Bluegrass Christmas. Allie Pleiter

on occasion, and she knew what to expect from the feathered comedian. Curly had the good sense to look sorry for his actions, putting his head down and trying to hide under Mac’s arm. “I’m okay, I think,” Mary said shakily. She was a pale thing, with ice-blue eyes and hair only a shade sunnier than Curly’s snow-white coat. “No damage done, unless you count my nerves.”

      Dinah took her arm. “Mary…it’s Thorpe, isn’t it? Mary Thorpe, this great ferocious beast is Curly. And this is Mac MacCarthy. Sorry you had to meet under such goofy circumstances.”

      “I’m really sorry about this. Curly’s usually more civilized, and he’s hardly ever in my office. And he’s never gone bananas over…um…whatever you were playing…before. I didn’t even know you were up here.”

      “It’s okay,” she allowed, but it didn’t sound like she meant it.

      “Curly,” Dinah addressed the guilty bird, “you just scared the pants off Middleburg Community Church’s new drama director.”

      Serves Mac right for skipping church to go to a special service with Gil and the guys from Homestretch Farm last Sunday. Gil ran a unique reform program on his horse ranch, and occasionally “the guys”—as the juvenile offenders were known around town—visited churches in their old neighborhoods. Still, Mary didn’t look like the kind of person Mac thought would be leading drama at MCC. Actually, he didn’t even know MCC was planning a dramatic performance. Since his decision to run for mayor against “lifetime incumbent” Howard Epson, hadn’t Middleburg seen enough drama without having to make more? Not that anyone could be judged by how they weathered a cockatoo air strike, but this Mary seemed a little small and frail for the job. Mac had seen herds of mustangs more compliant than the MCC congregation. “Brave soul. Sorry you had Curly here for a welcoming committee.”

      At the mention of his name, Curly poked his head up and gave Mary a wolf whistle. Dinah laughed. Mac rolled his eyes and thought about getting a dog.

      “Are you an opera buff?” Mary asked Curly, putting the baton thing down.

      “Not until today,” Mac replied. “I’ve never seen him do that before. He usually just bobs around when I play Bill Monroe.”

      Mary gave him a blank look.

      “Bluegrass music. Curly’s more used to that than…”

      “Mozart?” she offered. She shrugged. “I give him points for good taste.”

      “And bad manners,” Mac added as he nodded at the bird. “Say goodbye, you rascal.”

      “Bye bye,” Curly squawked, winking one large black eye.

      “I’m really sorry again. Welcome to Middleburg. I’ll keep Curly under tight surveillance for the rest of the week until the repairmen are gone at my house.” Mac shifted Curly to his left hand and extended his right.

      She shook it. Her fingers were small but very strong. “I’ll turn down the volume so he isn’t tempted again.”

      Mac glared at Curly. “Tonight we bring your other cage over here. No more free flying around the office for you, bud—repairmen at home don’t buy you a license to make trouble here for the neighbors.”

      “Happy Birthday, by the way,” Dinah announced as they made their way downstairs. “Park your bird and come on over for some mint chocolate chip biscotti. You need them.”

      No one ever really needed anything from Taste and See, but Dinah was very good at making people think they did. The woman’s trademark enthusiasm had only doubled since she had married Cameron Rollings, who used to live in the apartment Mary now occupied.

      “My birthday’s not for another twenty-nine days, Dinah.”

      “It’s December first, so it’s the first day of your birthday month. Close enough.”

      Mac furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re not going to say that every day from now until the thirtieth, are you?”

      “Whassamatta?” Dinah teased, reviving her native New Jersey accent. “The passing decade getting to you?”

      Sure it was, but that’s not the kind of question he was going to get into with armchair therapist-baker Dinah Rollings.

      “No,” he said, applying a smirk. “Turning thirty is not fatal. Not yet.”

      Mac had barely settled at his desk when he saw his mother press her face against the glass window of his front office. She yanked open the door and stood in the entryway, one hand on each hip, a look of utter disgust on her face.

      “I can’t take much more of this nonsense,” she said as Mac’s father filed in behind her. “Land sakes. If one more person looks at me sideways just because you up and ran for mayor…”

      Mac stood up. His mama was in the room, after all. He had manners, even if his bird didn’t. “I sort of thought all the ruckus would die down when the holidays got here.”

      Pa walked over to sit in the guest chair of Mac’s office. “If you ask me, it’s just gotten worse.” He shook his head in a combination of disbelief and amusement. “Y’all know what you got into?”

      “Yep.”

      He did. God had hounded him for months. He had very good, very personal reasons for taking this unconventional step. He was no stranger to wild ideas like this, anyway. As a matter of fact, Mac preferred to shun the norm whenever possible.

      Which often drove his mama nuts.

      Ma waved her hands in the air. “As if this campaign weren’t enough. Now there’s this Christmas pageant. I thought they were just off their rockers thinking that hiring some Christmas drama director would help mend fences. You know Howard’s already announced that he’s gonna be in the play, don’t you? You’ll have to as well, to keep Howard from getting the upper hand.” She blew out a breath and shook her head. “This won’t be a distraction, it’ll be a disaster.”

      As far as Mac was concerned, it already was.

      Mary Thorpe stood in the empty sanctuary of Middleburg Community Church and whispered a prayer of praise. I’m here. Oh, Lord, it’s amazing, what You’ve done. I’m here. The place was just what she’d envisioned; a steepled white church with a blue door on a rolling hillside with an old organ and wooden pews that had seen decades of worship. It even had a preschool attached—something she loved. This afternoon, she’d heard a tiny-voiced rendition of “Jesus Loves Me” that made her heart bubble up in happy relief. This is it. A real Christmas.

      She inhaled. The place was infused with a wholesome, old-fashioned atmosphere. She ran her hand across a chipped, aged music stand and thought of the soprano soloist catfight she’d witnessed at her previous part-time job as the second chair violinist at a Chicago opera company. Not to mention the near nuclear-level war between coworkers at her other temporary job at an advertising agency, and thought “no more.” She picked up a battered hymnal from a nearby pew. From now it’ll all be “Peace in the Valley.” It’s perfect.

      “Are you ready?” Pastor Dave Anderson’s voice broke her reverie as he came up the aisle beside Mary. “Most folks were reluctant to do this drama at first, but Sandy Burnside, Howard and the other church elders convinced them.” Anderson folded his arms across his chest and inclined his head toward Mary. “Still, y’all ought to be warned—they’re an opinionated bunch, my feisty flock.”

      Mary tossed her blond ponytail over her shoulder and put her hands on her hips. “You haven’t seen the MidAmerican Orchestra String Section. Opinionated doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m ready to handle this.”

      “You know,” the pastor amended, handing her a dozen copies of the nativity script they’d agreed upon, “I think maybe you are.” He winked and crossed the sanctuary to his office.

      Mary sat down on the pew and smoothed her hand over the stack of scripts. Middleburg was