My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(78)

“That’s … cool.” We looked at each other like we didn’t know where to take the conversation next.

I had questions, but I couldn’t drum up the nerve to ask them. Why had he chosen to be so kind to me after I’d screwed up his whole December? What made him arrange my second chance? Why did he have such an amazing daughter?

“Pastor Robinson!” The voice carried over the mayhem of the crowd. Rebel Yell versus Main Street Methodist. What were the odds? A woman holding three sets of angel wings and a fake golden brick waggled her foot in front of him to draw his attention. “We have a situation. It’s bad news/bad news.”

“Can we just pretend I know?” He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. “Do you have to tell me?”

“Yep. Even though you can’t do anything about it. This one will need to be handled divinely.”

He opened his eyes. “Go ahead.”

“It’s snowing.”

There was a flurry of activity by the stage door, and it opened wide. Our town looked like a snow globe being shaken by a toddler. The flakes whirled in circles and spirals, but they were making solid landings. A layer of sparkling, icy white covered everything, including the road, and it was growing deeper by the second.

Winter had come early this year, and it had been unseasonably cold, but no one in our town had expected snow. The only time anyone worried about that kind of weather was if they were traveling. If this kept up, no one would move for days.

There wasn’t even time to hoard bread and milk. Or toilet paper.

“Hopefully … it will stop … soon,” Pastor Robinson said. He looked like he might face-plant at any moment.

“I don’t think so.” Gracie entered, sans womb, with her bathrobe open over her street clothes. “One hundred percent chance. Some sort of vortex situation. The meteorologists are ecstatic—you know how they love weather drama—and the kids are all mad since they’re already out of school.”

I felt a little giddy myself. As rare as it was, snow definitely created drama.

Kids in our town spent their childhoods perpetually frustrated by the pink radar line on weather forecasts that never dipped far enough south to bring snow, yet always included us in tornado warnings. I wasn’t far enough away from “kid” to subdue all my excitement, but I tried, thanks to the current situation.

“That’s not all.” Gracie approached her father and gently laid a hand on his arm. “The interstate north of us is already locked up, and the camels are stuck.”

“The camels.” His voice was dull, as if he’d just awoken from a nap. “Are stuck?”

“Yes, the camels,” Gracie continued. “And the sheep.”

“The … sheep?”

She broke the rest of the news quickly. “And the donkey and the ox. The traffic isn’t moving and neither are they. PETA will jump our ass—our literal ass—if we push for transport in this kind of weather.”

Everyone in Gracie’s general vicinity dropped chin. I didn’t know the church’s stance on alcohol, but Pastor Robinson looked like he could use a margarita. He took a deep breath, the kind that every teenager recognizes and fears. “Grace Elizabeth Robinson. I know that was a play on words, and your attempt at levity is noted, as is the time and the place you chose to attempt it. Now you owe the swear jar a dollar.”

Before she could reply, his phone rang. He answered, and the crowd around us broke up.

I stared at Gracie. “You just said ass.”

She shrugged. A grin followed. “I can usually get away with that one, since it’s in the Bible.”

“You said ass.”

“I’m aware of this.”

“You guys have a swear jar.”

She slid out her arms from the bathrobe, revealing a blue sweater that fit so well it deserved a vacation home in the Bahamas. “It’s an old pickle jar we keep on our kitchen counter. My mom made it mandatory for my dad when he was in seminary, and he made it mandatory for me.”

“Your father swears, too?”

“Not anymore. Last year, he emptied it to fund a trip to the Harry Potter theme park in Florida.” Her grin went full blown. I wanted to kiss it right off her face.

“You wicked girl. You’re not at all who I imagined you’d be.”

“Ditto.” She hung her robe on a wall hook. “How many days has it been since you pulled a prank? I had no idea you could behave for such an extended period of time.”

“Maybe I’m trying to change. I’ve managed a streak of good behavoir before.” I glanced at Pastor Robinson, who was pacing while he talked. “Remember the Good Citizenship Award in fourth grade? And how every single kid was supposed to get it?”

She nodded and leaned against the wall.

“I tried so hard. Everyone had been giving me crap, saying I’d never be good long enough to get it, but during the last month of school, I earned it. I proved that I could handle myself. And then Mr. Weekly passed me over at assembly. I know my name was on the list, but he said every name but mine. No one would believe me. That’s when I realized everyone had already made up their minds about me. Why disappoint them?”

“Why not work harder?”

“I was nine,” I said drily. “‘Work harder’ sounds like parental advice, and I didn’t have the kind of guidance that you did.”