his trailer so he volunteered to stay and help paint.
It was heading for one in the morning before they finished the last bit of trim. I had hung all of Dwight’s clothes in his side of our big new walk-in closet, and his socks and underwear were now neatly tucked away in dresser drawers.
Saturday was spent rearranging cupboards, cabinets, drawers, and bookshelves to accommodate Dwight’s things. We both culled ruthlessly and wound up with several large boxes to donate to various charities.
I’m always amazed by how much you can get done if you just keep doing, and we emptied his last box shortly before eight.
Dwight put a fresh log on the fire and sank wearily onto the couch. “We’re not supposed to be anyplace tonight, are we?”
“Tomorrow night’s your mother, and Monday is Daddy’s, but nothing tonight.” I loaded the CD player with Christmas music and turned the volume down low. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Let’s just sit a minute.”
He stretched out, with his head in my lap, and I leaned back. The house felt warm and cozy and, all things considered, was amazingly tidy. The fire crackled and shot bright sparks up the chimney and an English boy choir sang ancient carols.
“Yeah,” Dwight murmured. “I could get used to this.”
“Ummm,” I agreed.
I only meant to rest my eyes for a minute. The next thing I knew Dwight was tugging at my hand. “C’mon,” he said sleepily. “It’s after midnight. Time for bed.”
I didn’t argue.
Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear. A beautiful high-pressure day of frosty crystalline air, blue skies, and brilliant sunshine. We decided it might be politic to show up for Mr. Yelvington’s sermon since he was going to marry us in three days, so we drove over to Dobbs and slipped into a back pew at First Baptist just as the choir was entering. Portland and Avery were across the aisle, two rows forward, and when she spotted us, she made a sad face and shook her head. I gave her my “What?” look, but before I could make out what it was she was commiserating with me about, Dwight nudged me to pay attention to the minister.
Despite being Baptist, the Reverend Carlyle Yelvington was less a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher and more of a come-let-us-reason-together mediator. The subject of the day’s sermon was gratitude—to live in the moment, to be grateful for what we had instead of pining for what we did not have. My eyes met Dwight’s and happiness flooded my soul like the morning sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows. From that moment on, I promised myself, I would truly try to live in every moment with a grateful heart.
That promise lasted about thirty-eight seconds after Mr. Yelvington pronounced the final “Amen,” when Portland hurried over to grab me and wail, “Oh, Deborah! What are y’all going to
“About what?” I asked her.
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
“The country club had a fire last night.”
“A short in the dining room Christmas tree. They put the fire out before it spread to the rest of the building but the dining room’s a mess. Smoke and water damage everywhere. It’ll be at least six weeks before they can reopen it.”
Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash always sit near the front of the church, so it took them a few minutes longer to reach us. Aunt Zell was even more upset than Portland. “Oh, honey, I don’t know what can be done at this late date. Everything’s booked through New Year’s.”
“What about the fellowship hall here?” I asked. The hall was gloomy, its kitchen outdated, and no champagne would be allowed, but at least it was convenient.
It was also taken.
“The Hardisons are celebrating their fiftieth anniversary then,” said Aunt Zell. “I called around this morning and everything’s taken.”
Before I could go into a meltdown, Dwight put his arm around me. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure out something. It’s not the end of the world.”
Uncle Ash and Avery rumbled male agreement, while Portland and Aunt Zell and I rolled our eyes at one another. You don’t invite two hundred and fifty of your closest friends and relatives to a champagne reception and then say, “Sorry, folks. No champagne. No wedding cake. Check back in six weeks.”
But when we drove out to the country club, Job’s comfort was all we found. Ours was not the only event planned for the holidays, of course, and some of the county’s most prominent citizens were milling around the vestibule in anger and dismay. The club manager had barricaded himself in his office with insurance adjusters, but he had posted a large, hastily composed sign that apologized for any inconvenience and promised that all deposits would be promptly refunded.
“I’m sorry about your reception, Deborah,” said Mary Jess Woodall, not sounding very sorry at all, “but Doug and I had a charity auction scheduled for tomorrow night to raise money for the battered women’s shelter. We usually clear about eight thousand dollars so those women and their children can have a decent Christmas.”
“What’ll you do?” I asked.
“Tents,” she said succinctly.
“Tents? Mary Jess, it’s December.”
“That’s why they invented portable heaters, sugar. I’m having one set up around on the side there. The kitchen
