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  Oliver gathered up his gown as he sat in the bed. “Are you the spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?”

  “I am.”

  “Irwin, voice higher, lighter. Remember, you look like a fairy. Act like a fairy. Irwin, fairies don’t scowl.”

  “Who and what are you?” Oliver continued.

  “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” Irwin said, this time his voice a little higher.

  “Long past?”

  “No. Your past.”

  “That’s where they always get you—your past,” Lois inserted.

  “Please, I beg you, put on your hat!” Oliver continued.

  “What! Would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give?” Irwin held out his hat. “Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!” It was the line, but Lois got the feeling the sheriff might be addressing her.

  Oliver continued. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had ‘bonneted’ you. What business do you have here?”

  “Your welfare! Rise, and walk with me!”

  Lois rushed over between them. “Welfare. Do you see what’s happening here? I’m going to have to think about this, but there’s a good chance, Irwin, I may have you clutching a welfare check.”

  The sheriff groaned. Walking across the stage and trailing behind Scrooge, he kept his hands behind him, asking if he was backlit.

  “There, there,” Melb said, reaching for tissue after tissue. “Ainsley, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you this upset.”

  The poor girl hadn’t stopped crying since she’d come through the door over thirty minutes ago. Melb had been frantic to try to find out what exactly was going on, which she still wasn’t sure about. Not to mention Dustin over there, trying his best not to stare. But he was, and it was getting on Melb’s nerves. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

  Dustin’s hand slid off his face as he sat upright. “I’m just watching.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to see here, okay, buddy? So why don’t you get out? I can take it from here.”

  Ainsley blotted her face. “No, it’s okay, Melb. He can stay. He was kind enough to bring me over.”

  “Why is he bringing you over?”

  Ainsley gave a sweet but sad smile in Dustin’s direction. “He’s basing a character on me.”

  Melb raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  “It is,” Dustin said. “I’d never thought of playing Fred this way, but it might work.”

  “He’s supposed to be”—Ainsley burst into tears again—“an optimist.”

  “Yeah, sure, but maybe he’s got some baggage, you know?” Dustin said. “I mean, that’s what makes great characters. They’re complex.”

  “There is nothing complex about this!” Ainsley exclaimed. “My husband doesn’t want to be home with me!”

  “What?” Melb gasped. “What in the world makes you think that?”

  “I don’t have to think it. Dustin told me so.”

  Dustin sank into his chair. “I didn’t exactly say that.”

  “It’s not his fault,” Ainsley said, managing to get her crying under control. “He just let it slip … that Wolfe joined the play just so he could get out of the house.”

  Melb moved closer to Ainsley and took her hand. “I can’t believe it’s true.”

  “Dustin said he hates changing diapers and is exhausted and just wanted an excuse to get out of the house.”

  Dustin’s face grew strained. “Look, I think you’re, like, overanalyzing what I said.”

  “Oh? Now I’m overanalyzing too? No wonder he can’t stand to come around me!”

  “Calm down, Ainsley. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation for this.”

  “Yeah, I mean, he loves you. And your kid too. He’s always talking about you guys,” Dustin said with a hopeful look, his eyes darting back and forth between Ainsley and Melb.

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “Honey,” Melb said, “I think Dustin’s right. You know how much Wolfe loves you.”

  “I thought I did. But maybe that was before I had this baby, put on some weight, and now look like some freaky monster from one of his books.” She combed her fingers self-consciously through her disheveled hair.

  “The vampire chick he had in three of his books was hot.” Dustin’s smile was short-lived.

  Melb addressed Ainsley. “You’re tired. He understands that. He’s tired too.”

  “Yeah, too tired to come home and spend time with his family.”

  “He’s not gone every night of the week.”

  “Unfortunately for him.” Ainsley blew her nose and watched Abigail gurgle, lying on a blanket in the middle of the living room. Melb had put earmuffs on the baby so she wouldn’t hear Ainsley crying.

  Rubbing the middle of Ainsley’s back, Melb said, “Ainsley, listen to me. This is a tough time. Believe me, I know. I’ve been through it. You’re tired, your hormones are out of whack, and things can get blown out of proportion. You’re seeing this as Wolfe not wanting to be around you, but in reality, I think it’s just that Wolfe needs a little bit of time to himself. He’s adjusting to being a dad. It’s normal. Men just aren’t wired like we are. None of this means that he doesn’t love you and Abigail.”

  Uncertainty lingered in Ainsley’s eyes.

  “You should listen to her,” Dustin said from across the room where he’d managed to relocate. “She knows what she’s talking about.”

  Melb rolled her eyes. He was just trying to help, but Melb wished he would go away. She was about to suggest he do that very thing when he added, “Like Oliver, right?”

  “What about Oliver?”

  “I mean, that’s where Wolfe got the idea, right?”

  “What idea?”

  “To do the play to get some time away from the house.” The carefree expression slid off Dustin’s face. “What?”

  “Are you trying to tell me all of this was Oliver’s idea?” Melb said. Well, roared.

  Dustin actually looked like he might bolt for the door, but Melb stood up, so he sat down. “You’re making this up.”

