Read Online Christmas Cake by Lynne Hinton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynne Hinton
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add a few years to a personâs life.
She tried to think hopeful thoughts, tried to imagine that this was nothing more than just a little setback for Margaret, but she could not push from her mind the idea that Margaret, her dear sweet friend Margaret, was dying.
She thought about the others, about Louise and Jessie and Beatrice, and wondered how they would handle the situation, how they were handling it even now. She knew they would have a very difficult time if Margaret died soon. None of them would be able to face such a death. Margaret was everything to them.
She considered the cookbook scheme of Beatriceâs and wondered if that was helping things even a little. Charlotte smiled when she recalled the last cookbook, all the meetings, all the conversations about the recipes and what should and shouldnât go into the book. She knew the church had lost money on the project, that there were still cookbooks sitting in the storage room at the church; but she also knew that it had been a good idea and that it had completed what Beatrice had set out to do. The project had brought them closer. It had helped make the women, the entire church, more of a community than it had ever been. She assumed that was the reason that no one had complained about the lost income. The church members were glad for what had come from the project.
She jotted herself a note to get the recipe for the cake she had toldMargaret about and then looked at her calendar, trying to see if there was any time that she could get back to North Carolina before the end of the year. Every day was filled with meetings and court appearances and fund-raisers; she didnât see how she would be able to leave any time soon.
Charlotte shook aside the thoughts of Margaret and a full calendar when she heard the car in the driveway. A few minutes passed and then there was a knock at the door. When she got up from her desk and walked toward the entryway, she saw first a figure shadowed by the sun, then the face of the newest resident of St. Maryâs House.
âIs this the shelter?â A timid voice spoke through the screened-in door.
âHello, and yes,â Charlotte replied, opening the door and standing aside so that the woman could walk in. She watched the taxi pull out of the driveway, knowing that the hospital had paid the fare.
The person at the door was petite, shorter than Charlotte, and carried a very small frame. She was still a teenager, her hair long and black and pulled tightly away from her face into a ponytail. There were bruises under both of her eyes, and she would not look directly at Charlotte. She walked in on crutches, with a plastic bag held under her right arm.
The absence of direct eye contact was familiar to Charlotte. She had grown accustomed to the shy ways that women greeted her when they came to the only place they had to stay. There was shame and embarrassment and sorrow and pain and lots of other things that Charlotte was never able to name. She just recognized it all when they all made those same first steps through the door and into their new lives.
âWelcome to St. Maryâs,â Charlotte said, smiling. She reached out to take the plastic bag from the woman.
âRachel,â the girl replied. âIâm Rachel.â She handed over the bag immediately as if it had been required of her.
âIâm Charlotte,â came the response. âPlease come in and have a seat.â
The young woman nodded and moved slowly into the living area and gingerly took a seat on the sofa. She sat toward the front of the cushions, appearing as if she was uncomfortable in a seated position. She held the crutches out beside her. Charlotte took them and placed them at her feet. Then she went over to a chair across from the sofa and sat down.
âCan I get you anything?â she asked.
Rachel shook her head.
âHave you had anything to eat today?â
She shook her head again. âIâm not so
She tried to think hopeful thoughts, tried to imagine that this was nothing more than just a little setback for Margaret, but she could not push from her mind the idea that Margaret, her dear sweet friend Margaret, was dying.
She thought about the others, about Louise and Jessie and Beatrice, and wondered how they would handle the situation, how they were handling it even now. She knew they would have a very difficult time if Margaret died soon. None of them would be able to face such a death. Margaret was everything to them.
She considered the cookbook scheme of Beatriceâs and wondered if that was helping things even a little. Charlotte smiled when she recalled the last cookbook, all the meetings, all the conversations about the recipes and what should and shouldnât go into the book. She knew the church had lost money on the project, that there were still cookbooks sitting in the storage room at the church; but she also knew that it had been a good idea and that it had completed what Beatrice had set out to do. The project had brought them closer. It had helped make the women, the entire church, more of a community than it had ever been. She assumed that was the reason that no one had complained about the lost income. The church members were glad for what had come from the project.
She jotted herself a note to get the recipe for the cake she had toldMargaret about and then looked at her calendar, trying to see if there was any time that she could get back to North Carolina before the end of the year. Every day was filled with meetings and court appearances and fund-raisers; she didnât see how she would be able to leave any time soon.
Charlotte shook aside the thoughts of Margaret and a full calendar when she heard the car in the driveway. A few minutes passed and then there was a knock at the door. When she got up from her desk and walked toward the entryway, she saw first a figure shadowed by the sun, then the face of the newest resident of St. Maryâs House.
âIs this the shelter?â A timid voice spoke through the screened-in door.
âHello, and yes,â Charlotte replied, opening the door and standing aside so that the woman could walk in. She watched the taxi pull out of the driveway, knowing that the hospital had paid the fare.
The person at the door was petite, shorter than Charlotte, and carried a very small frame. She was still a teenager, her hair long and black and pulled tightly away from her face into a ponytail. There were bruises under both of her eyes, and she would not look directly at Charlotte. She walked in on crutches, with a plastic bag held under her right arm.
The absence of direct eye contact was familiar to Charlotte. She had grown accustomed to the shy ways that women greeted her when they came to the only place they had to stay. There was shame and embarrassment and sorrow and pain and lots of other things that Charlotte was never able to name. She just recognized it all when they all made those same first steps through the door and into their new lives.
âWelcome to St. Maryâs,â Charlotte said, smiling. She reached out to take the plastic bag from the woman.
âRachel,â the girl replied. âIâm Rachel.â She handed over the bag immediately as if it had been required of her.
âIâm Charlotte,â came the response. âPlease come in and have a seat.â
The young woman nodded and moved slowly into the living area and gingerly took a seat on the sofa. She sat toward the front of the cushions, appearing as if she was uncomfortable in a seated position. She held the crutches out beside her. Charlotte took them and placed them at her feet. Then she went over to a chair across from the sofa and sat down.
âCan I get you anything?â she asked.
Rachel shook her head.
âHave you had anything to eat today?â
She shook her head again. âIâm not so
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