Duck the Halls(23)

“But that’s not on the schedule!”

“Technically, no.” Randall’s voice sounded a little less calm than usual. I suspected Vess had already been getting on his nerves during the construction. “But since—”

“Hold on!” I swiveled back to my laptop and with a few keystrokes, changed the schedule so the choir rehearsal began at two thirty. Then I swiveled back.

“As duly appointed schedule coordinator, I hereby issue the latest revised schedule,” I said. “Choir practice begins at two thirty. Would you like a clean copy?”

I pointed to the printer. Vess shook his head.

“Anything else?” I asked, in my sweetest voice.

Vess frowned down at the paper in his hand, obviously still angry, but curiously unable to argue now that Lightfoot’s trespass had been legitimized. I found myself noticing all the liver spots on his bald head and how the skin on the back of his hands was crinkled like tissue. I suddenly felt very sorry for Vess. He’d been retired for at least twenty years and a widower for almost that long. Maybe fussing over the fine details of Trinity’s finances and organization were the only things that kept him going.

“Hmph!” he said. He glared at me, and then at Randall for a few seconds, before stomping out.

“I guess he blames you for messing up the schedule,” I said. “Though I doubt if he’s too pleased with me, either. Mother will get an earful.”

“Oh, Mr. Vess already had it in for me,” he said. “Kept coming up and complaining about how long our construction was taking. ‘How long can it take to nail down a few boards?’ And sneaking up behind us to see if we’re damaging any of the original 1870s woodwork. And in case you didn’t have time to notice, we’re not just nailing down a few boards.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“We designed and built a removable stage and a set of risers that are custom fitted to the space here at Trinity,” Randall said. “With all due respect to Mr. Vess, I can appreciate a fine bit of craftsmanship when I see it, and that’s why I wanted a solution that didn’t require driving a single nail into your beautiful hundred-and-fifty-year-old oak woodwork. After tonight’s concert, it won’t take more than half an hour to disassemble it so y’all can have services tomorrow morning as usual, and then after the last church service we’ll put it back up again for tomorrow night’s concert. If there’s a single scratch or nail hole I’ll personally make it good as new. And Trinity gets to keep the whole thing, so if you ever need a stage, with or without risers again, you’ve got one. Your minister’s pleased as punch—what’s Vess’s problem? He’s been riding us all day.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Randall this provoked. My sympathy for Vess was fading.

“Robyn’s sane,” I said. “Vess, not so much. If the congregation took a vote on who they most wished would get fed up with Trinity and join some other church—any other church—I’m betting Vess would win, hands down.”

“Just don’t sic him on First Presbyterian,” Randall said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rant at you. I think I’ll make myself scarce before he comes back.”

“And as soon as I send out what I fondly hope is the final schedule, I’m going home to shower and rest,” I said. “So maybe I’ll be able to enjoy some time with Michael and the boys when they get back from Christmas shopping. Don’t forget those portapotties.”

“I won’t.” He stood up, nodded, and strolled out.

I scanned the schedule and made one more change. Not much I could do about today, but tomorrow? Lightfoot had a couple of hours’ worth of rehearsals with his soloists scheduled for Sunday afternoon. I swapped them into the Methodist church, so Mrs. Dahlgren could enjoy his company for a while.

I sent out a group e-mail with the new schedule, sent a copy to the printer, saved the file, and packed up my things. I made sure I had the meds Dad had provided, but decided to wait until I got home to take more of them. Detachment was great for coping with recalcitrant people, but my current alert—if cranky—state seemed better for dealing with snowy driving conditions.

Just as I entered the vestibule, the choir started another song.

“There’s a star in the east on Christmas morn,” sang a soaring soprano soloist.

“Rise up, shepherds, and follow,” answered the choir.

I stepped into the sanctuary and perched on a pew to listen, just for few minutes. The soloist and choir both sounded wonderful to me, but from Mr. Lightfoot’s gestures and facial expressions, I could tell he wasn’t happy.