The Nightingale Before Christmas (6 page)

“Yes, let me fix you some tea,” Rose Noire said. “And show you Eustace's kitchen.”

She led Jessica off before I could warn the reporter about Rose Noire's teas, which were always organic and healthy but rarely delicious.

“Don't talk to her unless you want to,” I said to Ivy. “Mother and Rose Noire can handle her if you don't.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a quick smile.

The house was in good hands. I waved to everyone, stepped outside and took a deep breath.

Rose Noire was right. The air out here was cleaner. And it wasn't just getting away from the construction smells of paint, glue, and sawdust. All the hostility between Clay and the other designers hung over the whole house like some kind of psychic air pollution. I had the feeling he'd be causing more trouble before the show house was over.

But not right now.

I stopped to take a few more breaths and study the sky. It was obviously cold, since all the snow already on the ground showed no signs of melting, and the dull gray sky suggested more snow was on its way, but maybe I was getting used to snow and cold. Instead of cold and gray, I decided the weather was bracing.

My enjoyment of the out-of-doors was interrupted by voices coming from somewhere to my left, on the other side of the tall snow-covered bushes that flanked the front porch.

“Just keep it,” said one woman's voice, hot and angry.

“I don't want it.” Sarah, who I'd thought was still in the study, inspecting the damage. And the other voice belonged to Kate Banks, one of Sarah's partners in Byrne, Banks, and Bailey. I'd never actually met Bailey, whoever he or she was. “I don't even want it around me.”

“And what if he tries something? Something worse than trying to ruin your room.”

“Pretty sure that was an accident.”

“After all he's done to us before?” Kate went on. “You don't think he's mean enough—?”

“Oh, I think he's mean enough,” Sarah said. “I just don't think he's smart enough. I think he was totally astonished when the water started gushing out of that wall, and only worried about what it was doing to his room.”

“You never should have taken this on,” Kate said. “You should have—”

“Maybe I should have listened to you,” Sarah said. “But I didn't. We just have to get through this.
I
just have to get through this. Don't worry about it.”

“I should give him a piece of my mind,” Kate said.

“Don't give him the satisfaction. Don't worry about me. I'll handle it.”

Kate made an inarticulate noise and I saw her dashing across the lawn. I pretended to have just come out of the front door.

“Hey, Sarah,” I said. “Was that Kate I saw? She should come in and get a preview of the house.”

“I think she wants to wait and be surprised by the finished product.” She was smiling, but I could tell it was an effort. Her hand went up as if to torment her blue lock again, but she stopped it halfway with a glance at me.

I liked Sarah. She was in her early thirties, a little younger than me, and in the past few weeks we'd discovered any number of shared tastes and interests. We usually saw eye to eye about what went on in the house.

But I could tell that right now wasn't the time to presume on our developing friendship by asking her about the argument she'd had with her partner.

“Well, I'm off,” I said. “Tomás and Mateo will be helping with the repairs, and Randall's sending some more guys over. Call me if there's anything you need.”

She nodded and went back into the house, looking preoccupied.

Nothing I could do now. I'd check on how she was doing after Tomás and Mateo and Randall's crew had worked their magic.

 

Chapter 4

“There's Mommy!”

“Mommy!”

Michael and our five-year-old twins, Josh and Jamie, were standing on the sidewalk in front of Caerphilly Assisted Living, waving frantically as I strode across the parking lot.

“Where are the rest of the carolers?” I asked.

“Inside, warming up.” Michael gave me a quick kiss. “The boys wanted to wait outside for you.”

“Mommy, it's going to snow, isn't it?” Jamie asked.

“Is not,” Josh said. “Can we sing ‘God Rest Ye Merry'?”

“‘We Three Kings,'” Jamie said.

“We can sing them both,” I said. “Let's go inside and warm up.”

Inside we found Robyn Smith, the Episcopalian pastor, and Minerva Burke, leader of the New Life Baptist Choir, with an ecumenically diverse group of about thirty carolers, ranging in age from senior citizens to a few kids almost as young as the boys.

