Page 46 of Always Almost You

“Doesn’t matter,” Helen said. “A dress like that gives a woman confidence. I changed into my favorite red one before I left the shop. No one can see it either, but I sing better when I’m wearing it.”

Just then, a small gray schnauzer in a plaid sweater trotted up, leash trailing behind.

“Oh!” Helen exclaimed. “There’s my girl. I allow her to greet the group on her own. This is Stella.”

Stella and Pumpkin approached each other with polite curiosity. After a brief nose-to-nose greeting, a tail wag, and a soft snuffle of approval, they settled at their respective owners’ sides like seasoned professionals.

The owner of the shoe store stepped up onto the curb and blew into a pitch pipe. “Thank you all for coming out again this year,” he called. “I know this is the highlight of the season for many of us. The flu nearly wiped out the soprano section, but, thanks to Helen’s recruitment efforts, we have reinforcements.” He extended a hand toward Lauren. “Lauren, and her charming sidekick, Pumpkin, will be joining us tonight.”

A ripple of applause moved through the group.

“You know the drill,” he continued. “One carol per house. We move in order through the book. If anyone offers treats, we can accept, but we don’t linger. If I start moving, you follow. And, if anyone invites us inside, we always decline.”

Heads nodded. The group began walking.

Lauren flipped through the packet as they went. Religious hymns, secular classics—she knew every word. She’d been listening to Christmas music since November first.

Their first stop was a Federal-style home glowing with candlelight in every window. The eaves shimmered with fairy lights, and a thick evergreen wreath, studded with pinecones and dried orange slices, hung on the door.

The pitch pipe sounded.

The front door flew open. “They’re here! They’re here!” squealed two small children in red flannel footie pajamas.

The carolers began with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Helen’s voice rose beside Lauren, steady and pure. Lauren lifted her sternum, loosened her jaw, and let the notes bloom. The cold air sharpened the sound, making it ring like crystal.

When they reached the line about troubles being “miles away,” something inside her shifted. The grief over losing her husband, the humiliation of Darren’s infidelity, and the ache of loneliness she’d carried into this trip all felt remote. She anchored her breath low, the way her choir director had taught her years ago, and let the sound float free.

The final chord shimmered into the night. Applause burst from the doorway. A woman hurried down the steps, carrying a wicker basket filled with sugar cookies shaped like old-fashioned carolers, each wrapped in cellophane and tied with red ribbon.

Stella gave a hopeful bark.

Pumpkin sat up straight, her most dignified expression firmly in place.

“Such good girls,” the woman laughed, offering each dog a small homemade dog biscuit.

Helen slipped her cookie into a canvas tote slung over her shoulder. “We’ll be loaded down by the time we’re done,” she whispered. “Everything is delicious. Would you like to stash yours with mine? We’ll divide our loot at the end.”

“This feels like a mashup of Halloween and Christmas,” Lauren chuckled.

Helen grinned. “Pretty much.”

They moved from house to house—Queen Anne, Colonial, Georgian—each one trimmed in garlands, bows, and glowing lanterns. Some porches held steaming thermoses of cider. Others offered peppermint bark wrapped in wax paper. At one home, a grandfather in a Santa hat conducted them with exaggerated flair from the doorway.

Pumpkin and Stella trotted faithfully at heel, occasionally tangling leashes in their enthusiasm but always untwisting themselves with minimal drama.

By the time they reached Church Street near Queen Anne Square, Lauren glanced at her watch in disbelief. It was after eight.

The group gathered in a loose circle, exchanging hugs and holiday wishes. Lauren found herself embraced as though she’d been coming for years. The leader bent toward her. “My dear, you have exceptional talent. Are you a professional?”

Lauren’s cheeks flushed. “No.”

“Well,” he said, “I hope you share that gift when you return home. It would be a shame to hide it.”

Helen rejoined her, Stella prancing in place. “I parked at my shop,” Helen said. “Let’s head to The Vanderbilt. We can divide the spoils in the lobby.”

They walked in companionable silence, heels clicking against snow-crusted brick, dogs trotting contentedly beside them. Inside the hotel library, they settled into wingback chairs and emptied the canvas tote. Cookies, fudge, peppermint bark, and candied nuts constituted a small mountain of generosity.

Pumpkin rested her chin on Lauren’s knee while Stella stood guard over the pile like a tiny, whiskered sentinel.