  “I swear, I’m not,” Dustin said. “I heard them talking about it.”

  “Oliver would never do that! He loves little Ollie. Wants to spend all of his extra time with him. Every second of every day.”

  Dustin stuttered, gestured, and gulped. “But what about everything you were telling Ainsley here? About love and hormones and stuff?”

  Melb stepped closer. “Let me tell you something, kid. And this is a lesson you’ll want to take with you for the rest of your life. A man shall not, under any circumstance, ever utter the word ‘hormone’ in front of a woman.”

  He nodded with wide eyes.

  “Now get out of here and leave us alone.”

  He hurried toward the door and flew down the porch steps. Melb returned to Ainsley, who was back to crying again. She sat next to her on the couch and took Ainsley’s hands into hers.

  With tears dripping down her face, Ainsley said, “It’s going to be okay, right?”

  Melb’s nostrils flared. “It will be when we’re done with them.”

  CHAPTER 11

  It is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too.

  WOLFE SHRUGGED OFF his coat as he walked in the front door. Hanging it in the closet, he could hear sounds coming from the kitchen, and the smell beckoned him. Was it baked chicken? Mashed potatoes? He could hardly wait. He was starving.

  “There’s my girl!” Wolfe said as he walked up to the bassinet that held Abigail. She watched a mobile go round and round, but upon seeing Wolfe, her mouth opened wide as she tried to smile. He took her hand, and she grasped one of his fingers with all her might. He gently ran his thumb across the soft skin of her arm. “I’ll be back. I’m going to go say hi to your mommy.”
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br />   Strolling into the kitchen, he found Ainsley at the stove, stirring something in a pan. He prayed it was gravy. He loved her gravy. Coming from behind, he reached out and wrapped his arms around her.

  She screamed.

  Then she stumbled backward and knocked her elbow against the handle of the pan. It tipped up and scooted off the stove, crashing to the floor just as they both jumped out of the way. Gravy splattered across the cabinets like an impressionist painting. Ainsley stood glaring at it, then him.

  “Honey, are you okay?” Wolfe rushed to her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me come in.”

  She held the wooden spoon like she was about to use it. On him.

  “Um … here, let me help you clean this up.” He rushed to the laundry room where he grabbed three rags. When he returned to the kitchen, Ainsley still hadn’t moved. “Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” She held out her arms as if on display. “The entire dinner is ruined now.”

  “No, no, honey. It’s not ruined. It’s just the gravy. You make the best chicken. It’s always moist. There’s no need for gravy.” He stooped, started wiping, and looked up at her. “I’m really sorry.”

  She took a rag and dabbed at her pants. Wolfe wasn’t sure, but she seemed disproportionately mad. Usually things like this made her just throw up her arms and laugh. He finished wiping the floor while Ainsley went over to check on Abigail. He put the rags in the laundry room and came out to find Ainsley back at the stove.

  “Did you have a bad day?” he asked, rubbing her shoulders.

  She stiffened and moved away from him. “Fine. Mind setting the table? Dishes are set out.”

  “I don’t mind at all, but first I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  The doorbell suddenly rang, and Wolfe could feel his stomach turn. He was early.

  “Who is that?” Ainsley asked.

  “Uh … Alfred.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “I kind of invited him to dinner.”

  “What? Why would you do that?”

  “Why would I do that? You’re always telling me to invite Alfred for dinner. He’s lonely, he doesn’t have any friends, et cetera.”

  “It would’ve been nice for me to know. I don’t know if I have enough food, especially with the gravy gone. I wasn’t even sure you would be here tonight.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be home for dinner?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you needed more time to work on the play?”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Well, don’t just stand there and leave Alfred out in the cold.”

  Wolfe hustled to the door. Opening it, he greeted Alfred, who strolled in with … was that glee in his eyes? “Wolfe,” he said, dropping his coat into Wolfe’s hands, “sometimes I’m amazed at how smart I am.” His nose lifted. “Ah. Chicken. That’s one thing I love about your wife. She always knows just what to cook when I’m coming for dinner.”

  “I was just setting the table.”

  Wolfe trailed Alfred into the dining room, and then realized there were only two plates and two sets of silverware. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  While Alfred made himself at home, Wolfe hurried to the kitchen. Ainsley still looked in a mood, but at least in front of Alfred she kept it subdued. “Honey,” Wolfe said in a low voice, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I am so sorry I spilled the gravy.”

  “It’s fine,” she mumbled. “Go set the table. I’ll bring the food in after I change Abigail’s diaper.”

  “Here, let me do that.”

  “No, don’t worry about it.” She walked past him and then took Abigail upstairs. Sighing, Wolfe tried to gather a little composure before returning to Alfred who, most likely, would take and need all his attention.

  Alfred had already helped himself to some wine and sat at the head of the table. He watched Wolfe set the dishes out. “You are quite domesticated, aren’t you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, here you are setting the table, and not a word out of you. It’s nice. Really. And you seem to be taking to fatherhood?”

  “Alfred, I’m not going to waste any time trying to explain it all, but yes, it’s the most wonderful thing you could imagine. Well, not you, but most people.”

