you a hand.”
Olive tossed a warning look to Edith, almost as if she expected Edith to remedy this perplexing situation. But Edith was at a complete loss for words at the moment. She just wanted to get back to her kitchen and baking and to forget all about this unpredictable Myrtle Pinkerton.
“When do we start?” asked Myrtle, as if it were all settled.
Olive’s lips were pinched tightly together, and Edith actually felt sorry for her.
“I—uh—we’re having a rehearsal today,” Olive finally said in a flat voice. “It starts at one.”
“Maybe we should spend some time planning first,” suggested Myrtle. “During lunch works for me.” She frowned. “Although I can’t say much for the choices of eateries in this town.”
Olive cleared her throat. “Well, if you want to come home with me . . . I could warm us up some beef stew that I made last night.”
Myrtle nodded. “What are we waiting for?”
Edith smiled to herself as she crossed the street. Olive might’ve met her match in Myrtle. Hopefully, it wouldn’t ruin the Christmas pageant or do any other sort of permanent damage to Christmas or Christmas Valley in general. And it might keep Myrtle occupied and, consequently, out of trouble.
6
“Are you going over to the church to help Olive with the pageant today?” Edith asked Myrtle on Monday morning, hoping that perhaps she’d get a short reprieve from Myrtle’s nonstop prattle, most of it focused on how Edith was or was not preparing a recipe correctly. Despite the sign above the kitchen door that clearly stated, Edith had previously believed, that this area was strictly off-limits to guests, Myrtle persisted in coming in and making herself at home. Not only that, she persisted in giving Edith culinary suggestions like, “Shouldn’t you add some anise to that batter?” And then when Edith’s back was turned, Myrtle took the liberty to add it, generously. Perhaps it would make the cookies taste better, but it irritated Edith just the same.
“The rehearsal isn’t until this afternoon,” said Myrtle as she poured herself another cup of coffee and watched Edith stirring the dough.
Edith considered reminding Myrtle about her kitchen rule again, but since the past two attempts had clearly fallen upon deaf ears, why waste her breath?
“When are the other Christmas guests coming?” asked Myrtle as she watched Edith starting to roll out cookie dough. Edith had already explained to Myrtle about her children and how they’d been unable to come home for Christmas, and thus her plan for opening her home during the holidays.
“Some are supposed to arrive in the afternoon.”
“Here,” said Myrtle, suddenly reaching for the rolling pin and actually taking it right from Edith’s hands. “Let me show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
Edith watched helplessly as Myrtle took over the menial task that anyone else would’ve gladly relinquished. But instead Edith felt irritated. And something else too. Another emotion stirred within her—a feeling she couldn’t even name. But something about this whole kitchen scene felt very familiar to her. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Have you always lived in Christmas Valley?” asked Myrtle as she skillfully worked the rolling pin over the dough.
Edith decided it probably wouldn’t hurt to tell Myrtle the nutshell version of how she and Charles relocated from Iowa after he finished seminary. The whole while she watched, almost mesmerized, as the rolling pin moved steadily back and forth across the dough.
“What about your family?”
“You mean my children?”
“No. I mean your parents.”
Edith considered this for a long moment, unsure as to how much she wished to disclose to this almost complete stranger, but finally said, “I was raised by my grandparents. They both passed on several years ago.”
Myrtle nodded. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“That must’ve been pretty lonely for you, growing up . .
Olive tossed a warning look to Edith, almost as if she expected Edith to remedy this perplexing situation. But Edith was at a complete loss for words at the moment. She just wanted to get back to her kitchen and baking and to forget all about this unpredictable Myrtle Pinkerton.
“When do we start?” asked Myrtle, as if it were all settled.
Olive’s lips were pinched tightly together, and Edith actually felt sorry for her.
“I—uh—we’re having a rehearsal today,” Olive finally said in a flat voice. “It starts at one.”
“Maybe we should spend some time planning first,” suggested Myrtle. “During lunch works for me.” She frowned. “Although I can’t say much for the choices of eateries in this town.”
Olive cleared her throat. “Well, if you want to come home with me . . . I could warm us up some beef stew that I made last night.”
Myrtle nodded. “What are we waiting for?”
Edith smiled to herself as she crossed the street. Olive might’ve met her match in Myrtle. Hopefully, it wouldn’t ruin the Christmas pageant or do any other sort of permanent damage to Christmas or Christmas Valley in general. And it might keep Myrtle occupied and, consequently, out of trouble.
6
“Are you going over to the church to help Olive with the pageant today?” Edith asked Myrtle on Monday morning, hoping that perhaps she’d get a short reprieve from Myrtle’s nonstop prattle, most of it focused on how Edith was or was not preparing a recipe correctly. Despite the sign above the kitchen door that clearly stated, Edith had previously believed, that this area was strictly off-limits to guests, Myrtle persisted in coming in and making herself at home. Not only that, she persisted in giving Edith culinary suggestions like, “Shouldn’t you add some anise to that batter?” And then when Edith’s back was turned, Myrtle took the liberty to add it, generously. Perhaps it would make the cookies taste better, but it irritated Edith just the same.
“The rehearsal isn’t until this afternoon,” said Myrtle as she poured herself another cup of coffee and watched Edith stirring the dough.
Edith considered reminding Myrtle about her kitchen rule again, but since the past two attempts had clearly fallen upon deaf ears, why waste her breath?
“When are the other Christmas guests coming?” asked Myrtle as she watched Edith starting to roll out cookie dough. Edith had already explained to Myrtle about her children and how they’d been unable to come home for Christmas, and thus her plan for opening her home during the holidays.
“Some are supposed to arrive in the afternoon.”
“Here,” said Myrtle, suddenly reaching for the rolling pin and actually taking it right from Edith’s hands. “Let me show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
Edith watched helplessly as Myrtle took over the menial task that anyone else would’ve gladly relinquished. But instead Edith felt irritated. And something else too. Another emotion stirred within her—a feeling she couldn’t even name. But something about this whole kitchen scene felt very familiar to her. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Have you always lived in Christmas Valley?” asked Myrtle as she skillfully worked the rolling pin over the dough.
Edith decided it probably wouldn’t hurt to tell Myrtle the nutshell version of how she and Charles relocated from Iowa after he finished seminary. The whole while she watched, almost mesmerized, as the rolling pin moved steadily back and forth across the dough.
“What about your family?”
“You mean my children?”
“No. I mean your parents.”
Edith considered this for a long moment, unsure as to how much she wished to disclose to this almost complete stranger, but finally said, “I was raised by my grandparents. They both passed on several years ago.”
Myrtle nodded. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“That must’ve been pretty lonely for you, growing up . .
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