A Light in the Window (21 page)

He hadn’t wanted not to write, but where was the chance to sit down and begin? It was the busiest time of the year for clergy, not to mention the rest of the human horde. Besides, what was he going to do about the question that kept forcing itself in his mind—namely, Who was the man who answered your phone?

If a man answers, hang up! He never dreamed he would be the butt of such a classic, almost vaudevillian joke. The man had spoken her name with a certain familiarity. “Cynthia,” he had said, “is getting dressed.”

Getting dressed?

He hated this. It made his stomach churn. Number one, he clearly did not know how to have a romantic relationship; he had no idea what the rules were. And number two, he especially did not relish playing games, second-guessing someone, and generally suffering a gut-wrenching anxiety over what he would absolutely not allow to become jealousy.

He supposed the thing to do was write her at once and just say it:

Maybe that was the way to handle it. He hadn’t the time, however, to figure it out. He would simply dash off a note that made no reference to the incident and forget the whole thing. If Cynthia Coppersmith were nothing else, she was guileless. She was not the sort to say one thing and do another; that was only one of the reasons he loved her.

But, then—did he really love her? Had he merely been swept along by the force of her own impulsive feelings?

Blast!

He slung the notebook against the study wall at the moment Dooley walked in.

“Hey,” said Dooley, looking at the notebook.

His face burned. “Hey, yourself.”

“When’re we gittin’ a Christmas tree?”

“Right now,” he said. “Put on your jacket, and bring your gloves. I’ll get the axe.”

The snow began on Thursday afternoon.

He and Dooley had trimmed the tree the night before and he had gone home for lunch, simply to look at it again. Yes! The magic had invaded the rectory. He could smell it as he walked in the door, the permeating fragrance of fir and forest and freedom, which refused to be lost among the smells of baking bread. He felt fairly lifted off the floor.

Barnabas dashed from the rug in front of the study sofa and gave him a resounding wallop on the chest with his paws, followed by a proper licking. What more could he have asked of his life? A job to do, a warm home filled with intoxicating smells, a dog of his own, a growing boy, and all of it covered by the astonishing facts of the nativity.

“Come and see the guest room!” Puny called from the top of the stairs.

The room that was so often shut away and cold, with closed heating vents and a frozen toilet seat, was now warm and inviting. Puny had found extra pillows in the closet and covered them with starched shams. She had stolen a braided rug from the foot of his own bed and a rocking chair from the garage. Bottled water sat on the nightstand with a copy of the
Muse,
a worn copy of
Country Life
magazine, and a chocolate truffle from her own gift box from Cynthia.

She had placed a branch of holly atop the picture frame over the bed.

“You don’t reckon it could fall on ’im in the night, do you?” She was clearly concerned.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be mad about me takin’ your rug. He’s a bishop, you know, and you’re just ...”

“A lowly preacher.”

“No offense.”

“None taken!”

He reached in his pocket and handed her an envelope. “Merry Christmas! While I’m but a lowly preacher, you, on the other hand, are an angel. And that’s a fact.”

Her chin quivered as she opened the envelope and removed the hundred-dollar bill. “I jis’ knew it!” she wailed, throwing her arms around his neck. “You’ll never know how I needed this. My sister got laid off, and her least one is sick and needs shots, and this is jis’ th’ best thing in th’ world!”

“Well, then, quit crying, if you don’t mind.”

“I cain’t he’p it!” she insisted, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. He handed her his handkerchief.

“I jis’ ironed that thing. I’ll use toilet paper!” she said, fleeing to the bathroom.

The snow, which had begun as a light sprinkle of small flakes, was falling harder as he headed back to the office. “I’d stay home if I was you,” Puny advised. “You know they’re callin’ for a bad storm.”

One of his great failings was paying too little attention to the daily news. And since he had once again missed breakfast at the Grill, it was no wonder he knew nothing of immediate importance.

“I’m leavin’ early in case th’ roads get slick,” she said, handing him his hat and gloves. “Be sure’n take that hall rug out of th’ dryer. It’s th’ last thing I’m washin’.”

“Consider it done.”

“I’d stay in,” she said again.

He opened the door and squinted at the sky. “It probably won’t amount to much.”

“I’d change my shoes, if I was you.”

“Ah, well, Puny, you’re not me and be glad of it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be marrying Joe Joe come June.”

He was surprised to see that everything was already well-covered, including the bushes at Cynthia’s front door. Putting his hat on, he set off briskly.

Lay the train tracks after Stuart leaves tomorrow morning. Deliver the baskets. Get enough ribbon to wrap the jam box and tie a bow. Take the car to Lew Boyd. Carry the chocolates to the hospital. Remember to thaw two pounds of Russell’s livermush to include in his basket.

Should he decorate Cynthia’s mantel, put some greenery on her banisters, a wreath on her door? Surely, it would be no fun coming home to a house barren of Christmas greenery.

Passing Evie Adams’s house, he saw Miss Pattie at the window, waving; a mere glance told him that Miss Pattie was excited about Christmas. He grinned, waving back. She would be even more excited if she knew her basket included a dozen Snickers bars.

The snow churned icily into his face as he walked. Beautiful though it was, it was not soft and friendly like some mountain snows; it was the sort one endured until it spent itself.

As he turned the corner toward the office, he saw that Mitford was fast becoming one of those miniature villages in a glass globe, which, when shaken and set on its base, literally teemed with falling flakes.

The mail had come late today. He had seen Harold Newland on Main Street, bowed under the weight of his mailbag and bundled above the ears against the cold.

“I won’ send you a Christmas card,” Emma had said by way of warning. “I’ve decided to quit sending Christmas cards, period. It’s less for Harold to fool with.”

“A noble gesture.”

“Every little bit helps,” she said, pleased.

He was thrilled to find the cream-colored envelope near the bottom of the pile of greeting cards.

When he tromped home at three o’clock, barely able to see the green awnings of Main Street, he shucked off his coat and hat and sodden loafers and went at once to the phone, his feet frozen, and dialed her number. Busy.