Free Merry, Merry Ghost by Carolyn Hart Page A

when I saw St. Mildred’s. Winter-bare elms and oaks provided a frame for the small gray stone church. Stained-glass windows sparkled bright as the richest jewels, ruby red, emerald green, royal amethyst, and ocean blue.
    On the front steps, after a quick glance around, I swirled into being. Invisibility had advantages, but I was ready for the open, direct, uncomplicated approach. Besides, I was tired of not being. I hadn’t realized how much of a Heavenly day I’d spent in conversation. I’d never been reclusive when on earth and this was no time to start. I wanted to see people, talk, laugh, make friends. That such action was in direct contravention of Precept Four (Become visible only when absolutely essential…) bothered me not at all. In fact, I intended to suggest to Wiggins that, to the contrary, emissaries should appear as often as possible, the better to be part of the community.

    I strode forward, invigorated, confident of my course. I didn’t bother with my chinchilla coat. I was going inside. I ducked into the church proper.
    A brisk woman in coveralls directed two younger women as they placed potted geraniums in stands by each pew. She smiled a welcome, her prominent blue eyes friendly. “Are you with the Standish-Ellison wedding?”
    I shook my head. “I’m a long-ago member of the church back in town for a visit.” I was pleased at my quick and honest response.
    We discussed the floral swags and brown candles and the lovely effect when pink rose petals would be strewn in the aisle.
    I pushed through the door into the main hallway. Direct and simple, that was the path to take. Soon I would have the parish directory in hand and I could obtain the information I needed. Wiggins would be proud of me.
    Christmas artwork from Sunday school classes was taped to the walls of the corridor outside the parish hall: Christmas trees made of pasted strips of art paper, stained-glass windows created by pieces of colored cellophane, manger scenes, Mary cradling Baby Jesus in her arms, stars with gold glitter, red-nosed reindeer with toothy smiles and Santa Clauses with jolly smiles, bells with silver glitter.
    I threw out my arms and began to sing “Silver Bells.” I couldn’t resist a sweeping dance with a curtsy here and a bow there. I reached the end of the hallway and the second stanza. Portraits of past directresses of the Altar Guild graced both sides of the corridor here.
    It wasn’t pride that made me pause in front of my portrait, assuredly not. I was paying tribute instead to time past. I’d been proud to serve and felt I’d managed my terms with a minimum of acrimony, though there had been fractious moments. Hortense Maple, for example, had been very difficult to deal with over the matter of when to replace candles. Emmaline Wooster was slapdash when it came to ironing the linens. The time she’d been absorbed in an I Love Lucy episode and scorched the altar linen donated by the Templeton family didn’t bear thinking about. None of this long-forgotten past was apparent in my portrait. I looked gay and carefree though much older than I now appeared. I nodded in approval at the contrast between my flaming curls and a white organza hat. That frock of pale lilac eyelet lace had been one of my favorites.
    Rapid footsteps clattered near.
    I whirled around, possibly with a guilty start. It wouldn’t do for anyone to compare me to that long-ago portrait.
    The steps paused. A graying pageboy framed a long worried face. The woman glanced at me uncertainly.
    “Excuse me, did something startle you?”
    I gave her a friendly smile. “I’m looking for the church office.”
    She looked reassured. “Right this way.” She hurried ahead, held the door wide. “I’m Lucy Norton.” She gestured toward a wicker chair with plump red cushions. “How may I help you?”
    I looked around the familiar room, shabby and plainly furnished, but the chintz curtains at the windows were freshly ironed. As she took her place