Bluegrass Christmas. Allie Pleiter

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      Better is one day in your courts

       than a thousand elsewhere;

       I would rather be a doorkeeper

       in the house of my God

       than dwell in the tents of the wicked.

      —Psalms 84:10

      For Christina

      For who she was, who she is,

      and who she will be

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Epilogue

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      While “Mac” MacCarthy hadn’t counted on peace and quiet when he returned to his office, he hadn’t anticipated an opera-singing cockatoo, either.

      December might not go as well as he planned.

      Assuming the only logical explanation, Mac pushed his way through the connecting interior doors of the bakery adjacent to his engineering office. “All right, Dinah, what did you do to him?”

      Dinah Rollings, owner of the Taste and See Bakery, looked up from her cash register. “To whom?”

      Mac cocked his head toward the racket behind him. “I’ve got Luciano Pavarotti in feathers perched on my credenza. Very funny. Now tell me what you did to Curly so I can hush him up before cats start prowling the alley.”

      With both doors open, Dinah could evidently hear the bird. Her face was half surprised, half amused. “Not bad. That’s from The Marriage of Figaro, I think. Didn’t peg you for an opera fan.”

      Mac looked quizzically at his smirking neighbor. “You didn’t do this?”

      She raised an eyebrow. “No.”

      “Gil?” Mac named his best friend who, while no fan of opera, had been known to love a good joke.

      “Haven’t seen him.”

      “Cameron?” Dinah’s new husband didn’t seem the type, but as a former New York City native, Cameron might have opera in his background. And pranks.

      Dinah shot him an incredulous look. “Not a chance. Look, Mac, I don’t know who might have…”

      At that moment, Pavarotti—the real one—belted out the aria in question from the stairway between their businesses’ doors. And Curly, Mac’s yellow-crested-cockatoo-recently-turned-tenor, joined in.

      The second-floor apartment had been empty since Cameron and Dinah got married. Evidently, it wasn’t unoccupied anymore. Opera music flooded the hallway when Mac opened the door that led upstairs.

      Dinah came to the door. “Okay, maybe I do know who could be…”

      Curly chose that moment to chase his avian muse, leaving his perch in Mac’s office to bolt up the stairway in a squawking white streak of feathers and falsetto.

      Mac took the stairs three at a time, ruing the fact that repairmen at his house necessitated that Curly spend this week at the office with him. Curly almost never bolted, but when he did, he went full out. Nothing good could come from this. Mac was a few steps from the top when he heard the shriek.

      Taking the last risers in two strides, Mac looked in the apartment door to find a blond woman cowering behind a music stand, holding what looked like a conductor’s baton as if it were a broadsword. The operatic waltz blared from a set of speakers on either side of the room, and Curly stood ducking and bobbing in time with the music from atop a bookcase to Mac’s right.

      “What is that thing?” she said over the loud music. Actually, shouted might have been more accurate. Shouted with great annoyance. Curly wasn’t a small bird, and he looked like an invading white tornado when he flew anywhere. Mac could only imagine how frightening, at first sight, it was.

      “That’s Curly,” Mac introduced, feeling ridiculous as he yelled above the orchestration. “He won’t hurt you. He seems to get a kick out of your music.”

      Her eyes СКАЧАТЬ