Free A Christmas Wish by Joseph Pittman

didn’t want to jeopardize her mood further. And so I said we should forget about it, it must be somewhere among the other boxes. Maybe I had moved it—after all, wasn’t I the forgetful one these days?
    â€œI’ll find it later, Janey,” I said, reassuring her, but not me. “No big deal.”

C HAPTER 9
    Gerta, it seemed, was having a busy Sunday. As I turned the car into the snow-coated driveway, the porch light was suddenly turned on, bathing two figures in a soft glow. Gerta was easily discernible, the man less so. His familiar figure was hunched over, and as he moved slowly down the steps, his face became visible. A quick embrace of Gerta, then he headed toward the other parked car in the driveway. I pulled in right beside his, shut off the engine. As I suspected, it was Father Eldreth Burton, the quiet-voiced, longtime pastor of St. Matthew’s Church and a good friend of the Connors family. Actually, to most families within the friendly confines of Linden Corners, the Sullivans notable among them. Janey and I hopped out of the car just in time to say a quick hello.
    â€œAh, Miss Janey, and how are you on this fine snowy Sunday?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œI didn’t see you at mass today,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance.
    Janey gave me one, too. Both of them looking to me for an explanation. Okay, my fault. Her sleepover at Ashley’s had not included church, and frankly, I had forgotten. So I offered up an apology. “Next week, we promise,” I said.
    â€œLet’s not forget the reason for this very giving of seasons,” Father Burton said. “But I know how busy a time it can be, especially with young, excitable children. As long as we see you Christmas Eve for the children’s pageant—wouldn’t be the same without your smiling face, Miss Janey.”
    â€œThank you, Father.”
    â€œYes, thanks.”
    â€œGood night, Brian. Good night, Miss Janey.”
    The old pastor headed off, his taillights like glowing Christmas ornaments encased in the floating darkness. We went inside, out of the cold. Gerta greeted us with kisses, and then got us settled inside her comfortable home.
    Gerta Connors lived on the far side of the village of Linden Corners, a good two miles away from the farmhouse, in a white clapboard house she had shared for nearly fifty years with her husband, George. It was a home that had seen four girls grow from infants to adults to parents themselves, all while surrounded by lots of love and some of the best cooking and baking I’ve ever tasted. Tonight was no exception, as Gerta prided herself on her home-cooked meals and her warm brand of love. As she explained, “I don’t get much opportunity these days to whip up something special, so I welcome the chance to cook for others. I extended an offer to Father Burton, but he begged off, claiming another invitation, which may or may not be true.”
    â€œWhat was he doing here?” I asked, suddenly concerned. “Are you okay?”
    â€œOf course, I’m fine, Brian. We were discussing the annual St. Matthew’s holiday fund-raiser. George was such an early supporter of those events, and Father Burton wanted to know if this year I would like to be included. So kind of him. But that’s for another time. For now, we eat.”
    She had made a turkey breast with stuffing and vegetables, and said for dessert there was a fresh-baked strawberry pie, her summer specialty and one of my new favorite sweets. Folks in Linden Corners, they knew their pies. Annie had learned her peach pie from Gerta.
    â€œIt’s like Thanksgiving all over again,” Janey said.
    I think the choice of meal had been deliberate on Gerta’s part. Upon returning from Philadelphia, I gave her the details of the Duncan family holiday, and as a result I think she wanted to give Janey a chance to celebrate a Thanksgiving meal in a place that was closer to her