Beatrice sat hunched over her coffee in the diner’s corner booth. Glancing through the windows, she could still make out the holiday shoppers bustling in and out of stores, weighed down with packages and the mental pressure to buy, buy, buy. She’d be safe here, at least for a while. Still, her hands shook, sloshing some hot liquid on the table.

Glancing around for rescue but finding none, Beatrice reached over for a napkin. Stuffed full, the steel dispenser came with it, knocking over what was left in her mug. A few drops stained her new cashmere coat. A young couple two tables over snickered. Beatrice wanted to cry. The stress of her evening escapade was enough. She didn’t need this and all the added attention.

Seeing Beatrice’s distress, the waitress hurried over to clean up the mess. Her big blonde hair framed a friendly round face. She reached over with a dishrag and a strong southern accent. “Don’t worry, Hon.  I got this. Here, let me help you.”

Normally, Beatrice would flinch at someone half her age calling her “Hon,” but given the circumstances, she responded with a weak smile.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” the waitress continued. You came at a good time, though. Normally, we’d still be serving the supper crowd, but folks are just too busy to eat during Black Friday.”

Beatrice nodded, then looked back out at the people rushing by. Black Friday was now a full Black Weekend. When had all the kitsch and consumerism started? Where was the true spirit of the holiday season? At 70, she liked to reminisce about the past, when Christmas and gift-giving were simpler. When Patrick was still alive…

“I like your pin, Hon.”

“Pin?”  Broken out of her reverie, Beatrice reddened. “Wh…what pin?”  Then she remembered. It was on her coat, in plain sight. She fiddled with the collar, unconsciously trying to cover it.

“Your brooch. It’s beautiful.”  The waitress leaned over to inspect it more closely. “Never seen one like that. But be careful, Hon.  Don’t want to poke yourself!”  The waitress smiled and promised to bring her a fresh cup with a slice of blueberry pie. “On me. Nothin’ like a slice of comfort food to calm your nerves, Hon.”

Was it that obvious? Her nerves? Beatrice removed the brooch and carefully placed it in her purse. Her hands had stopped shaking, but her heart was palpitating. She closed her eyes and took a calming breath.

Normally, Patrick would have handled things without any fuss. His propensity for small talk and natural curiosity in others often resulted in complete strangers showing up for evening tea. Yes, her burly late husband could have diffused the Hatfield-McCoy feud with his smile and a dram of whiskey. Then they’d leave arm in arm several hours later with one of his Irish proverbs.

“May the Lord keep you in His hand and never close His fist too tight.”

Left on her own now, Beatrice just gummed things up. She came from Nordic stock, where reserve and directness were core values. So, when that awful ten-foot flamingo became untethered, destroying her dainty primrose garden, the flowers planted in Patrick’s memory, Beatrice had a meltdown. Without thinking, she marched over to the neighbors with a wagging finger and bitter tongue.

Patrick would have said that a good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything. Then he’d head over the following day with a mallet and heavy twine to help tie the lawn decoration more securely. Why, her husband would probably have the neighborhood boys replanting the primrose garden for a ride in his roadster. Instead, the next morning, she found a raw egg splattered on her picture window and toilet paper wrapped around the oak tree.

The waitress had brought her the pie along with another cup of coffee and was now talking to two policemen at the counter. When had they come in? Beatrice pulled the brim of her cloth hat over her eyes and tried to make herself smaller. From her corner, she could make out only bits and pieces of their conversation.

“…up and down Dawson and parts of 3^rd…,” said one, biting into a gooey pastry.

“Destroying private property… a class 1 misdemeanor…,” said the second, shaking his head.

“…leaving notes with pictures of a star or poinsettia …,” he added.

The first policeman pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket and showed it to the waitress. “It’s a bit blurry, but we got this photo from one home’s Ring security camera.”

The waitress wiped her hands on a cloth and stared intently at the photo. She looked in Beatrice’s direction, hesitated, then finally shook her head no.

After they left, Beatrice sagged with relief against the back of the booth. She tried to take a last sip of coffee, but her hands trembled again. No, a life of crime was not for her. With wobbly legs, she started to leave, then heard a child at the next booth crying. His mother was trying to calm him with a hot chocolate and a small toy car. Removing her son’s coat, she looked harried.

“But now he won’t come!” wailed the child.

“Oh, Leo, of course, he will come. He comes every year, no matter what.” She was blowing his nose with one of those difficult napkins.

“But he won’t see our big Santa waving to him in the sky!” the child rubbed his eyes before sobbing again. “He won’t know to stop at our house!”

“Leo, dear, I know Uncle Charlie told you that when we set it up, but it’s simply not true. Yes, it’s a shame what happened, but you need not make a fuss. We can get another next year.”

Beatrice shuffled over to the booth on her way out. “My, my, whatever is the fuss, my lad?”

The child sniffled and turned away. “Pardon my son, madam. He’s just a bit upset about, well, it sounds silly, but someone’s been going up and down our block, piercing all the Christmas yard inflatables. Leaving them sagged on the lawn with notes about bringing back the Christmas spirit! Can you imagine?”

Taken aback, Beatrice reddened and touched her neck. “Oh, my, no!”

“Look, here’s the one left at our house.”  The woman placed a small card with the three Magi bearing gifts on the table. On the bottom, it said, “KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS.”

“My word,” said Beatrice, almost in a whisper. “How impudent.”

“Exactly. Not a very Christian-like way to celebrate the season, ” the mother added with a dismissive wave. “Well, just look how it’s affected my poor Leo.”

Feeling weak and contrite, Beatrice rubbed her sweaty palms along her coat. “Now, now, sweetheart,” she said, addressing the boy like Patrick might. “Santa always brings gifts to the nice children. Just like these three Kings brought gifts to the baby Jesus. And I can see you are a very good boy.”

Beatrice made her way to the exit, then stopped short. Looking back, she noticed the mother get up to go to the restroom. Rooting around in her purse, Beatrice pulled out a Scandinavian Christmas gonk and a twenty-dollar bill. Waddling back to the table, she handed the tree gnome to the surprised boy and placed the money next to the woman’s coffee cup. Then she added another ten dollars to the tip she had left the waitress.

No, a life of crime was not for Beatrice. She would need to find a less stealthy way to reimburse the others. Maybe inviting some of the neighbors over for her authentic Scandinavian confectionaries might sweeten things a bit, too. Yes, that’s what Patrick would do.  But first things first. Pulling her coat collar up around her flushed cheeks, Beatrice hurried home for a bath, a hot toddy, and a good night’s sleep.