MERRY CHRISTMAS. I just hoped I would live through this day.

A wedding happened to be coming up in several hours, with two hundred or so people attending. I had a farmhouse so full of guests that two of the cousins slept on blow-up mattresses on the kitchen floor.

Well, I must have thought we didn’t have enough to do. So, since it was Christmas, it seemed only fair that we have our traditional breakfast for the homeless that morning. I just couldn’t say no.

“Mom, a slight planning problem,” Seth announced. “The tables in the barn are all set for the wedding dinner. Where will the folks sit? What will they eat with?”

“Seth, a planning solution,” I answered. “Let them sit at the beautifully set tables. It’s Christmas.”

“If Stacey Lee finds out, she’ll kill us,” he said.

“No, she won’t. Because as soon as breakfast is over we’re going to wash the china and silver, launder the linen napkins, and get everything back on the tables before the first pig in a blanket is swallowed. Even if I have to do it myself.”

Seth nodded as if I had just made perfect sense. He gave me a peck on the cheek and started helping the morning diners find their seats. “As you wish, madame. No one cares for the masses quite like you. Actually, that’s true.”

Instead of just the regular helpers, my family was pitching in, and certainly not for the first time.

This breakfast was intentionally fancier than most we served. Not the usual oatmeal, fruit, and toast. No, this Christmas morn there were buttermilk pancakes with real maple syrup. Also, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and scallions. And every table had a big bowl of sliced strawberries.

I turned and headed toward the big griddle, where Jacob, dapper and handsome, even at this early hour, was flipping pancakes like a short-order cook.

“You’re here bright and early,” I said. “Slow day at the temple?” He pretended not to realize I was joking. His expression was wide-eyed, and his jaw dropped a bit.

“Gaby, Christmas is not a big day on the Jewish calendar,” he said.

As we laughed, Emily walked over, picked up a platter of pancakes, and took off, quick and efficient as ever. “This is crazy, Mom,” she mumbled, “but kind of fun.” Tom was already at the table with a second platter.

“Thanks for bringing Amy last night,” I said to Jacob.

“No problem,” he said. “I hope it helped make everyone even more confused. Deepened the mystery. Heated up the plot.”

“Oh, I think it did, Jacob. Just the way we planned.”

By now, some of the breakfast folks were finishing up. A few regulars stopped by to thank me and wish me a merry Christmas. Almost all of them knew about the wedding that afternoon. In fact, most of Stockbridge knew.

Old Adele Gould came up to me. Miz Gould, as she always demanded to be called, claimed to be eighty, but she was at least ninety. She gave me a feeble hug and said, “God bless you, Gaby. I got married four times, and I loved it.”

“You give me great hope and encouragement,” I said.

“Miz Gould,” I heard a familiar voice say. “I’m in charge of collecting the dirty napkins.” It was Marty with a big laundry basket. I hadn’t even seen him arrive.

“Fine, go get mine. Right over there.” Adele pointed to her near-empty table. She winked at me and departed.

“I guess she knows who the hired help is,” Marty said. We shook our heads and smiled.

“Merry Christmas, Marty,” I said.

He bent forward over the laundry basket and kissed me lightly on the lips.

“Merry Christmas, Gaby.”

I pulled back a little, surprised. “Marty,” I said. “Why do we have tears in our eyes?”

“You’re the expert on human nature. I’m just here to wash the napkins. See you later,” he said, and walked out the barn door.

Folks were finishing up breakfast. Emily and Bart were washing dishes. Claire was running around with a cloth and a spray dispenser of detergent, rubbing stains out of the tablecloths. Tom had a couple of wastebaskets.

I watched as he gently asked an older lady to please leave the centerpiece on the table. Then he removed a single white rose and handed it to her.

As I walked toward the griddle to clean it, I was cut off by Benny.

I didn’t actually recall Benny ever having a last name. He was always “Benny at the gas station,” the guy who pumped gas, swept the sidewalk, washed windshields. One thing I did know about Benny was this: He didn’t have a single tooth in his head. And he’d happily verify that for you by opening his mouth wide and laughing.

“Gaby,” he said. “No one knows who you’re marrying, do they?”

“That’s not true. I know.”

“You’re a smart-mouth,” he said. Then he looked into my eyes, pretending that he was about to cry.

“Damn it, Gaby. All these years I thought that I was the one you loved.”