Signora Sheila

Everyone wondered, and no one knew. Knew who Mr. Pemberton was, that is. Oh, they all knew of the Pemberton family. At least the older ones. The cranky old man who used to throw things at them when they were kids. And just because they passed his house! Not because they’d stolen his apples or anything. They never would have dared!

And so the talk circulated, from the old to the young, and back to the old. They all longed to know who had come to live in The Manor. At least that’s what the townspeople called it. Not that the children cared about the house. All they thought about was the boulevard. That quarter-mile driveway was an ideal racetrack for bikes and rollerblades. Or sledding. There wasn’t a better hill for sledding anywhere. Kansas towns weren’t known for their hills, and Quibley was flatter than most.

And that had them worried. If Mr. Pemberton was like his surly ancestor, their fun might be over. The village police were strict about racing in the streets, for whatever reason. Though who knew why. It wasn’t like Quibley had tons of traffic. But then, grown-ups could be that stupid. Still, fingers crossed, they listened to their elders discuss Mr. Pemberton. And with the eternal optimism of children, they prepared their sleds for the first snowfall.

Something odd

But there was one strange thing about this Pemberton affair.

Angela Brimm, they noticed, hadn’t said anything at all. And she’d never been silent about anything. Never, for as far back as they could remember! Children observe such things, you know. They were sure that even if Angela Brimm had laryngitis she would manage to talk!

But strangely enough, most of it made sense. She talked too much, it was true. But that was good, because sometimes she was the only one around with any sense. But while everyone was speculating about Mr. Pemberton, Angela Brimm went about her business as usual.

Miss Parker, who had been postmistress since the Revolutionary War-or so it seemed to the children-had the most to say. “I remember old Pemberton. We called him The Crow. Had a drinking problem, he did. He’d wander around town for hours sometimes, before he found his way home. I was just a girl then, but I remember the raucous singing and the clanging as he tripped over garbage cans. Maybe that was the reason for his bad smell. Always rolling around in the garbage.”

“I remember that too,” Mr. Crawford piped up chuckling. “Happy as a lark, he was, stumbling about after an evening at the bar. But a mean old snake the rest of the time, shaking his cane, and squawking at everybody!”

“And then one day, didn’t he up and disappear?” asked Henry Bates. “But where and why, I never heard. And they say no one, except the banker, ever heard of him again! Seemed mighty fishy to me.”

“Good riddance, that’s what I said,” and Mr. Crawford shook his head.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Parker, the eldest of them. “Seems to me he started drinking like that after his wife died. Drove him to it, I guess. I remember my mother saying she’d never seen anyone suffer like Mrs. Pemberton had. I guess it broke the old man.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Mr. Crawford grumbled. “But I’m none too happy about having one of them Pembertons back in town. What kind of a man can he be, with a father like that? And it’s been two weeks since he moved in here, and not sight or sound of him. Now tell me there’s nothing fishy about that!”

But no one had an answer. Not even Angela Brimm, who always had an answer for everything. And that’s what worried the children. What kind of man was he, and how would he treat them? Did he drink too? But most of all they were worried because their parents had forbidden them to go near the Pemberton house. It seemed they’d all judged the man without seeing him.

But even the children hadn’t noticed Stella’s unusual silence. As quiet as her sister was vociferous, she was even quieter than usual. At least that’s what they would have said. “Quieter than ever!” But with a sister like Angela, she probably didn’t get the chance to talk much, even as a child,” they reasoned.

Yet even they couldn’t see that Stella wasn’t her usual happy, carefree self. She seemed downright uncomfortable about it all.

The sisters

I was the only one who noticed. But then as their niece I knew The Sisters, as everyone called them, better than most. And I knew that their names fit them well. People said Angela talked too much, and she did. But they also admitted that she never spoke a bad word about anyone, but always saw the good and tried to help. And oddly enough, in spite of such profusion of speech, her words were pearls of wisdom. She was angelic, no mistake about it!

Light-hearted and full of joy, that’s how I thought of Stella, at least before her trip to the city. Something must have happened. Because even though she seemed the same, I sensed a sadness lurking beneath the surface. But Stella didn’t talk about it, not even at home.

So worried about Stella, I retreated to the kitchen and my Christmas preparations. Not that we did much. Usually nothing but a special dinner with whatever needy or lonely souls we could find to join us.

But cooking and sewing are my therapies. Comfort in times of trouble, and outlets of joy in happy times. Which is only natural, since my name is Taylor. You see, I take names very seriously. To me they’re more than just words attached to faces. They define the person.

Everyone, even Angela, says that’s a crazy notion. But they’ll never convince me! Why, my aunts embody their names! Why else would people be attracted to them, as they are to angels and stars? And why else would I, though 10 years younger, be doing most of the cooking and handicrafts? Nope, no one will ever convince me!

There wasn’t much left to do. The toys, hats, and mittens we make each year for the orphans were ready to be wrapped and delivered. We never bother with gifts among ourselves. We prefer to keep things simple, without a lot of clutter.

But this year, I decided to bake a little more, and plan an extra special dinner. Who knows, I thought. It might even cheer Stella up. Snap her out of whatever funk she was in.

Good thing only one guest was coming this year. A crowd might overwhelm Stella. Maybe she needs some time alone after the hustle and bustle of the city. She never liked crowds. “Yep, that’s it,” I decided, “and here I was imagining depression over her best friend’s wedding. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for her to watch her friends get married one after the other, when she never even had a boyfriend of her own.”

But things did not go according to plan.

Things have a way of doing that, much to my dismay. I like things neat, orderly, and well-planned. Tailor made days, to fit my Taylor life. Yet I’m glad God stepped in and messed up my plans, to give us the best Christmas ever! And not just us, but the whole town!

You see, we never planned anything for Christmas Eve, but saved it for the candlelight service at church. It was the highlight of our year, and we wouldn’t miss it for the world! We don’t have many special events in Quibbley. Which explains why the kids worried so much about their sledding hill.

I never expected the evening to end as it did.

But it’s a good thing I did all that extra baking and cooking, because an extra guest showed up. And I must admit it all turned out well! Stella is now more radiant than any star in the sky. Her name means star, you know.

Still, I’d like to know why such a true love was separated for such a long time. I doubt I’ll ever find out though, because Stella’s still doesn’t talk much more than she ever did.

But I have learned one thing. When Angela Brimm is not talking, you can be sure she knows even more than usual. And if that’s the case, don’t ever expect her to spill the beans. Like I said: she’s an angel, the soul of discretion.

And John Pemberton? Well, I’m sure he’s a nice guy. But I’ll like him a lot more when he wipes off that silly grin he wore throughout the meal.

But all’s well that ends well. And the kids can stop worrying about their hill. All they need now is a good heavy snow!

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed in this fictional story are not based on real people. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

📷 Image credits: house; trash cans; winter wear