Songs of Christmas (8 page)

L
UCKILY IT WAS MY LEFT ARM.
I
CAN STILL DO THE CROSSWORD
puzzle.” Emily came into the room just as Ezra was holding up his broken left arm for Mrs. Fallon to see. Leave it to Ezra to find an upside to this calamity.

Mrs. Fallon seemed suitably impressed. She had rushed back from her holiday weekend and had only had Monday to prepare the house for Ezra’s return. But, as always, she had done a wonderful job.

“Look at the cast they gave me. All cushy, with Velcro straps,” he continued. “In my day it was pure plaster, all the way. Of course, the one on my leg is an old-fashioned model.” He peered over the blanket at his right leg, which was covered with a plaster cast that stretched from above his knee, his toes poking out the bottom.

“You poor thing!” Mrs. Fallon said. “Are you in any pain?”

“Oh, not much. A little at night, when I’m sleeping.”

“And when he’s showing off,” Emily’s mother cut in. “Best not to encourage him.”

Lillian turned to her husband, who just that morning had been sent home in an ambulance and carried into the house on a gurney, then settled gently on a rented hospital bed that was set up in a spare bedroom on the first floor.

“So, how would you feel now if you looked around and found yourself in some strange room, in some dingy, sterile-looking rehab center?” Lillian asked.

Emily was holding a vase of flowers and a pile of magazines. She set the vase on the dresser where Ezra could see it. “I doubt the places Dr. Newton recommended were that horrible, Mother.”

“I, for one, am relieved that we’ll never find out,” Lillian replied. “I’m sure Ezra is glad, too, to be in his own home, with me and Mrs. Fallon.”

“I know, dear. I have only you to thank,” he said graciously.

“There’s nothing like your own home when you’re not feeling well, Emily,” Lillian continued. “When you get to our age, you’ll understand.”

“I already understand,” Emily assured her. She was just concerned about how the seniors would manage, even with loyal Mrs. Fallon there to help. It was hard to tell Mrs. Fallon’s age—somewhere in her early sixties? She was strong and capable, and Emily trusted her judgment, but she couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Emily walked over to Ezra’s bed and left the magazines on the nightstand. “How do you feel, Ezra? Did the ride in the ambulance bother you?”

He shrugged a bony shoulder. “It was interesting. I like seeing all the new equipment they carry. Those young men are strong. Lifted me right up. I felt like an emperor being paraded through the streets of Rome.”

Emily smiled. He did watch a lot of the History Channel. “I guess you could have used the wheelchair. But it was faster that way,” she said.

“We’ve rented a very nice chair for you. Top of the line,” Lillian told him. “We can try it out later and make sure it works right.”

“You may have to move some furniture so that Ezra can get around,” Emily realized. “Do you want me to help you?”

Mrs. Fallon looked as if she would have welcomed the help, but her mother quickly brushed the offer aside. “That’s all right, Emily. We can manage. Can’t we, Martha?”

“Of course we can, Mrs. Elliot. Would you like anything, sir? Some hot tea?” she asked Ezra.

“Some tea would be nice. I’m feeling a little tired out,” Ezra admitted, his eyes starting to droop.

“You need to rest,” Lillian agreed. “That’s what will do you the most good.” She yanked the curtains closed, shutting out the bright sunlight. “You take a nap and we’ll have lunch together later.”

“I’ve made some nice chicken soup for you, Dr. Elliot,” Mrs. Fallon said.

“With dumplings?”

Emily smiled at the hopeful note in his tone.

“Of course there are dumplings, Dr. Elliot. I couldn’t serve soup to you without them.”

“I could,” her mother murmured. “All that pasty dough. It will lie very heavy in his stomach.”

But Emily could see that even Lillian did not have the heart to deprive Ezra of his favorite comfort food on his homecoming day.

Ezra smiled, visions of dumplings dancing in his head, as he drifted off to sleep. Lillian let Emily and Mrs. Fallon pass in front of her, then walked out herself, shutting the door.

“Rest is the best thing for him,” Lillian announced.

“Yes, it is. But the doctor said he has to be out of bed and sitting in a chair for a few hours a day also. So he doesn’t catch pneumonia,” Emily reminded her.

