Rituals of the Season

wasn’t damaged and they can still serve out of it.”

“Tents,” I told Dwight, charmed by the idea of a big white one.

“Better start calling right now,” said Mary Jess. “I rented the last one in Raleigh that’s available for tomorrow night. And that reminds me. Did I get your check yet?”

“In the mail tomorrow,” I promised and pulled Dwight out of there to go find the nearest phone book.

“How about my office?” he suggested.

Ten minutes later, I was seated at his desk, walking my fingers through the yellow pages.

Forty minutes later, I had exhausted all the places open on Sunday in a forty-mile radius. Who would have thought so many Christmas parties were held under canvas? Oh, there were a couple of tents available for other nights, but for Wednesday afternoon? Three days before Christmas?

“I can give you a green one, but it doesn’t have sidewalls,” said one hopeful entrepreneur. “I’m pretty sure there’s no bad weather predicted before Christmas.”

I told him to hold that thought and called Minnie, who had already heard about the fire and who was properly sympathetic. “We’ve got the potato house half cleared out for Christmas dinner,” she said. “We could go ahead and clear even more space. It’s not very elegant, but it will hold two hundred and fifty people and if you don’t have any other choice . . .”

With its concrete floors and exposed rafters, the tin-sided potato house is fine for square dances, pig-

pickings, and big family reunions, but for a champagne reception? Minnie was right, though. How much choice did I have?

“It’s so much extra work for y’all,” I said weakly.

“So? School’s out and the farm is full of kids who can help shift potatoes and string up greenery.”

“Today’s our last day of work, so Dwight and I can help, too,” I promised.

“We’ll see,” she said. “Let me call around to the others.”

“Thanks, Minnie,” I said glumly.

“Don’t forget tomorrow night at Mr. Kezzie’s,” she reminded. “Adam and Frank are getting in this evening if that snowstorm in Chicago doesn’t hold them up.”

I told her we’d be there and wandered out in the hall to look for Dwight.

One of Bo’s officers came by with a large black plastic garbage bag over his shoulder.

“You look like Santa Claus,” I said.

The man laughed. “Feel like him, too.” He opened his bag and showed me the pile of toys it held. “Gonna be a good Christmas for a lot of kids who have nothing. It hurts to know how many are out there, doesn’t it?”

As he continued on down the hall with his sack of goodies, my internal preacher said, “And you’re annoyed because you’re going to have to drink champagne and cut a cake in a potato house?”

The pragmatist nodded, in complete agreement for once.

I thought about living in the moment.

I thought about gratitude.

“Hey, shug,” said Dwight when I found him down in the squad room. “Any luck?”

“Tons of it,” I said and told him what my family were going to do for us.

“Then let’s go Christmas shopping.”

“I’ve already done mine,” I said smugly, “but I’m always happy to help spend somebody else’s money.”

The family dinner at Miss Emily’s that night was made even more special by the eight-year-old towhead Velcroed to Dwight’s side.

Rob had driven to Virginia that morning and picked him up, a ten-hour round trip that would’ve taken Dwight fifteen hours, slow as he drives.

Cal and Kate’s young cousin, Mary Pat, were longtime pals. She was nearly six months older, but because of how their birthdays fell, they were at the same grade level. Four-year-old Jake was big enough to hold his own with them, so there were plenty of giggles and easy chatter around the table. Although Cal and I had been comfortable with each other back when Dwight was still acting like just another brother, he was wary of me now and I didn’t try to force it or play up to him. Eventually, he relaxed enough that I could throw in an occasional remark or question and he could respond normally.

The others had heard about the country club fire. “Minnie already called me,” Kate said. “I told her I’d help with the decorations.”

“Me too,” said Mary Pat.

“Such a shame,” Miss Emily commiserated, but Dwight shrugged and said, “I have to admit I’m not real sorry about the way it’s working out.”

I looked at him inquiringly.

“Sorry, shug, but I’m not really the country club type.”

“As if she hasn’t noticed,” his sister Beth sighed with a shake of her head.

Even though we had moved furniture back into the room that would be Cal’s, Dwight had decided that the two of them would sleep over at Miss Emily’s till after the wedding.

He walked me out to my car afterwards.