Free The Body in the Sleigh by Katherine Hall Page Page B

last week were rigid, glistening daggers in the weak sun, and the cove was frozen solid near the shoreline where the water wasn’t deep. Too cold for burial. There would be an interment of her ashes in the spring when the ground warmed up. A spring she wouldn’t see. The idea of an urn, or box, sitting on the undertaker’s shelf all winter was ineffably sad. Faith hoped Norah’s mother was keeping it at home, but some people found it too painful to have the tangible reminder of their loss in view.
    Freeman had mentioned the brevity of Norah’s life and the unknown ways of the Almighty. Reconciling faith and reason seemed almost impossible at times like this. Since finding the body, Faith had had recurring regrets—the “if only’s” of life. If only she’d stopped at the historical society early in the morning, the girl might have been alive and they could have gotten her to the medical center in time. Even when Earl called and told Faith that the coroner’s preliminary report indicated the time of death around two in the morning, Faith still felt there must have been something she, or someone else, could have done. The coroner was ruling it “accidental.” Norah Taft had miscalculated the amount of heroin she’d injected—or calculated correctly if it had been suicide. Hers wouldn’t have been a painful death, but it must have been a painful life.
    Life. The white face, the white snow, the black sleigh vanished as Faith flashed back to a few hours ago and a very different face—little Christopher’s. A death and a birth. There wasn’t any connection, except the coincidence of her presence so close to each one—a departure and an arrival. No connection, but yet, a feeling that there should be one, if only in a sense of the mystery of existence.
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    â€œDark or light?”
    â€œPardon?” Faith was startled into a sudden awareness of the scene around her.
    â€œDark or light meat?”
    Faith passed her plate to Nan, calling cheerfully, “A little of each, thank you.” The merry scene, which had been momentarily so far from her thoughts, returned and she was back. Christmas dinner. A Down East version of the Cratchits.
    Years of catering all sorts of events and her own attendance at numerous family gatherings had not prepared her for the array of dishes in front of her. Turkey was the centerpiece—two of them. The birds had been carved by Freeman and his oldest son, Willie, and platters of the succulent, moist meat anchored each end of the table. The space between was covered with bowls of mashed potatoes—white and sweet—several kinds of cranberry molds and a quivering mass of something that looked like lime Jell-O and cottage cheese; dinner rolls; cornbread; biscuits; pumpkin muffins; slabs of butter; creamed spinach; pureed parsnips; candied carrots; pickled beets; Hoppin’ John from the Marshalls’ Southern daughter-in-law; the dilly beans and various concoctions that Nan and other women in the family had put up the previous summer; several kinds of stuffing—including Faith’s favorite with oysters—plenty of giblet gravy; a platter of crab puffs; chunky applesauce made from the apples in the old orchard near the shore; and finallyKraft macaroni and cheese, because some of the young fry were picky eaters. It wasn’t haute cuisine; it was Marshall cuisine. Faith knew most of the family had gathered for thick, creamy lobster stew the night before—their Christmas Eve tradition—otherwise that would have been the first course. Nan had explained this—and that they always skipped appetizers like cheese and crackers, because nobody wanted to fill up on anything before the main event.
    â€œWhere’s my chutney, Ma?” Willie asked.
    Nan jumped up. “I didn’t forget. Just didn’t bring it in.” She turned to the Fairchilds in explanation. “Willie has to