A Cliché Christmas(29)
I approached her with caution. “Um, Betty?”
She pounded away on the piano, not hearing me.
“Betty?” I tried again.
More pounding.
I tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped, her sheet music falling to the ground.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I knelt down and gathered up the pages, cringing at the titles.
“Were you trying to get my attention?” Betty asked sweetly.
“Yes, actually. Can we talk for a moment, please?”
“Right now? We’re just about to start ‘Kiss Me at Midnight.’?”
“Yeah . . . I think we should probably talk before that.”
It didn’t go well.
“Was that Betty who just left? She almost plowed me over in the parking lot.” Weston sat down next to me.
I put my head in my hands as Misty stood up. “Want me to tell the kids to run it again from the top, Georgia?”
I nodded.
Weston’s face was open with curiosity. “So, what happened?”
“I suck as a human being is what happened.”
He laughed. “Okay?”
“Betty quit.”
“What? Why? Isn’t she doing all the music?”
I raised my head and stared at him. “Was—as in past tense. Again, I suck as a human being.”
“I’m sure we can fix it.”
I shook my head. “Somehow she translated Modern Mary to mean nineties pop music and not the traditional Christmas carols I had envisioned.”
His mouth opened and closed twice before he finally said, “Um . . . wow, how did that happen?”
“Again, I suck—”
“As a human being. Got it. So, you didn’t communicate your expectations to her?”
I shook my head, ashamed at such a rookie mistake. “We have no music now. None.”
He put his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t fret, my cute little elf. We’ll figure this out.”
“Do you have a list of annoying Christmas nicknames to call me?”
“Who needs a list when one is gifted with such an astounding brain?”
I sighed, the reality of our predicament taking its toll. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I have someone in mind, but you should probably make peace with Betty before we ask that person to fill her place, this being a small town and all.”
True. “Who?”
He winked. “Someone you know quite well, actually.”
My hope surged.
Of course. Nan.
It was Ladies’ Book Club night at Nan’s house. I’d offered to help with dinner since she’d been working so hard organizing bake sales and fund-raisers, not to mention keeping up with her piano lessons at the chapel. And it was the least I could do since I’d just added Christmas Pageant Accompanist to her list of titles.
“I can’t believe you wanted to stay,” I whispered to Weston in the kitchen.
“And miss such a great opportunity to build up my ego?”
“You hit the ceiling on that one in the fifth grade, pal. Your ego is at max capacity.”
He popped a walnut in his mouth and grinned. “So . . . I was wondering.”
“Yeah?” I grabbed the dressing from the fridge.
“When can I take you out for date number two?”
“I don’t know. I have a pretty full schedule with the play and the old ladies’ dinners and—”
Weston leaned on the counter to reduce the space between us. “Let me rephrase that. Can I take you out after your service here is complete?”
“I think that could be arranged.” I bit my cheeks to conceal my delight.
“Good, because I was going to persuade a room full of old ladies to turn on you if you’d said no.”
From the living room, Eddy hollered, “Georgia . . . you’re not going to toss that salad dressing with the salad, right? I’m watching my levels again.”
“Uh, I can leave it out.”
Weston’s wide smile was out of control. He looked like a child trying to hide a secret.
“And grab that low-sodium stuff in the door of the fridge, all right? But check the date first. I don’t want any expired stuff. The way Nan keeps her stockpiles of condiments I can never be too sure.”
“Eddy, your eyes can’t read those tiny dates any better than mine can,” Nan retorted.
Weston put his fist to his mouth to mute his snickering.
“Behave.” I turned away from him to keep my giggles at bay.
“Oh, and Margaret can’t have dairy,” Eddy called out again.
I looked down at the lasagna that Weston had just pulled from the oven and shrugged in bewilderment. I entered the dining room several minutes later, and ten women watched me as I approached the table with the salad. Weston carried the main dish.
“I’m sorry, Margaret. I wasn’t aware of your dairy sensitivity. I’m afraid tonight’s entrée is lasagna.”
“It’s okay, I’ll just try to eat around the cheese,” Margaret said unconvincingly.
Pearl lifted the top layer of her lasagna, as if inspecting it for termites. “But it doesn’t have spinach in it, right? I can’t do spinach anymore . . . It makes me bloat.”