“More!” someone called out.
For the next fifteen minutes, Murphy performed a virtuoso one-man concert, following up with bluegrass standards Kerry had grown up listening to back home in the southern Appalachian Mountains: “Man of Constant Sorrows,” “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” and “Orange Blossom Special.”
More applause, cheers, and hoots of approval from the guests.
Following that, he rested his hands on the dobro and took a deep breath. Claudia, who’d been standing close by, beaming her approval, handed him a bottle of beer. He took a long pull from the bottle, then wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his hand.
“Just one more song, Murphy. Please?” John coaxed.
Murphy took another long drink of beer, then started playing.
At first, Kerry couldn’t place the song. It was familiar, but the tune was slow, melancholy almost. But then Thomas stepped forward and in a clear, strong tenor, began singing.
“‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas.…’”
John chimed in on the next verse, amid scattered laughter from the party guests.
“‘Make the yuletide gay.…’”
And then the others started singing, hesitantly at first, some humming when they didn’t know the words. Kerry only remembered a few of the verses, so she sang in a near whisper.
“‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light.…’”
A loud, somewhat wobbly baritone voice was very near. It was Patrick. He’d scooped Austin into his arms and the little boy’s head rested on his shoulder, his eyelids fluttering in a desperate attempt to stay awake.
“Here. Let me take him up to bed. It’s way past his bedtime.” Gretchen reached out for the child, but Austin shook his head.
“I wanna stay.”
“Austin? You heard your mom.” Patrick handed the boy off. Gretchen gave Kerry a curt nod of recognition, then melted into the crowd. Austin gave a brief, weary goodbye wave.
* * *
Kerry wanted to congratulate her brother, to tell him how proud she was of his performance, but he was surrounded by well-wishers.
Claudia drifted over to her side. Like Murphy, tonight she looked strikingly glamorous, wearing a winter-white silk blouse tucked into voluminous white wool palazzo pants. Her hair fell to her shoulders, clipped back behind one ear with a rhinestone-studded comb.
“You look amazing,” Kerry said. “And I can’t believe the transformation in my brother. I don’t think he’s been that dressed up since my dad’s last wedding.”
“He cleans up pretty nice, doesn’t he?” Claudia said fondly. “Despite all his bitching and moaning, I think he kind of enjoyed all the attention tonight.”
“I can’t get over it. He’s a completely different person once he starts to play,” Kerry said.
“I better go rescue him,” Claudia said.
* * *
Kerry’s stomach rumbled and she realized she’d barely eaten all day. She made her way to the dining room, where the table resembled a glossy magazine spread, thanks in part to her hand-crafted centerpiece, but also to the silver platters holding thinly sliced smoked salmon, rare roast beef, an enormous cut-glass punchbowl with marinated shrimp, plates of cheeses and crackers, and a vegetable tray that looked like a still life by a Dutch master.
Grabbing a plate, she worked her way around the table, making a sandwich with a small, pillowy yeast roll and some roast beef, heaping shrimp and cubes of cheese and a mound of crackers and artichoke dip onto her plate. The crowd was starting to thin out, so she isolated herself in a corner of the room, nibbling on her dinner.
Kerry popped a tiny Napoleon in her mouth and nearly moaned in ecstasy. She looked around to make sure she couldn’t be seen, then loaded half a dozen of the pastries into a paper napkin, which she was in the process of stashing in her shoulder bag when a husky voice whispered in her ear.
“I saw that.”
Startled, she jumped and dropped a strawberry tartlet onto the Oriental carpet. She whirled around to see Patrick, standing directly behind her.
“Hmm. Grand theft cannoli?”
Her face went crimson. “Guilty as charged. Okay? I haven’t had time to eat today, and tomorrow morning’s not looking good, either.”
Wordlessly, he turned to the buffet table, then made a show of scooping a handful of cookies into a damask dinner napkin, which he carefully folded and stowed in his jacket pocket.
“Guess that makes me an accessory to the crime,” he said, folding his hands innocently at his waist.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Kerry said, picking up the errant tartlet and depositing it on a stack of used dishes.
“Well then, since that makes us co-conspirators, can I fetch you a drink?” He pointed to her empty champagne flute.
Kerry considered. “Maybe just a small glass of white wine? I don’t dare drink two glasses of champagne. Gotta open the stand bright and early in the morning.”
Patrick went through a swinging door into what she assumed was the kitchen and returned a minute later with a half-full wineglass.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. The wine was nicely chilled and very good. She could get used to this kind of life.
Patrick had a cut glass tumbler filled with what looked and smelled like bourbon. He clinked his glass against hers. He nodded in the direction of the living room, where Murphy and Claudia were huddled in a corner, standing very close together.
Kerry followed his gaze and laughed. “I think he’s smitten.” She raised her glass to her lips and emptied it. “I better go.”
“Already?” Patrick’s face fell. “It’s barely nine o’clock.” He gestured toward the living room. “I was thinking we could kind of hang out for a while, since it’s Gretchen’s night to have Austin.”
“Wish I could,” she said, meaning it.
“Then I’ll walk you home,” Patrick said, putting his glass down.
She almost protested but changed her mind. “That’d be nice.”
chapter 18
Patrick and Kerry were crossing the street when they saw a young couple standing hand in hand, peering into the roped-off Christmas tree stand.
“Hey,” the man called as they approached. “Are you guys open?”
“We are now,” Kerry said. Even one more tree sold today would help the bottom line.
She unfastened the bungee cord and gestured for the two to enter. Patrick sat down in Murphy’s vacant lawn chair.
The girl gestured toward Spammy. “I love the little trailer. So adorable! Does somebody actually live in it?”
“Two somebodies,” Kerry said. “And a dog. Right up until Christmas Eve.”
“Oooh! Like something out of a fairy tale,” the girl squealed.
“More like a horror story,” Kerry said, as she was sizing the couple up for their tree-buying potential.
She estimated that they were in their early twenties. The girl could have been a model for skiwear, with a pink knitted beanie pulled over her long blond hair, a white quilted jacket, and skinny jeans tucked into fur-trimmed suede boots. Her partner was also dressed for the slopes. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and had a glorious mop of strawberry-blond curls.