The Christmas Quilt

Excerpt

Chapter One

Jon & Paulette

Night

Despite the fact that Paulette and Jon’s invitations read “No Gifts, Please!” in bright red ink, gift bags, boxes and mysterious packages piled up on the floor of their living room in a festive tower of metallic shimmer. Wine bottlenecks peeked out of silvery bags. Crystal jars of cashews were tucked into wicker baskets spilling over with green holiday shred. Atop this mountain of color, a huge bowl of chocolates masquerading as a flower arrangement dared anyone to add another gift. From a distance, the pile looked like a decadent landfill or the casually arranged holiday clutter a home magazine’s photographer might spend hours fixing to get the perfect “casual” feel for a Christmas photo spread.

The tower of unsolicited glamour stood out against Paulette’s tasteful decor. Tonight, a cathedral of candles burned in unison. The heat given off by the multi-colored candles could probably have warmed a London tenement in January.

Fragrances coming from the kitchen and dining area fought with the candles for attention. The crab dip overpowered the onion quiche the moment it emerged from the oven. Then baked garlic was uncovered, obliterating everything else. All of this magic...the glow, the sparkle and the smell...multiplied itself over and over in mirror reflections as forty guests appeared to be four hundred. It was the perfect Christmas party.

Jon and Paulette lived near the top of one of Chicago’s tallest buildings. To prove it, their chandelier swayed in three-quarter time whenever a moderately high wind tickled the lakefront.

Yet despite the near-blizzard going on outside their windows, the Morgans and their guests were too wrapped up on the walled-in twinkle to discern the light patterns reflecting from the snow with the markers in the channel or the street lights fanning out from the city to the suburbs on this cold December night.

In the center of the excitement, Paulette and Jon held court. They were charming hosts, as reflected in the warm invitations they had issued to come, eat and drink. Practiced hosts with the demeanors of medieval royalty hosting the annual wassail, Paulette and Jon were expert at maintaining even smiles all night while making sure no tray looked scavenged and no one’s glass stayed empty for too long. They stayed with each guest just long enough to make conversation about a mutually-shared interest...then went on to the next knot of friends, using the front doorbell’s ring or the kitchen’s lure to separate them with seamless grace.

In the background, a never-ending supply of smooth jazz and new age music spilled into the air at just the right volume. Jon and Paulette subscribed to a 24-hour music station via their cable company providing them with an endless string of elegant music without a single commercial interruption.

Because every last detail was so perfectly arranged and orchestrated, the Morgan’s parties weren’t events that prompted spontaneity. An unspoken rule of “come and stay no more than three hours” was common knowledge. Maybe two drinks. And a brimming plate of hors d'oeuvres in lieu of dinner that night or as a first course before heading for another party. Their lifestyle also set the menu tone: a healthy balance of heart-pleasing, crunchy vegetables served around quasi-palatable fat-free dips. They co-habited nicely with the deep-fried artichoke hearts and liver pates. Amazingly, everything disappeared at the same rate.

Hours passed. Wicks disappeared into the candles they occupied as the conversation quieted and the population thinned. When the door closed for the last time at about one a.m., Jon and Paulette kicked their shoes off in unison and gave each other a “high five.”

“Amen!” Paulette cheered, punting her black sequined pump across the living room. It landed smartly on their couch.

“And hallelujah...” Jon added. He waved both hands in the air with a gesture a revivalist would find heartwarming. Then he took Paulette’s waist and guided her in a tango that brought the pair into the living room.

“Go home, Maddy!” Jon called out to the dining room as the dancing pair caught sight of the maid in the mirror. She was loading a tray of half-filled glasses, her once-white apron artfully streaked with the evening’s menu. “Take whatever food you want and don’t show up until at least noon tomorrow or I will make you return all the leftovers!” he added.

Madelaina didn’t know what to make of these two. Of all the people she worked for, she liked them best. Their souls were kind and the sincere respect she had been given during the last year helped make up for the mean ones ... the slave drivers with no trace of kindness in their hearts.

It had taken a while for Maddy, as they had nicknamed her, to relax around them. But tonight, as Paulette waved goodbye, Madelaina grinned and nodded. She took the tray into the kitchen. Then, after a series of cabinet and refrigerator slams, she reappeared in her coat, a shopping bag of leftovers dangling from her arm. She closed the apartment door just as the clock chimed in the silence.

In the shining darkness of the candlelit night, Paulette stood, shook off her sequined sheath and moaned a sigh of relief as the heavily burdened silk fell to the floor. She snuggled up against Jon’s soft shirt. He stroked her back and the top of her silk slip, brushed back her blond hair and kissed her forehead. “Another noteworthy job, Martha Stewart!” he murmured.

“Thanks. But how about giving credit where it’s due? God must have been having a particularly insightful day when He dreamed up catering services. By my reckoning, this was a late-on-the-sixth-day idea.”