A Little Country Christmas - Carolyn Brown Page 0,122

for Heavenly Rest.

Brenda turned and faced the doctor. “Leave my mother out of it. The fact is, I was a high school orchestra instructor, not a choral director,” she said. It was a weak argument, because in the Muncie school district, where she’d taught for years, she’d done double duty when budgets got tight. She’d even taught elementary school music for a while.

“Your mother told Donna Cuthbert that you’ve directed choirs before. She even said that the folks at Heavenly Rest have been after you to organize a more formal choir there.”

Damn, damn, damn. She gripped the edge of the cubby as the room swam. The gossips of Magnolia Harbor were ganging up on her.

“I’m not going to direct the Christmas Chorale,” she said.

“But what about the people who depend on the—”

She turned on him and his twinkly blue eyes. “What part of ‘no’ do you not understand?”

“I was just saying that it’s for a good cause, and—”

“Look, I hate Christmas music. If you must know, I hate the whole season.”

“Why?”

“Just because. Trust me. I’m no good at Christmas.”

Across the room Paulette said the word “Scrooge” under her breath, but with Paulette that meant she practically shouted it out loud. The woman was deaf as a stone.

Brenda finally met Jim’s impossibly blue eyes. “I’m not Scrooge. I’ll gladly give you a donation for the clinic. I’m not the Grinch either. If you want to celebrate Christmas and sing like the Whos in Whoville, be my guest. I don’t want to steal your merrymaking. Just don’t ask me to participate.”

She turned and ran for her life.

Chapter Two

Told you so,” Paulette said as Brenda hightailed it into the back room. “That woman is a lost cause. Just the other day I heard her complaining about people buying Christmas fabric.”

“That was back in August, Paulette, before the shipment of holiday fabrics came in,” Joyce said. “You remember, don’t you? Millie came in here complaining about the dearth of Christmas fabric and blamed Brenda for it. You know how Millie can be when she’s irked.”

“Still, it shows a woman who is incapable of understanding the joy of the season.”

Jim tried to tune the women out as they continued to gossip about Brenda. He’d certainly started a snowball down the hill, hadn’t he? Now he wished he hadn’t taken this tack. Bullying Brenda would probably not work. He’d been wrong.

Something else was bugging that woman. His sixth sense niggled at him. That uncanny feeling had led him to medical solutions many times in the past, especially when a patient would come to him complaining about not feeling well but was unable to name specific symptoms.

Something was going on inside Brenda’s head. Some painful memory or deep loss stood between her and the joy of the season. He understood this well. There had been times in his life when all he’d wanted was to hide from the holidays. What had turned Brenda so sour on Christmas? He wanted to know. Not merely because he needed her help, but because he suddenly wanted to help her.

He turned and gave Paulette a little wink and said, “I haven’t given up on her yet,” before he headed through the shop’s door. As he walked up Harbor Drive, his son, Dylan, called. Jim fished his cell phone out of his pocket and connected the call.

“Hey,” he said as he continued up the street at a brisk pace.

“So? Did she say yes?” Dylan’s tone was faintly smug.

“Not exactly.”

“Ha. Told you so. We need to rethink. Patsy Bauman suggested that we do a talent show instead. We wouldn’t have to organize much for that.”

“Oh, heaven forbid. If we have a talent show, Harry Bauman will insist on playing the harmonica. I’m sure that’s why Patsy suggested it.”

“We could have tryouts.”

“What? And hurt Harry’s feelings when we say no to him? Now that I think about it, could we even say no to him? I mean, he’s on the town council and he’s a platinum-level donor to the clinic.”

“You have a point there. And Patsy would get huffy if we didn’t let him play the harmonica.”

“Exactly my point.”

Dylan blew a breath that vibrated in Jim’s ear. “You aren’t going to change Brenda McMillan’s mind. Everyone says she’s utterly immovable.”

“Interesting. I wonder why.”

“Come on, Dad, the answer to that is simple. She’s just a grumpy old lady.”

“No. I don’t think so. For starters, I’m sure she’s younger than I am, so she isn’t old. And I’m not sure she’s grumpy. There’s something else going