The Mezzo Wore Mink (13 page)

I felt, rather than heard, a small gasp come from Meg, but undaunted, I rested my elbows on the conference table, templed my fingers and continued.

“
Since Cornerstone Baptist is doing a
Singing Christmas Tree
, I suggest something for Thanksgiving. I’ve been thinking about just such a production.”

Meg kicked me under the table. Hard.

“
I like it,” said Father Lemming with a thoughtful nod. “We could do the show a couple of weeks before Cornerstone’s show. What do we call it?”

“
We call it
The
Living Gobbler
,” I said, deftly dodging another kick. “It’s like a
Singing Christmas Tree
except with a Thanksgiving theme. We’ll have a giant banquet table, Pilgrims, Indians, Thanksgiving carols, the works. I think I can guarantee a huge success.”

Father Lemming looked over at his wife who was eyeing me carefully. Then a huge and terrifying smile spread across her pie-like features.

“
I think it’s a
marvelous
idea!” she chortled. “We could work in some Christmas songs as well. Everyone’s used to hearing them in the stores by Thanksgiving anyway.”

“
It’s settled then,” said Father Lemming with a clap of his hands.

“
I don’t think it’s quite settled,” said Bev, caution evident in her tone. “This really should be approved by the vestry.”

“
I don’t think so,” said Fiona. “I’ve read the by-laws. Actually the vestry at St. Barnabas is charged with the maintenance of the parish finances and its property. The vestry is also responsible for filling various positions of parish leadership. The programs of the church are the responsibility of the rector and the hired staff.”

Bev chewed on her lower lip while Father Lemming nodded in agreement before continuing.

“
I’d like to appoint Fiona as the Director of Christian Education and Worship.” He looked at Bev. “Now, before you say anything, I know that the vestry will have to approve the appointment so we’ll have to get it on the agenda of the next meeting, dontcha know.” He turned to Marilyn. “When is that?”

Marilyn had stopped taking notes and was sitting motionless, as stunned as the rest of the committee. Suddenly she bustled to life, flipping several pages until she came to the information.

“
Not until the end of November,” said Marilyn. “We just had one and we’re getting ready for the stewardship campaign.”

“
Fine,” said Father Lemming. “Till then, Fiona will be the acting director. We’ll get her approved in November.”

“
We could have a special ‘called’ vestry meeting,” said Bev.

“
No need,” said Father Lemming, waving a dismissive hand. “Fiona won’t be taking a salary, so there should be no problem. By November, the vestry will be able to see the job she’s doing, dontcha know. There won’t even be any discussion,” he said proudly. “Now then, what’re the plans for this Sunday?”

Chapter 9

Lunch at the Slab following a worship committee meeting was more or less required. This particular afternoon, all members were in attendance. Nothing much was said until we were all seated at the large eight top near the kitchen; then, as if on cue, they all turned on me.

“
What were you thinking?!” screeched Georgia. “
The Living Gobbler
? Are you crazy?”

“
You were just kidding…right?” asked Joyce, her face dropping into her hands.

Bev spun around in her seat and slugged me in the arm.

“
Ow!” I yelped.

“
This is
not
funny! If we give those people an inch they’ll be putting up screens in the nave and using Baywatch videos to explain the mystery of the incarnation!”

“
Hang on…” I said. “There’s no need…”

Carol slugged me in the other arm.

“
Hey. Stop it.”

I looked up and saw Pete making his way to the table. Carol slugged me again just for meanness. “First you quit,” she growled, “and then you come back and now we’re doing
The Living Gobbler
? I oughta hit you again!”

“
What’s this about
The Living Gobbler
?” asked Pete, sitting down at the table.

“
Hayden has decided that St. Barnabas should put on
The Living Gobbler
as a Thanksgiving spectacular,” said Meg. “I tried to kick him under the table, but it was no use. He somehow talked the Lemmings into thinking it was a good idea.”

“
The Lemmings?”

“
Our new clergy ministry team. Father Adrian and Fiona, dontcha know.”

“
Don’t I know what?” asked Pete, somewhat confused. Meg didn’t elaborate.

“
Anyway,” continued Pete, “it sounds great. We can advertise it before the election. That’ll show everyone we’re community minded and might even get a few more folks into town for Thanksgiving weekend shopping.”

“
I’m glad you can see the advantages,” I said. “Of course, the show hasn’t actually been written yet.”

“
How hard can it be?” Meg asked. “Isn’t that what you always say? How hard can it be?”

