Page 77 of A December to Remember
Maggie had asked her not to indulge her daughter’s ego, but Simone couldn’t resist. Why shouldn’t Verity be proud of herself?
“Definitely your pomegranate scenes. I have never heard such an eloquent fruit.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. Verity smiled, satisfied, and continued making multicolored pom-poms from the basket of wool donated to the cause by the Cussing Crocheters. As she finished each one, she dropped them into a box at Simone’s feet. She was grateful that her niece was so open to embracing her presence.
Simone was perched on a crate, tying pine cones, pom-poms, and crochet poinsettia flowers into long garlands of twisted spruce and ivy. The church flower association had kindly made the garlands yesterday, and Anita and Sonja had dropped them into Maggie’s shop this morning for embellishments, ready for the marquee to go up on Monday. They took up a third of the shop’s floor space, coiled like giant green anacondas, so Maggie had to keep stepping over them to reach her produce.
“How many of these are there?” Simone looked at the snaking pile, wondering if she was going to give herself a repetitive strain injury from tying knots.
“About seventy,” Maggie said, sitting on a crate next to her and picking up a garland. “They’ve got to stretch widthwise along the length of the marquee.”
“Shit the bed!” she exclaimed. “We’ll be at this till kingdom come.”
“Uh! That’s a swear! Mama, Aunty Simone said ‘shit’!”
“Thank you, Verity.”
“Sorry, Verity,” said Simone humbly. “I meantpoopthe bed.”
The bell jangled, and Doreen blustered in carrying a large cardboard box, which she dropped next to the garlands.
“There’s a load more pom-poms for you,” she said. “I see young Verity is doing a cracking job of making them as well.”
Verity looked pleased. “Did you see my school play?”
“I did. Never was there a more holy pomegranate in all of Rowan Thorp.”
Verity beamed.
“Thanks for those, Doreen. The garlands are going to look great.” Simone was surprising herself with her amiability.
“Ellen’s going to drop in another batch of poinsettia in a bit. We’re working at full capacity to get the rest of the decorations ready for Monday.”
“Thank you so much!” Maggie gushed.
“Well, we all benefit from the festival. The decorations will last, the crochet ones at least, and we can add to what we’ve got year on year. This year is only the start. Just saw your boy with Harini’s granddaughter, by the way. What’s going on there, then?”
“Oh, they’re just—” But Maggie was interrupted by her daughter’s loud tutting.
“Patrick iswellstupid around her, and his cheeks go all red when she laughs.” Verity rolled her eyes as she continued to wrap wool around her plastic pom-pom disks.
“Is that so?” Doreen had the look of a woman who had just banked some excellent gossip. “Might as well get a few bits for tomorrow’s roast while I’m here.”
Maggie left the decorations to serve her just as Kev from the Stag and Hound walked in with his signature broad smile.
“Baked orange slices for the garlands,” he said, putting the box carefully down beside Simone. “Having twelve ovens in the cookery school has come in very handy this morning; the whole pub smells like Christmas. Your sister’s in there with Duncan, enjoying a cozy candlelit lunch for two,” he said. Doreen squeaked out a yip of delight, which she tried to smother with her hands—more first-rate gossip. “Afternoon, Doreen.” Kev smiled knowingly.
“Kevin, lovely to see you. How’s that handsome husband of yours?” she asked.
“Would you believe he’s making salt dough angels to hang from ribbons in the marquee?”
“I would. I’ve always thought he was the crafty sort,” said Doreen.
Kev smiled fondly. “I’ll be sure to let Ryan know.”
“These are brilliant. Thanks, Kev,” said Maggie, picking up an orange slice and sniffing it.
“No worries. I’ll take some more portobello mushrooms while I’m here. Kat’s doing stuffed mushrooms for the veggie roast tomorrow.”
