After the singing was finished, Charles took a few moments to welcome newcomers. Today that meant Myrtle. He gave a brief introduction, mentioning that she would be staying at the inn throughout the holidays. And then, to Edith’s complete surprise and probably everyone else’s too, Myrtle stood up.
“Thank you,” she said in a loud voice, turning toward the congregation as if preparing to give a speech. “You have an interesting little town here,” she continued. “Although I do think you people take this whole Christmas business way too far. Good grief, I actually wiped my mug with Santa faces this morning.” A few titters were heard, although Edith suspected that Myrtle wasn’t trying to be funny. “What bothers me is that you people are going to forget what Christmas is really about.” She shook her finger at them. “It’s not about ‘Jingle Bells’ and candy canes and Santa head toilet-seat covers. It’s not about making a few extra bucks or impressing your friends with the way your place is all lit up. And if this is all that Christmas Valley has to offer, well, I’d just as soon spend my Christmas someplace else!” Then she turned and sat down with a
thump
.
The church was so quiet you could have heard a snowflake fall. Not that there was any chance of that today, since it was still quite balmy. Edith, almost afraid to breathe, looked up at the pulpit, where Charles’s eyes were wide and his mouth was actually partway open. But he quickly regained composure and even acknowledged Myrtle’s stern reprimand.
“I think our guest makes a valid point,” he said slowly. “It is important that we not lose sight of the true meaning of Christmas.” He smiled. “And I’m sure that’s why all of you are here this morning.” Then he launched into his sermon.
Unfortunately, Edith was so distracted by Myrtle’s strong words, not to mention being deposed from her regular seat, that she was unable to really focus. All she could think of was that this Myrtle had a lot of nerve to dress down the entire congregation. Good grief, she’d been here for less than twenty-four hours, and she was already telling people how to act. It was just a bit much. And, although it wasn’t Edith’s fault, she felt personally responsible for her guest’s less than thoughtful behavior. She couldn’t imagine how she was going to make up for it—especially to someone like Olive Peters, and Edith could feel Olive’s eyes peering at her from across the church right now.
Finally the service was over, they were singing the anthem, and Edith was considering making a swift exit out the side door in the kitchen. But before she had a chance to make her getaway, someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.
Edith turned in the pew to see Mrs. Fish. And her old wrinkled face looked concerned.
“I’d like to be introduced to your guest,” she said.
But by then Myrtle had already turned around. “I’m Myrtle,” she said without fanfare.
Mrs. Fish nodded with a stiff smile.
“This is my friend Mrs. Fish,” said Edith quickly. “She’s a retired schoolteacher.”
Myrtle stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“I was interested in your comments this morning,” began Mrs. Fish.
Then before another word was said, Edith hastily excused herself and made her exit. Oh, she was curious as to what Mrs. Fish was going to say to Myrtle. But not curious enough to stick around. Who knew what might happen with two opinionated women like that. Of course, the ever courteous Mrs. Fish would probably practice perfect self-control. But Myrtle seemed to be a bit of a loose cannon, and Edith didn’t care to be around to witness any fireworks. Instead she made her quick getaway as planned, getting all the way to the kitchen before Olive caught up with her.
“Where on earth did that woman come from?” demanded Olive in quiet tones.
Edith smiled. “I’m not sure.” Then changing the subject, “How is Helen doing?”
“Helen’s fine,” Olive said quickly. “But seriously, Edith, what is wrong with that woman? I thought she was going to start preaching fire and brimstone at us. You and Pastor Charles better make sure you keep her in check.”
Edith wasn’t sure how to respond, but apparently that didn’t matter, because now Mrs. Fish and Myrtle were coming into the kitchen.
“I want you to meet Olive Peters,” said Mrs. Fish. “Olive?”
Olive looked over with a confused expression. “Yes?”
“Well, Myrtle and I were just discussing the real meaning of Christmas, and she was telling me how she’s something of an expert when it comes to nativity productions and such. And I told her that you’re managing the pageant this year, and about Helen’s fall and how she hurt her knee and won’t be of much help.” Mrs. Fish smiled. “And it seems you’re in luck, Olive. Myrtle just volunteered to give you a hand.”
