The clergyman nodded, then gestured to Goldie. “You probably haven’t met our esteemed writer fromAdventure Escape Magazine.This is Goldie Maraschino. Goldie, Herb Pontz.”
“Also known as Karen Maraschino, like the cherry,” Herb proclaimed, extending a hand. “I’ve read your work, young lady. I loveAdventure Escape.Never miss an issue.”
“Really? Great,” she said, shaking hands with him and hoping he wouldn’t ask her anything about a past story.
“Oh, hi, Herb,” Clara called, reappearing from the back room with her arms encircled by green wreaths. “You just getting home?”
“Yeah. And I wanted to get one of them music boxes for Sharon this year. You said you’d be ordering more, remember?”
“Yep, and I already put one aside for her. So, don’t you worry. You can get it now or whenever you want.”
“Oh, thanks. If I picked it up in a day or so, could you have it gift wrapped for me?”
“You bet,” Clara smiled.
“Great. I’m off tomorrow, but going out of town. So, I’ll come by first thing Monday morning.”
“Herb does the night shift at the brass works in Denver,” Father explained to Goldie. “They’re running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
“Brass works, eh? That many people need candlesticks?” she quipped. “Or is Colorado more spittoon country?”
“Munitions, dear,” Clara clarified. “Brass casings for our boys to fight our enemies.”
Goldie’s face turned red with embarrassment. “The war… of course…” She looked at Herb.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’m sure your efforts are helpin’ to save hundreds of lives.”
“Or end hundreds of lives, depending on how you look at it,” he replied. He turned back to Clara. “Anyway, thanks for doing the gift wrapping. I’m not very good with that kinda stuff.”
“Especially after working all night,” Father said empathetically.
“True enough,” Herb agreed. “It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog.”
“What?” Goldie asked, surprised.
“Hey, isn’t that Sharon across the street?” Clara asked, looking toward the front window.
Herb, Father Fitz, and Goldie all turned, looked out the window, and saw a woman walk into a store called Summit Grocers.
“Geez, it is!” Herb said. “She’s probably getting groceries for breakfast. I gotta scoot. If she sees me in here, she’ll figure out what I’m doing. She really made a thing out of wanting one of them music boxes last year.”
Herb started to hurry toward the door. “Gift wrapped by Monday morning, right?” he called over his shoulder.
“Promise,” Clara assured.
“Hey, Herb,” Goldie said, “where’d you come up with that?—”
But it was too late; the munitions worker was already out the door.
“That’s the second time that’s happened,” she muttered, more to herself than Clara or Father Fitz.
“What’s that?” the priest asked.
Goldie paused, thinking about how to respond. She couldn’t exactly say she’d heard a young man named Dexter use a line from a Jackson 5 song in the lobby of her hotel, nor could she say that Herb just recited lyrics from a Beatles song. After all, nobody knew about the Jackson 5 or the Beatles in 1942.
“Nothin’,” she said, figuring it must’ve been another odd coincidence.
“How about gift wrapping foryou, honey?” Clara inquired, gesturing to the angel.
