The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren Page A

Swedish meatballs,” I offered. “Which means we can make more, maybe invite more people.”
    â€œWhich means more babysitters.” Jenni pulled out her BlackBerry and scrolled down a list. “I’m running out of people to call.”
    â€œThe church can only hold a hundred,” Muriel offered.
    I’d done some research. “We had twenty-three last year. I think we’re safe.”
    Gretchen gave me a look that might have withered a woman who hadn’t been a Trout for the past three-plus weeks.
    â€œDo these dishes look like they should have soup served in them?” Gretchen stood and picked up a bowl. The design of holly and wreath, entwined in gold ribbon, ran around the fluted rim.
    I kept my voice soft and even. “I wasn’t aware that the bowl got to decide what it is used for.”
    Gretchen opened her mouth slightly. She quickly regrouped. “Have the invitations even gone out yet? or the newspaper been called? It’s only two weeks away!” She shook her head. “What have you been doing, Marianne?”
    A retort scraped the back of my teeth as I closed my mouth. I glanced at Rachel, who openly displayed fear, and found a smile. “I’m the chairperson, and I think soup is a great idea. I would really appreciate your support and help in this.”
    Rachel gave a tentative smile.
    Gretchen sat down, holding her china bowl. She ran her finger along the edge, slowly. I think I heard a shuddering sigh.
    Muriel put her hand on Gretchen’s arm.
    I felt like I’d called off Christmas. Glancing at Jenni, I saw that she had picked up her baby, rocking her, patting her back. She didn’t look at me.
    â€œPlease?” I added.
    Gretchen put the bowl on the table. “I guess I should start washing.”
    Muriel got up, and they carried a stack to the kitchen.
    I stayed for one stack, but they so neatly ignored me that I decided perhaps they needed a chance to talk behind my back.
    Besides, I had some shopping to do.
    I stopped by the grocery store, first doing a quick reconnaissance to make sure Jenni hadn’t pulled up also (in which case I would have had urgent business at, say, the post office or pharmacy) and priced out the cost of enough potatoes, bacon, onions, celery, and canned clams to feed fifty (why not shoot high?). Then I stopped by the newspaper office to talk to Robyn, who would place our ad.
    â€œDo you want to mention the menu?” she asked as she took down the details.
    I debated for a moment. “Maybe just say casual theme and a Wallace family favorite.” I smiled conspiratorially. “We’re having soup.”
    Robyn raised an eyebrow as I left. I had a feeling that by the end of the day most of the town would know that Marianne Wallace had fully lost her mind.
    Why stop at being a Trout? Let’s upset a century of tradition.
    I wrapped my scarf around my mouth and bent against the wind as I hustled back out to my SUV. The lake had frozen over, the harbor one smooth ice-skating rink. In the park, moose-shaped lights fed on snow-covered cedar bushes. Red ribbons curled up our old-fashioned streetlights, and a giant wreath hung on the Welcome to Big Lake sign. Town spirit for the Trouts mingled with the Merry Christmas greetings now appearing on the windows.
    â€œTo the dome!” a voice shouted from across the street. Gil Anderson hung out of his truck window, pumping his fist. I raised my hand in greeting.
    To the dome! I’d let all the Christmas preparations and the Christmas Tea battle overshadow the fact that in three short days we’d be playing for the state championship.
    I needed to snap out of my gloom and get my priorities straight. Make sure the Trout was in good working condition.
    When I arrived home, I pulled out my recipe book for the clam chowder. I had a general idea of the ingredients, but I needed to make sure I’d remember everything. I’d forgotten