“Ezra is a doctor. He knows that,” Lillian snapped.

Emily ignored her peckish tone. “You shouldn’t shut the door all the way,” she noted, opening it up. “You might not hear if he tries to call you. You should have a monitor in there. I’ll pick one up and bring it by later.”

“Good idea, Mayor Warwick,” Mrs. Fallon said. “It’s hard to hear Dr. Elliot’s voice sometimes when he calls, even when he’s well.”

Emily saw her mother purse her lips. Obviously, she had not thought of that. “All right, get a monitor.” Lillian shrugged, as if the device would comfort Emily but was not really needed. “Until then, we’ll keep an ear out. No need to worry.”

Emily was about to remark that she did worry. Her mother’s hearing was quite compromised—since she refused to wear her hearing aids out of vanity—and Mrs. Fallon was always in the kitchen with some noisy appliance going, as well as the tiny TV she had there so she could watch her talk shows as she worked.

Though none of this boded well, Emily knew she had no choice but to sit back and see how it played out.

“I called the visiting nurse service. Someone is coming this afternoon.”

“So soon? He’s barely gotten out of the hospital,” Lillian protested.

Emily could have predicted that reaction. “Yes, this afternoon. They need to check his vital signs several times a day. In addition to his broken limbs, Ezra had also had a heart attack. You know we have to take that seriously. As we discussed, you are going to need some help here, Mother. Otherwise this won’t work out,” Emily warned in an even tone.

“Yes, yes, I know. We’ll figure it out as we go along,” Lillian promised. “Thank you for helping fetch Ezra. Now I’m sure you have pressing business back at the Village Hall.”

That was her mother’s way of dismissing her. Emily was ready to go anyway. She picked up her coat and handbag. “I’ll be back later. Call me if you need anything.”

“We will,” her mother added with her tight “Will you
please
go away now?” smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll be just dandy.”

Emily left her settled in her favorite wingback chair, surveying her small but precious kingdom with an air of regal composure.

* * *

“AFTER YOU PULL OPEN THIS SECTION, YOU PUSH BACK THE ROLLER
and then use these little wooden tongs to pull the paper out. You have to be careful. The metal parts get hot . . .”

Mrs. Honeyfield, the church secretary, was trying to explain how to remove a jammed piece of paper from the copy machine. Amanda was only half-listening. She held the binder of hymns close to her body, wondering if she was in over her head here.

Not just with the copier, which seemed to hate her at first sight. But with the whole job of church music director.

Just chill. It’s your first day,
she reminded herself.
It’s
not even lunchtime yet. You can’t learn everything in one morning
.

“It’s much easier if you don’t tear it. Try to just gently tug . . . see?” Mrs. Honeyfield demonstrated, slowly slipping out the offending sheet that had brought the big machine to a grinding halt.

“Thanks.” Amanda nodded and stepped back as the older woman snapped all the parts back together again.

Amanda knew she would never remember this magic routine. She had battled plenty of copiers in college libraries and the offices of music departments, and each had its own peculiarities. Amanda rarely had luck with any of them.

“I don’t think it likes me. Machines never do,” she told the secretary.

Mrs. Honeyfield stared at her. Amanda could see she didn’t get the joke and didn’t think the machine had any feelings one way or the other.

“If you have a problem with it, the instruction guide is right here, dear.” She smiled politely and patted a laminated booklet that hung on the side of the big, ugly machine.

Mrs. Honeyfield returned to her desk to answer the phone, and Amanda turned back to the copier and tried again. She needed copies of the worship plan she and Reverend Ben had just worked out. The meeting had lasted over an hour. She didn’t think it would always go on that long, but it was her first day, and there was a lot to explain, especially with Christmas coming.

Worship services were planned on Tuesday, with a short review on Thursday or Friday. So today had been a good day of the week to start the job.

Thursday night choir rehearsals were most important, and Amanda expected that role to be the most challenging. Then there was the service on Sundays, of course. The tip of iceberg, actually, though it was the part that was most visible and significant to the congregation.

