, most of which were quickly snatched up by the choir. Everyone loved saying they were an angel.

The genius of the play was its fifteen-minute run time. Add a few Christmas carols into the scenes—with the audience singing along—and the play would wrap in under thirty minutes. Most people undervalued brevity, but a pastor worth his weight in casserole dinners knew nothing pleased a congregation more than exiting the sanctuary earlier than anticipated.

Everything with the play clicked perfectly into place, right up until Lulu fell. Until that moment his role had been as a cheerleader—supporting Lulu’s scheme—from the balcony. Now, he needed to figure out a way to help Darcy transform a children’s book into the crowning achievement of the town’s fiftieth Christmas Festival. And for a town that loved a festival more than a state fair loved fried food, the Christmas Festival was the festival. Everything in town was the Christmas Festival and before the Christmas Festival. Every other parade, carnival, and event in town was a pale imitation of Gibson’s Run’s first love—Christmas.

Pulling the warmed through cocoa from the stove, he poured the steaming liquid into a waiting carafe. He turned to the makeshift snack station Darcy had created and lifted his gaze to her.

Her forehead was scrunched and her bottom lip was sucked between her teeth, while her fingers swiped furiously against her phone screen. Her foot tapped an unrecognizable rhythm, only she could hear.

“Ready to warm up?” He filled each mug with the steaming liquid. The rich aroma of chocolate laced his nostrils and settled into his bones. In his life, he realized, nearly everything could be cured with Jesus and a cup of hot chocolate.

He handed her a mug and drew a deep drink from his own. “Mmm, always hits the spot.”

Darcy held the mug in her hands, blowing across the brim to cool the contents. The tick of the kitchen clock’s hands echoed.

Finn sucked down another deep drink of the chocolate—cooler now, but still as comforting as a grandma hug.

“Take a sip. My grandma always said cocoa soothed the rough edges of a harsh day. And you have had a doozy for forty-eight hours.”

She tipped the cup back slightly, tentatively taking a sip. A soft smile tilted the corner of her mouth. “This is very good. Pastor and cook?”

“Cook might be a stretch. I liked being with my grandma in the kitchen more than I liked working the tiller in the garden. Learned a few things.”

“You learned them well.” Taking another sip, she traced circles on the counter. With a sigh she lifted her gaze to his. “I guess we should talk about the play.”

“It’s not a death sentence, Darcy. Just a church Christmas play. It could be worse.”

“How?”

“We could be planning a church meeting.”