“
Yeah,” echoed Joyce, sarcasm heavy on her voice. “How hard can it be? A couple of songs…the choir dressed up like tap-dancing broccoli.”

“
O, Lord,” said Georgia. “Tap-dancing broccoli?”

“
Sure,” I said. “Throw in some Thanksgiving tunes…”

“
How about
Just As I Yam
?” said Pete.

“
That’s a good one,” I said. “I was thinking of
Up From The Gravy
.”

Bev slugged me again.

“
Stop!” I begged.

Pete spread his arms and intoned in his best carnival bark. “St. Barnabas presents
The Living Gobbler
. Come and see the first Thanksgiving as it’s never been done before. See the Lemmings as Miles Standish and Squanto, a torrid love story for the ages.”

“
Torrid indeed,” giggled Meg. “Miles Standish and Squanto were both men.”

“
Although Squanto might be a good character for Mrs. Tidball-Lemming,” muttered Georgia. “The name is certainly apropos.”

“
Come see the choir as they portray the four major food groups,” Pete continued unabated. “Watch the alto section do the Sweet Potato Mash. See Carol Sterling as Pocahontas bite the head off a baked chicken. Come take communion from the largest table in North Carolina. See the cast come together for the grand finale in the shape of a
Living Gobbler
and sing that most famous of Thanksgiving hymns
Come Thou Fount of Garlic Dressing
!”

“
It’s an idea whose time has come,” I laughed. “A show so good, it almost writes itself.”

“
How can it go wrong?” Pete asked.

“
How can it go wrong?” asked an incredulous Bev.
“How can it go wrong?!”

“
Excuse me,” said a voice. We all turned and saw an older couple standing a few feet away from our table.

“
Excuse me,” said the woman again. “We couldn’t help overhearing. We’ll be back in town on Thanksgiving weekend and I wonder if we could get tickets?”

We sat in stunned silence.

“
Sure,” Pete said finally. “Would you like seating in the Gourmet or Buffet section?”

•••

We had just attacked our cheeseburgers, the Slab Café Wednesday special, when Pete, the only one at the table who had forgone the feast, interrupted our repast.

“
Anyone read the paper this morning?” he asked casually.

“
Not me,” I muttered, managing two words around the side of a mouthful of fries. Everyone else, their mouths being currently occupied with lunch, shook their heads.

“
What’s the use of getting on the front page if no one reads it?” grumbled Pete. “There’s a big article about all the increased economic activity in St. Germaine.”

I shrugged and swallowed. “So?”

“
So?” said Pete. “
So?
I’m in the political fight of my life here, people!”

“
Pete,” said Meg, “you’re running for mayor of St. Germaine, a town of barely three thousand residents, against a woman whose only qualifications are that she’s belly danced for Bill Clinton.”

“
Really?” asked Joyce. “She belly danced for Bill Clinton?”

“
Oh, sure,” said Carol. “Back when Clinton was president. His first term, I think. Before Monica. It was in the
Tattler
.”

“
Well, that sheds a whole new light on everything,” I said. “I didn’t know that Cynthia belly danced for the president. Maybe she
is
qualified to be mayor.” I motioned for Pete to pass the ketchup. “I hope for your sake that she doesn’t advertise her political expertise, or you’re in big trouble.”

“
I’m sure it’ll come up in the debate,” said Pete.

“
Debate?” said Georgia.

“
Yep,” said Pete with a grimace. “There’s going to be a debate. A week from today. I hear that Cynthia has hired a publicist from Boone to help her prepare.”

“
That sounds like great fun,” I said. “What time and where?”

“
Eight o’clock at the courthouse.”

“
No problem. We’ll cut choir practice a little short.”

“
What about
Living Gobbler
practice?” asked Georgia.

“
That doesn’t start until Thursday.”

“
Hey,” said Joyce. “Where’s Noylene? Isn’t anyone waiting on tables in here? I’d like another iced tea.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Noylene only works in the morning. Then Bootsie takes over around eleven. Hey!” he yelled. “Anyone seen Bootsie?”

Bear Niederman, enjoying his Wednesday special at a table by the front plate glass window, hollered back, “She’s outside having a cigarette.”

“
That’s
it!
” said Pete, standing up and throwing his paper napkin to the floor in a huff, an angry gesture that lost its dramatic flourish when the napkin fluttered to the ground like a wounded butterfly. He stomped it in disgust. “I’ve had enough!”