At least she had her own little office, in a cozy corner of the choir room. She was eager to get back there and go through the desk and examine the bulletin board. Maybe her predecessor had left some helpful hints and reminders. But first she had to review Sunday’s hymns. Since she wasn’t that familiar with the hymnal yet, Reverend Ben had given her some leeway and suggested she go over the hymns they had selected to make sure she felt comfortable reviewing them with the choir and playing them on the piano and organ. Amanda had appreciated that.

With a binder of sheet music under her arm, Amanda headed into the sanctuary. She had been in there briefly that morning when Reverend Ben showed her the piano and organ. A few lights were still on, shining down on the altar area. Amanda didn’t bother turning on the rest.

She sat at the piano and opened the cover. Her fingers glided along the smooth, cool keys in an easy, rippling scale. She hadn’t played keyboards much in the last few years, devoting herself entirely to the cello. But she had practiced at home last night and felt her touch returning. It was amazing how the body remembered some skills before, or even without, the conscious mind. Like riding a bike, for instance, or playing an instrument.

The choir was scheduled to sing “We Wait in Hope for the Lord” as Sunday’s opening hymn. Amanda played a few bars and then began to sing along. She didn’t do a very good job with the first few bars, she thought. She paused and tried it again, finally hitting a high note that had been out of reach on her first try.

She sang to the end of the next bar and stopped to make a note on the music. A sharp, slow clap suddenly broke the silence. She lifted her head and turned, peering into the shadowy sanctuary. Was Reverend Ben listening to her? Amanda had been surprised when he hadn’t asked her to play the piano or organ during their interview. Maybe now he was checking out her skills.

A figure stepped forward, down the center aisle, out of the darkness. Definitely a man, and definitely not the reverend. It was the pie guy again. Amanda felt her breath catch and quickly looked back at the piano.
I should call him the spy guy now,
Amanda thought, feeling both excited to see him again and very self-conscious.

“You have a lovely voice,” he said. “You don’t even need a microphone.”

“The acoustics are good in here. This church is known for that.” Amanda fussed with the sheet music, trying to ignore him as he came closer.

“Are you going to sing on Sunday?”

“No, but I’ll be conducting the choir.” She looked up at him quickly. He was standing near the piano now, just a few steps away. “I’m the new music director.”

“Really? So you work here. How about Willoughby’s; do you work there, too?”

Amanda looked down at the piano and closed the cover. “My mothe—stepmother, actually—owns the shop. I was just helping out for a while.”

“Oh. Very interesting.” She couldn’t tell from his tone if he was sincere or mocking her. Or flirting with her. Maybe a mixture of all three?

Before she could reply, he added, “So you’re not a bakery girl after all. You’re a musician?”

“Yes, I’m a musician.”
Or trying to be,
she amended silently. She started to gather the sheets of music and put them back in the binder, but it was suddenly a mess, with pages springing out all over the place. She wanted to make a fast getaway but feared she would leave a trail of music in her wake.

She felt him studying her and glanced up. He was tall and had broad shoulders, which looked even wider as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her.

She was sorry now that she had dressed in such a hurry this morning, pulling on a cream-colored turtleneck and a tweedy brown skirt. Her long hair was brushed back in a ponytail and she wore no makeup, just a dab of lip gloss. She usually dressed with more flair but thought she should look conservative for a job in a church. And it never occurred to her that there would be anyone here to dress up for.
Well, wrong about that one,
she realized. She would definitely do better tomorrow.

Though his outfit wasn’t unremarkable, he looked fairly remarkable in it. He wore a dark blue pullover today that was stained with paint and maybe varnish. The spots matched the marks on his faded jeans and boots. Despite the worn wardrobe, or maybe because of it, he looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of
GQ
or out of some glossy advertisement for male magnetism and charisma.

He caught her gaze and smiled at her in a way that was totally unnerving. As if he had just guessed everything she had been thinking about him.

“So, are you going to sing some more?” The light in his blue eyes was so encouraging, Amanda was tempted to comply.

Instead, she rose from the bench and grabbed the binder. “Uh, no. I’m not. Time to go,” she replied. “See you.”

“Really? I was hoping to hear the rest of the song.”

Amanda quickly escaped up the center aisle and dared a glance back at him. “Sorry, show’s over. Next performance is Sunday. No tickets required,” she added with a wry grin.