The Nightingale Before Christmas(16)

“Where are the rest of the carolers?” I asked.

“Inside, warming up.” Michael gave me a quick kiss. “The boys wanted to wait outside for you.”

“Mommy, it’s going to snow, isn’t it?” Jamie asked.

“Is not,” Josh said. “Can we sing ‘God Rest Ye Merry’?”

“‘We Three Kings,’” Jamie said.

“We can sing them both,” I said. “Let’s go inside and warm up.”

Inside we found Robyn Smith, the Episcopalian pastor, and Minerva Burke, leader of the New Life Baptist Choir, with an ecumenically diverse group of about thirty carolers, ranging in age from senior citizens to a few kids almost as young as the boys.

“That’s everyone,” Robyn said, handing us four small carol books. “Let’s go.”

She and Minerva led the way down the hall toward the building’s main lounge. Some seventy or eighty seniors were gathered in several rows of chairs, with a line of wheelchairs along the back. Everyone seemed delighted with our arrival—I wasn’t sure whether it was the prospect of our caroling or the joy of seeing half a dozen small children.

We did indeed sing both “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” and “We Three Kings.” And also “Joy to the World,” “Silent Night,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and several other old favorites. The boys knew all the words—or thought they did—and could at least approximate the tunes. It was a stroke of genius on Robyn and Minerva’s part to include the children. We grown-ups were providing most of the volume and almost all of the on-key notes, but the children were the main focus for our audience. I loved the fact that we were bringing a measure of holiday cheer to townspeople who weren’t able to get out and enjoy all of the events of the season.

We closed with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and then Robyn introduced all the carolers and thanked the audience for allowing us to share the holiday season with them. Most of the grown-up carolers went to help the staff wheel the residents back into the sun room for the upcoming bingo game. The children gravitated toward the Christmas tree, and amused themselves with shaking and poking the wrapped presents heaped around it and checking for tags, in case Santa had delivered a few of their presents here by mistake.

I spotted a familiar face and went over to greet Alice, one of the two Quilt Ladies decorating the bonus room at the show house.

“Shirking your post at the house, I see,” she said, with a grin.

“Said the pot to the kettle,” I replied.

“Oh, we’re nearly finished,” she said. “I came over for the weekly quilting bee. Want to see what we’re up to?”

I followed her across the hall to a recreation room where half a dozen seniors were either gathered around a long table, arranging bits of fabric into patterns, or sitting at sewing machines stitching more bits of fabric together. Brightly colored quilts, ranging from crib size to queen size, hung on the walls or were draped, unfinished, over the tables and a couple of racks.

“We started the quilting program as art therapy for the residents,” she said. “But then we realized we could do a lot of good with the quilts. Sometimes we give them to poor people or sick people, and other times we auction them off for good causes. When the New Life Baptist Church had that problem last year with the skunks in the choir loft, we auctioned off a black-and-white quilt with a theme of skunks and musical notes. Made over five hundred dollars toward the renovations.”

“Lovely,” I said, meaning both the quilts and what they did with them.

“We call ourselves Quilters for Good,” she said. “It’s the charity we’ve designated in case our room wins the prize at the show house. Unless someone decides to disallow us.”

“Why would they?” I asked.

“We don’t have any kind of formal organization,” she said. “Clay Spottiswood seemed to think you wouldn’t be allowed to give it to us. He was saying—”

“Clay Spottiswood says a lot of things that nobody listens to,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. If you win the prize, we’ll find a way for Quilters for Good to get the money.”

“Thank you!” She seemed limp with relief.

I spent a few minutes praising the quilts—easy to figure out which quilters belonged to which quilt by seeing who beamed when I exclaimed over each one.

Then I headed back to collect Michael and the boys.

But halfway there I paused in the hall, pulled out my cell phone, and called Randall.

“What’s wrong?” Randall asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I was just wondering about something. What charity has Clay designated in the unlikely event that his room wins the competition?”