Ivy

And it came to pass in those days, that a decree went out from my mother that I would be playing the Virgin Mary in the Dollar General drive-through Nativity whether I liked it or not. Never mind the fact that my name was not Mary, that I was not a teen, and, most importantly, not a virgin. Still, decrees from my mother were similar to those from Caesar Augustus: both had to be obeyed. Thus I found myself in flowing robes with a demure head covering as I knelt by a manger while the yellow and black of the Dollar General sign illumined my face like a commercialized Star of the East.

"How much longer?" asked my faux husband through gritted teeth. He, like Joseph, sported a beard but his had been meticulously clipped and he smelled faintly of an expensive woodsy aftershave. Those tasseled loafers peeking out from under his robes definitely weren't Bethlehem issue.

"An hour or two. Maybe?"

We held our pose as cars drove slowly by, sometimes pausing to take a picture. I didn't know about him, but my legs were starting to cramp, and I had an itch on the back of my neck that I would've paid someone to scratch. Heck, the llama a couple of feet behind me could've scratched it and left behind llama slobber for all I cared.

"Miss Idabell tell you to take off your watch?" I asked.

He chuckled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled because we were both far too old to be bossed around yet, here we were. "She told me it would 'distract from the miracle of Christmas.' Told me to leave my 'fancy phone' in the car, too."

"And did you?"

He snorted, and I knew that fancy phone was still in his pocket. It might be worth calling him just to watch him try to get to it underneath his robes. Unfortunately, I didn't know his name much less his phone number, and, no matter what my sister Holly said, I had no intention of asking for phone numbers.

Phone numbers led to sweaty palms and wondering why people didn't call. Then those sweaty palms and paranoia gave way to a date. That date would lead to acid reflux–inducing anxiety about a first kiss. Then something more. Then a relationship. Possibly marriage. Nope. Been there, done that, got the airbrushed T-shirt from a Gatlinburg souvenir shop to prove it. Once upon a time, I had believed in not only happily-ever-afters but also being open to the signs of the universe, something my first husband used to tease me about. Then he'd inadvertently taught me all about richer, poorer, sickness, health, and the parting powers of death.

I hadn't seen a single "sign" since, and, if I had women's intuition, she wasn't telling me a blasted thing. At least Mary had an angel visit her and tell her what was what.

Canned Christmas carols danced on my last nerve. Our Nativity scene organizer claimed good instrumental hymns, like good men, were hard to find. If I hadn't already been working full time in addition to my ill-advised stint as Mary, I might've made it my personal mission to prove her wrong. Maybe next week I would look up instrumental songs for the sake of the next Mary and Joseph.

Thank the Lord my stint would only be one week.

Finally, just as I thought the cramp in my leg would be listed on my death certificate, Brother Leon from Grace Baptist Church gave a benediction and sent us all on our merry way.

"I'm Gabe, by the way," my Joseph said as he extended his hand. I'd heard the name, but I couldn't place it. I would've remembered him, too, with those warm brown eyes that crinkled at the edges.

"Ivy."

HIs hand enveloped mine and was softer than I was used to but large and reassuring nonetheless.

We'd skipped the introductions at the beginning because I'd been running late. I'd been running late because my mother and I were arguing. My mother and I had been arguing because she didn't tell me about my evening stint as Mary until ten minutes before I walked out the door.

"So," he said awkwardly.

"So."

"You back tomorrow, too?"

I laughed. "Oh, yeah. I'll be here all week. Try the veal. Don't forget to tip the waitstaff."

He chuckled at my lounge singer imitation, and I had to give him some credit for laughing at my very bad joke. He jabbed a thumb in the direction behind him. "Better not tell her that."

I looked behind me to see Star, Romy and Julian's black cow with the white face. Everyone knew Star because she didn't really think she was a cow and so didn't think fences applied to her. She'd calmed down some now that she wasn't a spry little calf, but she still got out every now and again just to keep us all on our toes. At least she was gentle enough that whoever found her could put a halter on her and lead her back to the Satterfield place where she belonged.

And to think I thought I wouldn't get anything useful out of completing the 4-H Heifer Project with my uncle Edgar.

"This old girl? I would never!" I said as I scratched the little black star on her forehead. "Besides, she's too old to be veal. Aren't you, girl?"

The cow snuffed and butted my hand off her head.

"I deserved that," I admitted.

"Hey, now. Don't mess with my wife's cow," Julian McElroy yelled. He'd been one of the shepherds and was ushering a swaybacked palomino into a trailer. "You gonna pull your weight, City Boy, or are you going to make goo-goo eyes at Ivy Long?"

Gabe rolled his eyes but grabbed Star's halter.

The cow didn't move.

Since she weighed over a thousand pounds, Gabe didn't budge, either.

"Don't let her step on your toes," Romy said, rushing in with her black curly hair bouncing everywhere. "I'll take her."

Star followed her eagerly, and Gabe looked at me dumbfounded.

"Cows," I said with a shrug.

Julian, meanwhile, spoke to one of two donkeys. "Look here, not a one of us wants to be here all night."

The creature dug in her feet and protested with a hee-haw...