The bitter admission made me furious on her behalf. “I’m afraid we do have some people who should pay more attention as to why they’re in church instead of focusing on other people’s business. Though, please believe there aren’t as many of those as you think. As for me,” I added with a wry smile, “clearly God had other plans than letting me perform at Carnegie Hall. Don’t get me wrong, I have loved my life and have no regrets. Only when you’re alone at night—as you know well enough—the mind can play you for a fool. Mine can get too eager to wander into, ‘What if . . . ?’ territory.”
A sound from Maggie had me glancing her way. “Pardon?”
She got up with a huff. “I said, I think she burned the bread.”
What on earth . . . ? There wasn’t the least hint of smoke or the smell of something burning. This had to be her way to escape instead of doing the right thing and apologizing.
I leaned closer to Dana and Carly in order to speak quietly. “Please, forgive her. Maggie can be a handful, but she’s also been through a hard time losing Hollis.”
“I don’t know how you stand her, Retta,” Carly replied. “She’s mean.”
As Dana put a soothing hand on her friend’s knee, I said, “Maggie’s complicated and conflicted.”
“Aren’t we all?” Dana asked without rancor.
I had to nod, giving her that. “I promise to explain when there’s an opportunity, but right now I just want to thank you for being as tolerant as you are.”
With the slightest shake of her head, Carly focused on finishing up with Dana’s pedicure. “I’ll try, Retta. For you. But I’m human, too.”
Thanking her for her graciousness, I said, “I’ll go set the table. Finish up and let’s eat.”
Once back in the kitchen, I couldn’t help but sing-song to Maggie, “And how badly burned is the cornbread?”
Sybil did a double take as she topped off her glass of wine. “The devil, you say.”
“Oh, I must have misunderstood.” Setting down my glass, I started for the china cabinet to get the dishes. “Maggie, you want to stop drinking and help me set the table?”
“Only if I get to stick the forks where I want to.”
“It is what you do best.” I turned to Sybil, “My, what a mouth-watering aroma. Why is it that someone else’s cooking always smells better than your own?”
“For the same reason that we say everything tastes better when cooked over an open campfire,” she replied. “I guess it’s the change of pace or novelty of it.”
By the time the table was set—without any assistance from Maggie—Carly and Dana joined us. They stood back looking hesitant about where to sit.
“Please, choose a spot wherever you’d like,” I said.
“Can we open the shutters and watch the snow?” Dana asked.
“Well, I thought to keep them closed to contain the heat,” I told her, “but I guess it would be atmospheric. Rather like getting the window seats at a restaurant that has an atrium.”
“Or at an ice skating rink like Rockefeller Center,” Dana said, helping Carly with the shutters.
“Oh, I always wanted to go do that,” Carly said. “Especially around Christmas to see all of the lights and the huge tree. When Walter asked me where I wanted to go for our honeymoon, it was my second choice—especially once he admitted it wouldn’t be healthy for him to take long plane flights due to his circulation. He wasn’t big on crowded places, either.”
“Now I learned something new,” I said. “I didn’t realize either one of those things. Yet it makes sense. He was a true gentleman, always so quietly spoken and considerate.”
Smiling her pleasure, Carly sat down in a corner seat beside Dana. They both gazed outside to observe the changes the weather was making to the landscape. It wasn’t much so far, and yet the hint of what was to come, if things continued at this pace, was formidable.
Sybil and I carried the beans and muffins to the table. Once we collected our glasses and made sure everyone had what they wanted, we joined them. It was no surprise to me that Maggie had already seated herself at the other end of the table. Belatedly, I noted Carly in her direct line of fire; however, it was too late to do anything about that without making things too obvious.
Sybil turned to Dana, “Darlin’, would you like to lead us in saying grace?”
Dana’s expression looked as horrified as though we’d just told her we wanted to baptize her in a vat of ice water. “Oh, I’d rather not. God and I aren’t exactly talking these days.”
The silence in the room was suddenly so stark, the wind sounded as forlorn as a lone wolf’s or coyote’s howl. But before I could reply, she continued.
“Too much information, huh?” With a weary sigh, Dana bowed her head. “You didn’t need to hear that.”
I felt my heart threaten to tear at her jarring honesty and couldn’t let her suffer a moment longer. “It’s all right,” I assured her. “Let’s just bow our heads. Lord, thank You for bringing us together and giving us this opportunity to be each other’s strength and support during a greater storm than we had imagined. Amen.”
Sybil offered a resounding echo, while Dana and Carly’s were barely audible. From Maggie, I heard nothing. So be it, I thought. I had said my own silent, brief prayer for her.
When our conversation resumed, it sounded a little too forced. At least it did until, gazing outside, Sybil observed, “Isn’t it incredible how everything looks as though the world is being cleansed? If only we could figure out a way to do the same thing with our real and imagined imperfections. We could call it spiritual respite.”
I loved her for her sensitive way of trying to send a message to each of us. This was a perfect example of why I’d long believed that she’d been born to be a teacher. “I don’t know if we can manage that, but thankfully, your cooking is as good as a mother’s embrace,” I assured her.
Dana brightened and said with real relish, “Oh, yes, that’s exactly the right description, Sybil. In fact, I don’t know if there’s going to be enough for all of us to have a second helping. How are your beans, Carly?”
“The peppers and spices Sybil added really give them a nice kick. Here, taste.”
Dana took a delicate nibble from the offered spoon and made an appreciative sound. “Wow! I can’t decide which I like better.”
“Do you really believe the pilgrims ate this well?” Carly asked Sybil, her expression doubtful. “Considering how pitiful the holidays were at my house, I can’t see that long table the size of half a football field that they showed us in schoolbooks when I was a kid. What fantasy are you selling to your students these days?”
Nodding her acceptance of the question posed as half-challenge, half-entreaty for truth, Sybil replied, “I believe my job is to simply make them think. It’s not my place to put a yes or no in their minds. Reasoning is often not seen as valuable these days. So I tell them about the conditions the colonists were under, and what documentation through diaries shows.
“From my own research, I know it wasn’t too bad at first. They had turkey, yes, but it was wild game, and those succulent breasts we relish were probably a bit thin and dry back then. Deer were plentiful, so they supplemented meals with venison and fowl like ducks and geese. White flour had to be rationed, meaning bread and pies wouldn’t have been in abundance. No one knew when the next ship would arrive. However, things like nuts—walnuts, chestnuts, beechnuts—made up for that, as did berries of the season.”
“The