  Alfred grinned. “So I’m a little self-centered. If it weren’t for self-centered people, we wouldn’t have stories like A Christmas Carol now, would we?”

  Wolfe looked up. “You’re doing the play?”

  “No, I’m not ‘doing’ the play. I’m turning the play into an event. The buzz is incredible!”

  “Buzz?”

  “So far, I’ve got nearly every county within an hour of here ready to come and see the show.” He held up his glass in a pretend toast. “If you can market something to people spread out by way of cornfield, you can market just about anything.”

  “How are you doing that?”

  “The old-fashioned way, Wolfe. Door-to-door. Like the politicians used to do. You get one person behind it, and the next thing you know, the kin are in, and when the kin are in, you’ve struck gold.”

  Wolfe groaned. “Great. You’re saying a lot of people are coming?”

  “A lot is an understatement.”

  “Alfred, it’s going to be horrible! I’m serious. It’s going to be the worst thing you’ve ever seen.”

  Alfred crossed his legs, unconcerned. “Not my problem. My job is to get them in the door, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  Ainsley appeared, carrying a platter of chicken and, thankfully, wearing a brighter expression. “Good evening, Alfred. I’m so glad you could join us.” She set the chicken right in front of him. “Your favorite.”

  “Ainsley, my dear, you are the reason I return to this little town. Nobody cooks like you do.”

  Ainsley smiled graciously and returned to the kitchen for the rest of the food. Wolfe leaned in close to Alfred. “Alfred, listen, just do me a favor and don’t rattle her cage tonight, okay?”

  “Rattle her cage?”

  “You know, talking about small towns and all that. Ainsley can usually take stuff like that, but she’s not really in a good place right now.”

  Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Trouble at home?”

  “No. It’s just exhaustion, okay? Babies are a lot of work. Just be on good behavior. Is that too much to ask?”

  Alfred served himself two pieces of the chicken Ainsley had already sliced. “Wolfe, you know I always mind my manners, at least around your wife.” Alfred glanced up and took in Wolfe’s worried expression. His fork and knife paused. “Good grief, don’t have a nervous breakdown. I got the message.”

  Ainsley returned with a bowl of green beans in one hand and a bowl of mashed potatoes in the other. She avoided Wolfe’s eyes but still kept up the pretense. Wolfe sighed, wishing he knew what was wrong.

  Wolfe blessed the food Alfred had already begun eating, and the conversation hummed around what was going on with Alfred back in New York: pretty much nothing, but he had a talent for sounding like he was conquering the world.

  Alfred made a moaning noise as he pointed to the chicken. “Ainsley, darling, this is fabulous. And I tell you, my life would be complete if I could have some of your famous gravy.”

  “No! No! Stage right! And would somebody ask Cyclops to cover his third eye?” Lois blinked, realizing she was waving her arms and shouting loudly, but she wasn’t quite sure why. Or where she was. Or why Melb Stepaphanolopolis stood over her with an unhappy look on her face.

  “Cyclops?” Melb asked.

  “Did I say Cyclops?”

  Lois glanced around, noticing the curtain. She’d been up the night before, reworking the scene with the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. She couldn’t quite get him where she wanted him. Her eyelids still felt heavy as she looked blankly at Melb’s scowl.

  “I need to have a word with Oliver,” Melb said.

  “Oh, sure.” Lois stood
and peeked through the curtains. “I’ll just get him—what in the name of Dickens are you two doing?” Lois shouted as she flung the curtains open and marched onto the stage. Oliver slumped in a chair while Garth messed with his costume. “Garth, stop it!”

  Garth whirled around to face her, his arms flung wide open. “This is ridiculous! Do you know how bad I smell?” He gestured toward Oliver. “Look at him. He’s about to pass out.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Oliver said. “But it does make me feel like I need to sauté you with a little olive oil and pour you into some marinara.”

  “Look,” Garth said, “I went to the bookstore and bought this Dickens book. And, well, okay, the CliffsNotes, too. All right, only the CliffsNotes. But the point is that the book states that the Ghost of Christmas Present should be wearing some sort of furry green robe with a holly wreath set on top of his head. And a few icicles or something. Look at me!” He pointed to himself.

  But in all actuality, nobody had to look at him. Everyone could smell him. That’s because, in the name of continuity and tone, Lois had taken creative license and replaced the holly with garlic. It only made sense. He was a phantom, a specter, a ghoul … not a wreath! Holly and icicles? Please! That belonged on garland, not on her ghost.

  “Aren’t I the party ghost? Don’t I bring Scrooge around to all the festivities? If I read the notes right, it seems like even Scrooge himself gets lost in the fun, forgetting that he can’t even be heard or seen! And I’m supposed to be pointing out poor Tiny Tim, right? Who is going to listen to a guy with garlic wrapped around his head?”

  “You must trust your director,” Lois said calmly. “There is a lot of symbolism built into the garlic.”

  “I read the entire essay on symbolism! There is nothing about garlic in there!”

  “No, but what many fail to see is the relationship between the ghosts.”

  “What do you mean?” Oliver asked.

  “The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come is by far the scariest ghost of them all. He is so frightening that even the Ghost of Christmas Present is terrified of him, which is why he wears the garlic.”