“That's everyone,” Robyn said, handing us four small carol books. “Let's go.”

She and Minerva led the way down the hall toward the building's main lounge. Some seventy or eighty seniors were gathered in several rows of chairs, with a line of wheelchairs along the back. Everyone seemed delighted with our arrival—I wasn't sure whether it was the prospect of our caroling or the joy of seeing half a dozen small children.

We did indeed sing both “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” and “We Three Kings.” And also “Joy to the World,” “Silent Night,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and several other old favorites. The boys knew all the words—or thought they did—and could at least approximate the tunes. It was a stroke of genius on Robyn and Minerva's part to include the children. We grown-ups were providing most of the volume and almost all of the on-key notes, but the children were the main focus for our audience. I loved the fact that we were bringing a measure of holiday cheer to townspeople who weren't able to get out and enjoy all of the events of the season.

We closed with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and then Robyn introduced all the carolers and thanked the audience for allowing us to share the holiday season with them. Most of the grown-up carolers went to help the staff wheel the residents back into the sun room for the upcoming bingo game. The children gravitated toward the Christmas tree, and amused themselves with shaking and poking the wrapped presents heaped around it and checking for tags, in case Santa had delivered a few of their presents here by mistake.

I spotted a familiar face and went over to greet Alice, one of the two Quilt Ladies decorating the bonus room at the show house.

“Shirking your post at the house, I see,” she said, with a grin.

“Said the pot to the kettle,” I replied.

“Oh, we're nearly finished,” she said. “I came over for the weekly quilting bee. Want to see what we're up to?”

I followed her across the hall to a recreation room where half a dozen seniors were either gathered around a long table, arranging bits of fabric into patterns, or sitting at sewing machines stitching more bits of fabric together. Brightly colored quilts, ranging from crib size to queen size, hung on the walls or were draped, unfinished, over the tables and a couple of racks.

“We started the quilting program as art therapy for the residents,” she said. “But then we realized we could do a lot of good with the quilts. Sometimes we give them to poor people or sick people, and other times we auction them off for good causes. When the New Life Baptist Church had that problem last year with the skunks in the choir loft, we auctioned off a black-and-white quilt with a theme of skunks and musical notes. Made over five hundred dollars toward the renovations.”

“Lovely,” I said, meaning both the quilts and what they did with them.

“We call ourselves Quilters for Good,” she said. “It's the charity we've designated in case our room wins the prize at the show house. Unless someone decides to disallow us.”

“Why would they?” I asked.

“We don't have any kind of formal organization,” she said. “Clay Spottiswood seemed to think you wouldn't be allowed to give it to us. He was saying—”

“Clay Spottiswood says a lot of things that nobody listens to,” I said. “Don't worry about it. If you win the prize, we'll find a way for Quilters for Good to get the money.”

“Thank you!” She seemed limp with relief.

I spent a few minutes praising the quilts—easy to figure out which quilters belonged to which quilt by seeing who beamed when I exclaimed over each one.

Then I headed back to collect Michael and the boys.

But halfway there I paused in the hall, pulled out my cell phone, and called Randall.

“What's wrong?” Randall asked.

“Nothing's wrong,” I said. “I was just wondering about something. What charity has Clay designated in the unlikely event that his room wins the competition?”

“Designers of the Future. Provides scholarships for deserving low-income students who want to study art, architecture, or interior design.”

“Sounds worthwhile,” I said.

“And legit,” Randall said. “He gave us a copy of the paperwork for making it an approved 501(c)(3) tax-exempt organization.”

“The Quilt Ladies' charity isn't,” I said. “It's just them and a bunch of seniors here at Caerphilly Assisted Living making quilts for good causes.”

“And doing a hell of a lot of good, especially this time of year,” he said. “I figured if they win, we can set up something through one of the churches to get them the funds. Not a church in town they haven't helped.”

