The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren

I remember wondering how Santa would find us all the way in Mexico. After that, I never doubted again.”
    â€œYeah, well, that Santa, he’s pretty sharp.”
    Kevin looked at me, warmth in his eyes. “Yes, he is.” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the dolphin. “Isn’t that where you got the clam chowder recipe you serve every year?”
    â€œI got it from the cook at the resort where we stayed. I remember thinking how weird to find a New England soup in Mexico, but you all loved it so much, I decided to bring back our memories and make it the next year for Christmas Eve. Sometimes you just gotta try something new and see if it takes.”
    Kevin considered me a long moment. “I guess it took. It’s my favorite part about Christmas Eve.”
    The soup was his favorite part? I suppose . . . after all, he’s a boy.
    â€œI think because it was something different, but also, it was something that made me realize that Christmas isn’t just one place and one way, that it could follow us to Mexico or wherever we went.” He got up, putting his ornament back on the tree, and stood for a moment with his back to me. “I wasn’t at the hospital. I went to Bud’s. He needed some wood chopped.”
    My last conversation with Marge drifted back to me. “You Wallaces have some sort of a guilt complex?”
    â€œWere you at the Finlaysens’ on Thanksgiving?”
    He turned, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I was worried they’d be snowed in and he’d have another heart attack and not be able to get help in time, so I shoveled their walk.” His face turned dark. “Bud has to have a new heart.”
    â€œI know,” I said softly.
    Kevin blew out a breath. “And we don’t have a kicker.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Kev.”
    He gave me a small smile. “It’ll all work out though, right?”
    I pulled the blanket to my chin, stared at the sparkle of lights reflecting against the windows. “Yes, Kevin. I believe it will.”

Chapter 9
    â€œWe’re having soup?”
    The way Gretchen said it, it sounded like I’d suggested having kitten à la king. She looked positively ill, and Muriel matched her expression with a dash of horror thrown in.
    â€œSoup?” Gretchen repeated, for extra whammy.
    We sat in the church basement, another hastily called hospitality meeting in progress.
    â€œIt’s a Wallace family favorite. I promise, it’ll be delicious. I found the recipe when our family vacationed in Cancún. It’s got potatoes and bacon and clams—”
    â€œSeafood?” This from Jenni, who was rocking her baby with one foot on the car seat. “I hate seafood, and so do a lot of other people.”
    â€œWe can make two pots, maybe one can just be potato soup, but I promise, you won’t even notice the clams—it’s delicious.”
    The dubious looks from my committee told me I hadn’t yet sold them.
    â€œC’mon, you’ve all had clam chowder before, right?”
    â€œI just keep thinking of the cost.” Gretchen leaned back, folding her arms over her Christmas patterned vest.
    Around us, her beautiful china stacked beautifully in piles told me that she and perhaps Muriel had arrived early to unpack. Admittedly, the ivory china gave a festive aura to our dismal church basement. Festooned with Christmas garland, perhaps a small tree, and Christmas music, the basement could host a simple yet elegant sit-down tea.
    Besides, at least I knew how to make the soup, which, after a little sleuthing, I realized was the main job of the hospitality chairperson. After my conversation with Kevin, I couldn’t dislodge the idea of serving my tried-and-true recipe to our congregation. Maybe it would be exotic enough to entice others to check it out. Wasn’t that the key ingredient of an outreach event?
    â€œIt’ll be cheaper than