She’d fulfilled her two weeks’ notice at the Navy Yard. Mr. Pennington asked her to stay through the launching ceremonies on December 10, but she refused. She’d planned each detail and delegated each responsibility. Everything would run fine without her.
Tomorrow afternoon, she’d fly home. She still hadn’t told anyone but Mr. Pennington about her departure. Quintessa and Yvette would ask too many questions. Mary needed to be honest, but for the sake of peace in the apartment, confessing her love for Jim and her decision to step out of Quintessa’s way should wait for the last minute.
After church, she’d make her confession, and then she’d depart on her adventure. She’d decided to splurge on a cab and a ferry to Boston Airport, then her first airplane flight—land, sea, and air. After a few weeks at home for Christmas, she’d start her new life in Michigan. Not an escape, she kept telling herself, but a grand adventure.
The choir hushed, and a light shone above the stable. Ed drew back the curtain, revealing Mary by the manger, and she folded her hands over her heart and gazed adoringly at the baby doll in his swaddling clothes.
The eyes of the congregation ripped into her and sliced through her veneer of confidence.
Up in the gallery, Claudia, Bertha, and Edith sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.” Despite Mrs. Gunderson’s coaching, Claudia overpowered the older ladies, trilling and cascading and calling attention to herself.
Was Mary any less proud than Claudia? Her picture in the newspaper after the FBI’s press conference? The caption that read “Miss Mary Stirling accepts the adulation of the crowd”? It made her ill.
And the way she’d been so friendly with Jim this afternoon, letting down her guard, telling every element of the story. Wasn’t that a form of pride? She’d sought Jim’s attention, and she’d taken twisted pleasure in stealing his gaze from Quintessa. Oh, she had. She most definitely had.
Pride, pride, pride.
The song ended, Claudia’s voice lifting the last high note for all to admire.
Mary’s cue.
Her throat tightened and her stomach roiled, but she scooped the doll from the manger and took slow steps forward on the narrow rickety platform before the entire congregation.
She’d been careful to use the restroom before the performance and to avoid drinking anything all day, but pressure built in her bladder, taunting her.
The musical introduction began.
Mary stood there in her blue robe, baby Jesus in her arms, and her throat clamped shut. She couldn’t sing. Not one word.
Her head felt light, her stomach queasy. She swayed to the side and barely caught herself.
The piano paused, played a few chords, and began again. Mary had missed her cue.
Soft murmurs rose from the audience, and a soprano Claudia-like titter sounded from the gallery.
For the first time in her life, she longed for a spotlight, not to focus eyes on her, but to blind her to the faces, all the faces, so concerned and sympathetic and—
And Jim looked straight at her, his expression earnest, and he moved his hands up and down as if hauling on a rope, as if hoisting sails.
Could she? Should she?
Movement by Mrs. Gunderson’s music stand caught her eye. The choir director looked pointedly at Mary and opened and shut her hand like a blinking light.
“Let your light so shine beforemen, that they may see your good works, and glorifyyour Father which is in heaven.”Not so Mary would be glorified, but God.
She turned back to Jim’s encouraging face. If she sang well, God would be praised through the timeless beauty of the music and lyrics.
If she didn’t sing, the pageant would be ruined, and what would people talk about? They’d talk about Mary Stirling! Refusing to sing would be the worst form of pride, choosing self over God, choosing fear over faith.
The musical chords built slowly, surely.
Mary drew a deep breath and a deeper prayer.
“Silent night! holy night!” Her voice came out weak and quavering.
“All is calm, all is bright.” Hesitant, but stronger.
“Round yon virgin mother and Child.” The quiver evened out, and her volume built.
