“Worker-bee for this here soiree?” she asked. “No. But I’m glad to help.”
“Hot buns!” a woman’s voice announced. “Where do you want, Father?”
“Oh, good,” the priest replied, turning. “Put them right over there by the cranberry sauce.”
A woman carrying a brown paper bag with a dishtowel over it approached the table but paused when she saw Goldie. It was the young Hispanic woman who had served dinner at the Banyan house less than an hour earlier.
“Ay, Lupe,” Goldie smiled. “How ya doin’?”
She approached the table timidly as Father Fitz and Eli looked at one another, wondering how the two knew each other.
“You won’t tell Señor Banyan that Margarita made extra buns in his kitchen, will you? I think he’d be angry.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she assured. “But I don’t think he’d mind.”
“You don’t know Señor Banyan,” Lupe chuckled, rolling her eyes.
Goldie explained to Eli and Father Fitz how she knew Lupe, and they likewise promised to keep silent about the Banyan’s cook using their kitchen to make extra rolls, although Father Fitz agreed with Goldie that he couldn’t imagine that Charles and Stephie would mind. Within another couple of minutes, Stu Frey came around the tables to join them, and he, Eli, Father Fitz, Goldie, and Lupe stood ready to serve all the people dinner cafeteria-style. Before they did, however, Father asked that the radio be turned off and everyone bow their head for a prayer.
“You know,” he began, “the first Thanksgiving back in 1621 was mostly a celebration of survival. Those who came to the New World on the Mayflower had to endure a harsh voyage, a harsher first winter, and disease. Many pilgrims died that year.
“Now, we’re involved in another kind of struggle for survival. Some families have felt the effects more harshly than others. So, let’s remember those who have died, those who bravely fight on, our leaders, and we ask God to bless this wonderful feast that we’re able to enjoy this day with family and friends. Amen.”
People came over and lined up as the rest of the servers put on aprons, and Duke Ellington and his Orchestra came over the radio. Goldie was standing next to Father, and they started to chat while they served. She learned that he’d only been in Sparkledove a couple of months and that this was his first assignment as a priest. She also learned the wonderful photographs on the wall were his. He was a passionate amateur photographer who, at one time, intended to become a photojournalist but ultimately had a higher calling. He’d taken the photographs as an excuse to meet his congregants, then hung several on the walls to spruce up the basement. Goldie asked if he’d like to provide the accompanying photographs for her article. She still didn’t know if she was going to write one, but she was thinking more and more about trying. She even suggested that Charles Banyan might be persuaded to make a contribution to the church for Father Fitz’s services, and the young priest was both complimented and intrigued by her proposal. Goldie was good at this kind of thing: hitting situations cold, then figuring things out, and formulating a plan of action.
After everyone had been served, she stood behind the serving tables with a little smile as she watched people eat. Everyone was talking, chewing, laughing; some of the younger kids had gravy stains on their clothes, and she couldn’t help but feel this was what people were supposed to do on Thanksgiving. Stu Frey, about five feet away, was also watching everyone, and she walked over and patted him on the shoulder.
“Good idea,” she said quietly. “Nicely done.”
“Glad you were here to see this,” he said. “Not for your article. But just—well—because.”
“Me, too,” she agreed.
“See that guy in the blue shirt?” he asked, subtly pointing.
“Yeah?”
“That’s Melvin Purdle. Brought his mandolin. Plays a mean “Jingle Bells.””
“I can’t wait,” she smiled. Then she walked over to Eli, who was helping himself to a chocolate chip cookie.
“Aren’t you gonna fix yourself a plate?”
“After everyone else has eaten,” he replied, taking a bite of cookie.
She nodded, then changed subjects.
“Hey, I wanted to ask you about the covered bridge at the end of town. Has anyone ever jumped off it?”
“You mean, like, kids in the summer?”
“No. I mean like a grown man committing suicide?”
The lawman looked at her. “Why on earth would you ask that?”
“Well, I checked it out last night, and it’s got those two open viewing windows on either side, and I was just wondering.”
“It’s not high enough for that kind of thing,” he decided, taking another bite of cookie.