“Good. I was just wondering. Do you need me, or can I carry on with my plan of finishing my Christmas shopping this afternoon?”

“I'll call if anything comes up that we need you for.”

And Randall did call a couple of times during the afternoon, but only with questions I could easily answer without returning to the house. Michael and I split the boys up, and I took Josh shopping to get presents for his daddy and brother, while Michael and Jamie shopped for presents for Josh and me.

I'd have been overjoyed to be doing almost anything that got me away from the show house, but strolling around Caerphilly with Josh was perfect. I wasn't sure which I enjoyed more—seeing familiar holiday sights through his eyes, or having him point out Christmas details I hadn't noticed. Had we forgotten last year to take the boys to see the giant mechanical Santa's village in the front window of the Caerphilly Toy Town? No, we had a picture of the boys staring openmouthed as the red-and-green North Pole Express train chugged its way around and around. And yet Josh was as excited as if he'd never seen it before, and we spent a happy half hour watching it.

“Do you think Santa will bring Jamie and me toy trains?” he asked eventually.

“It was on your list, wasn't it?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Then trust Santa,” I said. “I do.”

Of course it was easier for me, knowing that two fabulous electric train sets were already wrapped and hidden in the attic. It would be interesting to see if the boys ran separate but equal railroad lines or if they joined forces to create one sprawling monster set of tracks. I made a mental note to bring them back here for inspiration. And then I dragged a reluctant Josh away so we could finish shopping for his dad. Eventually, at the hardware store, we decided on a new Craftsman hammer for Michael.

After a couple of hours Josh and I met Jamie and Michael at the ice cream store. In spite of the weather, both boys were begging for ice cream, so we indulged them, while Michael and I enjoyed a more seasonal cup of hot chocolate. Then we swapped twins, so Jamie and I could shop for Michael while Josh and Michael found a present for me.

Jamie also liked the train set, but his favorite place to linger was the Caerphilly Bakery, which had recently installed a viewing window so the tourists could watch as the staff pulled a seemingly neverending supply of cookies and gingerbread men out of the ovens. We finally chose two gingerbread men—one for him and one for Josh—and made our way to Caerphilly Sporting Goods, where he decided that a baseball and a pair of bright red baseball socks would be the perfect Christmas present for Michael.

We ended up for dinner at Luigi's, our favorite Italian restaurant, and Michael and I briefed each other while the boys went over to shake the wrapped boxes under Luigi's Christmas tree. My shopping had gone well, but apparently Michael wasn't having much luck helping the boys find something I'd like.

“I assume you're still opposed to hamsters, guinea pigs, and gerbils,” he reported. “Persian cats and Siamese fighting fish were also discussed and vetoed. Josh and I spent quite a lot of time at the perfume counter, but in the end he decided that Rose Noire makes much better smells.”

“He's probably right.”

“Josh still thinks maybe you'd enjoy an electric train set once you started playing with it,” he went on. “And he was disappointed that the diamond earrings he likes are a couple of thousand dollars over what he's saved up in his piggy bank.”

“I do wish you could convince them just to make something,” I said. “I'm sure I'd be delighted with anything they made.”

“I know that,” he said. “But for some reason this year they are determined to buy you a present. If you can think of anything you'd like, let me know and I'll try to talk them into it.”

“Will do,” I said, just as the boys scampered back to the table.

By the time we finished, the snow had started falling. But we weren't about to let a little snow ruin our plans for the evening—going to see the world famous New Life Baptist Church's gospel choir. Every year they did a Christmas concert at the church for the unfortunate townspeople who, not being Baptist, wouldn't get to hear them sing at their Christmas services.

This year was especially exciting because it was New Life's first Christmas concert since my friend Minerva Burke had taken over as choir director. My friend Aida Butler was a nervous wreck, because her daughter Kayla was doing her first big solo, so I made her sit with us and distracted her by telling her all about the designers' antics.