made a world of difference. It was almost as if a migration of butterflies had seen the quilt from the air and come to light gently upon the smooth expanse of cloth, taking a moment of respite in that rich and lovely garden of color before going on their way. That’s how I felt looking at it, rested and renewed, hopeful, ready to rise again and resume the journey.
It was the most beautiful quilt I’d ever made, and it had come about all because I’d been willing to lay aside my old habits and leave myself open to new possibilities. There was a lesson in that.
God had something new in mind for me, something better, I was sure of that. And, though I can’t tell you how, I was sure it had something to do with my family, my sister, my niece. If I was never to have children of my own, perhaps I was to play a role in Olivia’s life? I barely knew her, but I longed to shower my little niece with love, to regain my sister’s friendship and heal the wounds that had torn us apart.
Maybe this would be the year that we could all finally put the past behind us. Maybe this Christmas would be the moment and means to let bygones be bygones, the year we would finally cover all the raveled edges and loose threads of the past and be a family again, bound by blood, tied with love, warts and all.
Maybe.
3
Margot
The church vestibule was cold and a little gloomy. The big overhead chandeliers were dark so the only light came from a few low-watt faux-candle wall sconces topped with tiny gold lamp-shades. Though the sanctuary had been decked for Christmas more than two weeks before, the clean, sharp scent of cedar and pine boughs hung in the air. That’s the upside of an unreliable furnace; chilly air keeps the greens fresh longer.
Abigail stood on the mat and stamped the snow off her boots. “We’re late,” she said in a slightly accusing tone, nodding toward a trail of melting slush left by those who had arrived first.
It wasn’t my fault. Abigail left me cooling my heels in her foyer for ten minutes while she was in the kitchen giving Hilda, her housekeeper, last-minute instructions about Franklin’s dinner. I almost reminded her of that, but then thought better of it. I’ve known Abigail long enough to know she doesn’t mean to sound snappish. She just hates being late. When you think about it, it’s kind of sweet that she fusses over Franklin’s dinner like that, as though they’d been married three months instead of three years.
If I ever get married, that’s just how I’d want to treat my husband, as though we were newlyweds forever. I wish …
I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to go there. I was going to stick to my resolution, be content in every situation. And what was so bad about my situation anyway? Things could certainly be much worse. Think of poor Reverend Tucker, lying in a hospital bed.
“Have you heard any more about Reverend Tucker?” I asked as I followed Abigail down the stairs. “Mr. Carney made it sound pretty bad.”
“Ted likes to make things sound bad,” Abigail puffed. “Makes him feel important to get everyone else in a flutter. There’s no such thing as a good heart attack, but Bob will be fine. I called the hospital and pried some information out of the administrator.”
I’ll bet you did. I smiled to myself. Abigail is one of the biggest donors to the hospital and about fifty other charities. She has clout in New Bern and no qualms about exercising it on behalf of people she cares about.
“I insisted that they put the same doctor who treated Franklin on the case. He’s the best cardiac man in the state. Don’t worry, Margot. After a few months of rest and rehabilitation, the good reverend will be back to his old self.”
“That’s a relief. I can’t imagine anyone else being able to fill his shoes.”
“Nor can I. But we will have to find someone to replace him, at least for the next few months. On such short notice, especially right before Christmas, I don’t suppose we’ll have much to choose from in the way of candidates. But,” she said with grim determination, “beggars can’t be choosers. We’ll just have to find ourselves a warm body and hope for the best. I just hope Ted doesn’t let the meeting drag on and on. I don’t want to be here all night.”
“Well, there’s only one item on the agenda. All we have to do is discuss the candidates and vote for an interim minister. How long could that take?”
Abigail arched one eyebrow. “Obviously,” she said, “you don’t know Ted Carney as well as I do.”
I was sketching lines of intersecting squares along the margin of my legal pad, thinking about side dishes to serve with the Christmas turkey. Somebody coughed and I jumped, startled by the noise, worried that I’d missed something.
I hadn’t. Ted Carney was talking. Still.
When Abigail and I arrived, Ted, president of the board, was reminding everyone that the pastor was already scheduled to take a sabbatical in the spring. Ted proposed we extend the sabbatical to six months, giving Reverend Tucker plenty of time to recover, and that the Tuckers stay at Ted’s cabin on Lake Winnipesaukee, leaving the parsonage vacant to house the interim pastor. Everyone liked the plan and voted in favor of it. So far so good. Now all we needed to do was choose our interim pastor. Easy.
But instead of getting directly to a presentation of the candidates, Ted began going through a list of every minister who had served in the pulpit of New Bern Community Church for the last two hundred years and spelling out the relative strengths and weaknesses of each one—in excruciating, mind-numbing detail.
No one was listening.
Deirdre Camp was making a grocery list. Pat Boyd was holding her BlackBerry, surreptitiously checking her e-mail. Waldo Smitherton, who is ninety-six, was dozing, but there was nothing new about that. He sleeps through most board meetings. The only person who appeared to be listening was Miranda Wyatt; her eyes were glued to Ted.
Abigail, obviously irritated, was drumming the table with her fingers. I wondered how much longer she’d be able to control her temper. I looked at my watch.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Ted! Get on with it!”
Seventy-eight seconds. Pretty impressive. For Abigail.
Ted sputtered like a jowly bulldog and glared at Abigail. “Excuse me,” he said. “Were you wishing to address the chair or the board? I believe there needs to be a motion before you can do either.”
Ted likes to invoke Robert’s Rules of Order—usually incorrectly. It makes Abigail crazy.
“No! There doesn’t! This isn’t a formal meeting and we’re not ready to take a vote, so we don’t need to make a motion! What we need to do is find a pastor before Christmas. So, do you have any résumés for us to consider or not?”
Abigail’s outburst elicited stirring among the benumbed board. People sat up and stopped their doodling. Pat powered down her BlackBerry. Adam Kingsbury elbowed Waldo, who woke with a start and shouted, “Aye!” thinking it was time to vote.
Scowling, Ted pulled a small stack of papers out of a weathered brown briefcase.
“Is this all we’ve got to choose from?” Pat asked. “Two résumés?”
“I’m afraid so,” Ted replied apologetically. “And they aren’t résumés so much as information sheets. I typed them up myself. The pool of candidates available in time for Christmas is very small and I wasn’t able to reach either of them on the phone. One is flying to Europe and the other is on a backcountry ski trip. However, I did put in a call to Reverend Oswald, head of the Eastern Conference, who is on a mission trip to Malawi. Before we were cut off, he told me a little bit about the candidates. They’re fresh from seminary, but Reverend Oswald said either would be an excellent choice.”
Abigail leaned close to my ear and hissed, “If we’ve only got a choice between one embryo parson and another, then why did he subject us to that endless lecture?”
Miranda raised