Thelma’s information highway had been even speedier than usual. Unless you lived on another planet, probably a distant one, I’d bet by now everyone knew about Prescott wanting to buy the Madeira from me.

Noah seemed surprised by my question. “No, Prescott told me. He was keeping it quiet, but I figured you, of all people, would know.”

It was my turn to be surprised. “Oh, uh, actually, no. I didn’t sell it to him. I mean, I couldn’t,” I said. “I have no idea where it is, or if we even have it anymore.”

“Lucie, are you serious?”

“Absolutely. The first I heard of it was on Saturday. Why did Prescott bring it up with you? I thought he was keeping it quiet, too.”

Noah lowered his voice. “He wanted me to know about the party because I used to be a Mason—a member of his lodge, in fact. I haven’t seen a lot of the guys since I left. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to be awkward that he wasn’t inviting me.”

“I didn’t think being a Mason was one of those things you could quit,” Quinn said. “Aren’t you a member for life once you sign on?”

“You don’t have to be,” Noah said, “though no one wants to see a brother Mason leave. But if you decide you want to separate from your lodge, you just write a letter and say you want out. It’s called a demit. If you’re a dues paying member in good standing, that’s it.”

“Why did you leave?” I asked.

Noah looked around and crooked a come-with-me finger as if he were worried someone might overhear what he was about to say. All around us were the sounds of laughter and happy chatter and Christmas music, rambunctious kids who’d stuffed themselves with popcorn and cider as they played in the aisles, adults pushing carts laden with wreaths, garland, and poinsettias, and staff wearing floppy red-and-white Santa hats and CAN I HO-HO-HELP? buttons. It didn’t look as if anyone was paying the slightest bit of attention to our conversation.

Quinn and I followed Noah to a niche off the main room that contained racks of vegetable and flower seed packets, watering cans, gardening gloves—all items for planting a spring garden and not a hint of Christmas. We had the little corner to ourselves.

“I left because it wasn’t for me,” he said, still keeping his voice low. “The time commitment and, to be honest, I wasn’t comfortable with some of the rituals, the clothing you have to wear at the some of the ceremonies. Dressing up as Santa Claus is about the outer edge of my comfort zone.”

I laughed.

“Me, too,” Quinn said. “Maybe beyond the outer edge of mine.”

I ignored him and he made a point of noisily crunching his popcorn.