Olive tossed a warning look to Edith, almost as if she expected Edith to remedy this perplexing situation. But Edith was at a complete loss for words at the moment. She just wanted to get back to her kitchen and baking and to forget all about this unpredictable Myrtle Pinkerton.
“When do we start?” asked Myrtle, as if it were all settled.
Olive’s lips were pinched tightly together, and Edith actually felt sorry for her.
“I—uh—we’re having a rehearsal today,” Olive finally said in a flat voice. “It starts at one.”
“Maybe we should spend some time planning first,” suggested Myrtle. “During lunch works for me.” She frowned. “Although I can’t say much for the choices of eateries in this town.”
Olive cleared her throat. “Well, if you want to come home with me . . . I could warm us up some beef stew that I made last night.”
Myrtle nodded. “What are we waiting for?”
Edith smiled to herself as she crossed the street. Olive might’ve met her match in Myrtle. Hopefully, it wouldn’t ruin the Christmas pageant or do any other sort of permanent damage to Christmas or Christmas Valley in general. And it might keep Myrtle occupied and, consequently, out of trouble.
“Are you going over to the church to help Olive with the pageant today?” Edith asked Myrtle on Monday morning, hoping that perhaps she’d get a short reprieve from Myrtle’s nonstop prattle, most of it focused on how Edith was or was not preparing a recipe correctly. Despite the sign above the kitchen door that clearly stated, Edith had previously believed, that this area was strictly off-limits to guests, Myrtle persisted in coming in and making herself at home. Not only that, she persisted in giving Edith culinary suggestions like, “Shouldn’t you add some anise to that batter?” And then when Edith’s back was turned, Myrtle took the liberty to add it, generously. Perhaps it would make the cookies taste better, but it irritated Edith just the same.
“The rehearsal isn’t until this afternoon,” said Myrtle as she poured herself another cup of coffee and watched Edith stirring the dough.
Edith considered reminding Myrtle about her kitchen rule again, but since the past two attempts had clearly fallen upon deaf ears, why waste her breath?
“When are the other Christmas guests coming?” asked Myrtle as she watched Edith starting to roll out cookie dough. Edith had already explained to Myrtle about her children and how they’d been unable to come home for Christmas, and thus her plan for opening her home during the holidays.
“Some are supposed to arrive in the afternoon.”
“Here,” said Myrtle, suddenly reaching for the rolling pin and actually taking it right from Edith’s hands. “Let me show you how it’s
supposed
to be done.”
Edith watched helplessly as Myrtle took over the menial task that anyone else would’ve gladly relinquished. But instead Edith felt irritated. And something else too. Another emotion stirred within her—a feeling she couldn’t even name. But something about this whole kitchen scene felt very familiar to her. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Have you always lived in Christmas Valley?” asked Myrtle as she skillfully worked the rolling pin over the dough.
Edith decided it probably wouldn’t hurt to tell Myrtle the nutshell version of how she and Charles relocated from Iowa after he finished seminary. The whole while she watched, almost mesmerized, as the rolling pin moved steadily back and forth across the dough.
“What about
your
family?”
“You mean my children?”
“No. I mean your parents.”
Edith considered this for a long moment, unsure as to how much she wished to disclose to this almost complete stranger, but finally said, “I was raised by my grandparents. They both passed on several years ago.”
Myrtle nodded. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“That must’ve been pretty lonely for you, growing up . . .”
Edith nodded, somewhat surprised at what seemed a compassionate response from Myrtle. “Yes, I suppose that’s one of the reasons that I like having my children around me at Christmastime. It helps to make up for all those quiet Christmases when it was just my grandparents and me.”
“You ready?” asked Myrtle, holding up the rolling pin like a torch or maybe a club.
“For what?” Edith felt confused.
“The dough. It’s time to cut the cookies.”
“Oh.”
