quilters. Who knows? You might even decide to enroll in a class yourself.”
Before Philippa could respond, Charlie jumped in. “Come for the food, if nothing else. I’m making basil chicken skewers with peanut dipping sauce, mini-quiche with Gruyère and dill, pea pods stuffed with shrimp, and some of those horrible little cocktail wieners wrapped in bread dough that Evelyn likes so much. What do you call those things?” he asked, turning to her.
“Pigs in a blanket,” Evelyn replied, ignoring Charlie’s eye rolling.
“Pigs in a blanket.” He made a face. “Terrible. How did I fall in love with a woman who has such plebeian taste in appetizers? Anyway, you should come, Reverend. The chicken skewers alone are worth the price of admission.”
“Thank you,” Philippa said. “I’d like to. It sounds like fun.”
“Good!” I said. “It’s the third Tuesday in January. Is that night good for you?”
Philippa grinned. “At the moment, my dance card is wide open.”
“That’ll change,” Charlie assured her. “And quickly. New ministers are always in demand. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right,” Philippa said. “It feels strange being new in town.”
By this time, the church was nearly empty; everyone had rushed off to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. It occurred to me that, perhaps, her arrival being so unexpected, no one had thought to invite Philippa over for Christmas.
“Philippa, I know it’s short notice, but do you have plans for the rest of the day? Why don’t you come over and have dinner at my house?”
“Oh,” she said hesitantly, “you’re sweet, but … I should really go home and catch up on some things, finish unpacking. I couldn’t impose on you.”
“Don’t be silly, woman!” Charlie barked, using his traditional rebuke, and then turned red as he remembered whom he was speaking to. “I mean … Reverend … Pardon me. It wouldn’t be an imposition. We’d be honored to have you join us.”
“He’s right,” I agreed. “We’ve got plenty of food. Virginia, Evelyn’s mother, was supposed to join us, but she came down with a cold. It’s thrown off my whole seating arrangement. You can’t spend Christmas alone.”
“She’s right,” Charlie agreed. “That won’t do at all. So get your coat and come along. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Evelyn laughed. “That settles it, Reverend. When Charlie makes up his mind about something, there’s no point in resisting. Charlie is quite irresistible,” she said in a slightly flirtatious tone, taking his arm. Charlie grinned and stood up a bit taller.
“Well, since you put it like that …. Just let me run home to change out of my party frock,” she said, glancing down at her clerical vestments, “and take Clementine for a walk. Can I bring something?” she asked and then laughed. “Not that I have anything. I haven’t had a chance to do much grocery shopping yet, but if you need some low-fat blueberry yogurt, I can help you out. Or dog kibble. I’ve got a fifty-pound bag of that.”
“Just bring yourself,” I said.
“And an apron,” Charlie added.
Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Charlie! Reverend Clarkson is a guest!”
“What? She can chop vegetables, can’t she? Anyone can do that. Besides, giving guests something to do helps them feel at ease.”
10
Philippa
I stood at the cutting board in Margot’s cheery kitchen, wearing a borrowed apron and chopping onions.
“Good knife work,” Charlie said as he looked over my shoulder. “You can always judge a cook by the way she handles an onion.”
Margot, who stood at the stove, stirring an enormous pot of mashed potatoes, turned to look at me. “Wow. You should feel very proud, Philippa. I’ve known Charlie for years and he’s yet to say anything nice about my cooking skills.”
Charlie walked over to the stove, picked up a spoon, dipped a tiny taste of potatoes from the pot, and frowned. “And today will do nothing to change that, Margot. You need more salt in these potatoes and more butter. A lot more butter. Christmas is a full-fat holiday. There’ll be no watching of waistlines today. Not in my kitchen.”
“Technically,” Margot said as she tossed a palmful of salt into the pot, “it’s my kitchen, Charlie. But I’m not trying to keep down the calorie count. I ran out of butter.”
“You ran out of butter?” he gasped. “On Christmas? How is that possible?”
“I had it on my list,” Margot said defensively, backing away as Charlie elbowed past her to turn off the burner under the potatoes, “but there was so much to buy ….”
“Never mind,” Charlie said, holding up his hand. “I’ll run to our house and get some more. Leave the potatoes until I get back. Take the rolls out of the oven when the timer goes off.” He slipped his arms inside the sleeves of his coat.
“Hey, Charlie? As long as you’re going out, check the temperature in there, will you?” Margot jerked her head toward the living room. “I don’t know where my sister could be. Dad hates it when people are late.”
“Don’t worry,” Charlie replied. “Evelyn’s on top of it. She’s used to dealing with grouchy old men. Anyway, your sister’s not late. Not yet. The way things are going it could be hours before we’re ready to serve.” He gave the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the living room a push and disappeared.
“Very funny!” Margot called before turning to me. “I know he sounds awful, but that’s just Charlie’s way. He’s really just a big teddy bear.”
As if to confirm this observation, the kitchen door swung in the opposite direction and Charlie stuck his head through it. “By the way, Margot, what you lack in culinary skills, you more than make up for in presentation. The table looks beautiful,” he said and, without waiting for her response, popped out just as quickly as he’d popped in.
“See? Charlie’s a bit rough around the edges, but he has a good heart.”
I nodded. “He’s fine. I’ve always enjoyed a good curmudgeon.”
Margot giggled. “You came to the right town for that. Wait until you meet Abigail. She makes Charlie look like a poseur but, if she likes you, you won’t find a better ally in this town than Abigail Spaulding.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing she wasn’t at services. Don’t think I made many allies today.”
Margot carried the wastebasket over to my side of the kitchen. “Don’t talk like that,” she said as she scooped up the detritus of my handiwork, a pile of papery onion skins, and dumped them into the trash. “It was fine. I thought you made some very good points. It was fine,” she repeated, as if saying it twice would make it true and as if fine was the same as good.
“Waldo Smitherton was very taken with you, and Charlie spoke well of your knife skills. Coming from him, that’s a real compliment. I’m not kidding.”
She stood next to me, staring at the cutting board as I took the last onion, made six quick, deep cuts into the flesh, another six crossways, then chopped through the onion with a speed which was, I’ll admit, a little show-offy. But I think I can be forgiven for that. I’ve spent hours watching celebrity chefs perform this dazzling bit of showmanship and even more hours mastering it. Until now, I’d had no opportunity to display my skills to anyone besides Clementine. She hadn’t seemed that impressed.
“Wow!” Margot said. “Where’d you learn that?”
I shrugged, unwilling to admit how many late nights I spend watching Emeril