wreaths. After she recorded a voice-over, we all entered the dining room and found our hand-calligraphed name cards.
My father walked up to Mickie and said, “This is taking ‘relentless’ to a new level, isn’t it?”
Mickie acted like she wasn’t really listening. “What’s that?”
“You’re shooting our Christmas dinner now? Is nothing off-limits to you?”
Mickie settled into her seat at the head of the table. She answered coolly, “Kurt is going to shoot some footage, but I don’t know how we’ll use it. We’ll have to see how it all goes—the foods, the drinks, the games, the readings. Maybe we’ll use it next year as a Christmas special. Why? Do you object to the crew being here?”
Kurt set up a tripod across from Mickie and started vidding.
My father ignored the red light. “No. I’m glad you’re making your own money.”
Mickie smiled tightly. “I’ve always made my own money.”
“But you don’t always spend your own money, do you?”
Mickie, to my amazement, worked this into the show: “It is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.” She looked at the camera. “Not if you’re Living with Divorce for the holidays. Hello, everyone. Tonight we have friends over, including Charity’s friends Patience and Hopewell. It’s important to include the children’s friends so that they can have their own fun.
“We will all be enjoying a traditional Edwardian Christmas celebration tonight. The menu items, all delicious, come from authentic nineteenth-century recipes. Those will be followed by some hilarious parlor games favored by King Edward, who was Queen Victoria’s son.
“Then we will gather in front of the fireplace for some Christmas readings by some of the greatest nineteenth-century writers, including Robert Louis Stevenson, Leo Tolstoy, and of course Charles Dickens.”
Mr. and Mrs. Patterson were already exchanging glances, perhaps wondering what they had gotten themselves into.
Mickie’s voice turned solemn. “But before we eat, I’d like to begin with Jesus’ words, words we shared with the people of Mangrove last week.” She raised her glass. “There but for the grace of God go I.”
Mickie was certainly fond of that expression. She had used it during the Thanksgiving show, too. I think it had secretly rankled Mrs. Veck, because Mrs. Veck had given me an extra-credit assignment to look it up. I decided to share the results of that assignment with Mickie and the group. “Excuse me. Actually, that wasn’t Jesus.”
Mickie stared at me blankly. She finally said, “No? Are you sure?”
Patience started giggling.
I replied, “I am totally, A-plus sure.”
“Who was it, then, honey?”
“It was an English preacher named John Bradford.”
Mickie replied like he was some third-rate local vidshow host: “Never heard of him.”
“He got burned at the stake by Bloody Mary.”
My father sat up, his eyes darting between Mickie and me. He joined in on the teachable moment. “I’ve heard of her. Now, which queen was she? Is she related to William?”
“No. She was a Tudor. Mary Tudor. She was the daughter of Henry the Eighth.”
He laughed. “Like father, like daughter!”
I had to set him straight, too (courtesy of Mrs. Veck). “No, actually, she was nothing like him. She hated her father and his Protestant church. She restored the Catholic church to power in a very bloody way.”
My father nodded respectfully. “I see. Hence the name.”
Mickie concluded, “Well, that’s all very interesting. But the quote is certainly appropriate for Christmas, a time when we think of the less fortunate. So I say again: ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’” She raised her wineglass and held it up until the other adults did, too. Then they all drank.
Patience muttered, “In Mangrove, they probably say that about us.”
Albert served another round of wine to the adults. My father chugged his in one gulp and protested playfully, “Hey! You
My father walked up to Mickie and said, “This is taking ‘relentless’ to a new level, isn’t it?”
Mickie acted like she wasn’t really listening. “What’s that?”
“You’re shooting our Christmas dinner now? Is nothing off-limits to you?”
Mickie settled into her seat at the head of the table. She answered coolly, “Kurt is going to shoot some footage, but I don’t know how we’ll use it. We’ll have to see how it all goes—the foods, the drinks, the games, the readings. Maybe we’ll use it next year as a Christmas special. Why? Do you object to the crew being here?”
Kurt set up a tripod across from Mickie and started vidding.
My father ignored the red light. “No. I’m glad you’re making your own money.”
Mickie smiled tightly. “I’ve always made my own money.”
“But you don’t always spend your own money, do you?”
Mickie, to my amazement, worked this into the show: “It is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.” She looked at the camera. “Not if you’re Living with Divorce for the holidays. Hello, everyone. Tonight we have friends over, including Charity’s friends Patience and Hopewell. It’s important to include the children’s friends so that they can have their own fun.
“We will all be enjoying a traditional Edwardian Christmas celebration tonight. The menu items, all delicious, come from authentic nineteenth-century recipes. Those will be followed by some hilarious parlor games favored by King Edward, who was Queen Victoria’s son.
“Then we will gather in front of the fireplace for some Christmas readings by some of the greatest nineteenth-century writers, including Robert Louis Stevenson, Leo Tolstoy, and of course Charles Dickens.”
Mr. and Mrs. Patterson were already exchanging glances, perhaps wondering what they had gotten themselves into.
Mickie’s voice turned solemn. “But before we eat, I’d like to begin with Jesus’ words, words we shared with the people of Mangrove last week.” She raised her glass. “There but for the grace of God go I.”
Mickie was certainly fond of that expression. She had used it during the Thanksgiving show, too. I think it had secretly rankled Mrs. Veck, because Mrs. Veck had given me an extra-credit assignment to look it up. I decided to share the results of that assignment with Mickie and the group. “Excuse me. Actually, that wasn’t Jesus.”
Mickie stared at me blankly. She finally said, “No? Are you sure?”
Patience started giggling.
I replied, “I am totally, A-plus sure.”
“Who was it, then, honey?”
“It was an English preacher named John Bradford.”
Mickie replied like he was some third-rate local vidshow host: “Never heard of him.”
“He got burned at the stake by Bloody Mary.”
My father sat up, his eyes darting between Mickie and me. He joined in on the teachable moment. “I’ve heard of her. Now, which queen was she? Is she related to William?”
“No. She was a Tudor. Mary Tudor. She was the daughter of Henry the Eighth.”
He laughed. “Like father, like daughter!”
I had to set him straight, too (courtesy of Mrs. Veck). “No, actually, she was nothing like him. She hated her father and his Protestant church. She restored the Catholic church to power in a very bloody way.”
My father nodded respectfully. “I see. Hence the name.”
Mickie concluded, “Well, that’s all very interesting. But the quote is certainly appropriate for Christmas, a time when we think of the less fortunate. So I say again: ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’” She raised her wineglass and held it up until the other adults did, too. Then they all drank.
Patience muttered, “In Mangrove, they probably say that about us.”
Albert served another round of wine to the adults. My father chugged his in one gulp and protested playfully, “Hey! You
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