As Edith and Myrtle proceeded to cut out cookies in the shapes of trees, stars, angels . . . placing them one by one on the buttered cookie sheet, Edith found herself thinking about her childhood. And that’s when it occurred to her that Myrtle reminded her a bit of her grandmother. Fairly bossy, pushy, and rather outspoken. Her grandmother had been one of those women who knew it all and wanted everyone around her to know that she did. Oh, Edith had always been grateful to her grandmother. But she often felt overwhelmed by the woman’s strong opinions. So when the opportunity arose to leave home at eighteen, via a marriage that her grandmother had severely questioned, Edith leaped at the chance. Of course, her grandmother thought it was a huge mistake, that Charles was too old for her and that Edith should finish college before marrying. And most disturbing to her grandmother was that Charles wanted to relocate them to Christmas Valley. “A foolish move that you’ll one day regret,” her grandmother had warned her.
But Edith had never regretted it. Oh, she regretted that the gulf between her and her grandparents had grown wider with each passing year. But with the birth of her first child and the other three so shortly thereafter, she was so distracted with motherhood, her husband’s ministry, and all the daily demands of life that contact with her grandparents steadily decreased until it was little more than Christmas and birthday cards.
And then after her children became adults and left home, Edith opened up the bed and breakfast, and her life was just as busy as ever. Her grandfather had died about ten years ago, and her grandmother died the following year. Naturally, she had been saddened to lose them, but then they’d both been in their nineties, so it hadn’t been a great surprise. Of course, she did regret that they’d never come out to visit. Even when she specifically invited them to come stay at the newly remodeled B and B, they had declined on account of “health” issues. But she suspected it was merely an excuse.
Myrtle was gathering up the remnants of dough now, slapping them together into a small ball that she proceeded to roll out, back and forth, as if she had done this many a time in the past. Edith no longer cared that Myrtle had taken over. Mostly she felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. She wasn’t even sure why.
“You seem to have everything under control here,” she told Myrtle as she removed her apron and hung it on the hook by the back door. “Do you mind taking the cookies out of the oven when they’re done?”
“Not at all.” Myrtle didn’t even look up. “Go ahead and do what you need to do. I can handle this by myself. Besides, I’m sure you have a lot to get done before the other guests get here.”
“Yes . . .” Edith nodded. But as she walked out of the kitchen, she couldn’t think of a single thing that needed doing. Oh, certainly there was plenty to do, but it was as if her usual well organized mind had been wiped completely clean.
She went up to the room that she and Charles shared. They had remodeled this space for themselves before transforming their home into the Shepherd’s Inn. By combining two smaller bedrooms and a bath, they had created a large and comfortable suite that provided a tranquil getaway, a private retreat. And since Charles was visiting a parishioner who was in the hospital in a nearby town, the orderly room was quiet and peaceful now. Edith went inside and closed the door behind her. Then, sitting down in her padded rocking chair, she began to cry. Tears from long ago poured down her cheeks, and she let them. She wasn’t quite sure what she was specifically crying for—oh, it had to do with her grandparents, of course, her childhood, their passing . . . but it was all rather vague. Perhaps she was simply grieving.
She wasn’t sure just how long she actually cried, but after she’d blown her nose and splashed cold water on her face, it was nearly two o’clock. And she knew it was only a matter of time until the new guests would begin arriving. She
must
pull herself together.
The house was quiet when Edith went back downstairs. She figured that Myrtle was over at the church either helping or harassing Olive. But at least it gave Edith a chance to regroup and get a few things done. To her relief, the cookies looked okay. Perhaps a bit thinner than she would’ve made them, but at least they hadn’t burned. She picked up a lopsided star and took a bite. To be perfectly honest, the anise did make them taste more interesting. She wished there was time to brew a pot of tea, but Edith figured she’d better get busy before the guests started coming. She still needed to put fresh linens in the Good Shepherd Room, where she planned to put Albert Benson, since he was alone and the room was a bit smaller than the others. She also wanted to put the special Christmas mints on the pillows. She’d just picked them up at the Candy Cane Shoppe yesterday afternoon.
“You’re going to have your hands full with your new guest,” Betty Gordon had told her in a conspirator’s tone. Betty was the owner of the candy shop as well as a member of their congregation.
“So you heard her this morning?” ventured Edith.
Betty laughed. “I can imagine she’ll really spice things up at the inn.”