Chapter One A Winter Eden
The first flake landed on a blackberry bush in the creek bottom of Meadowgate Farm. In the frozen hour before dawn, others found their mark on the mossy roof of the smokehouse; in a grove of laurel by the northwest pasture; on the handle of a hoe left propped against the garden fence.
Close by the pond in the sheep paddock, a buck, a doe, and two fawns stood motionless as an owl pushed off from the upper branches of a pine tree and sailed, silent and intent, to the ridge of the barn roof.
The owl hooted once, then twice.
As if summoned by its velveteen cry, the platinum moon broke suddenly from the clouds above the pond, transforming the waterÆs surface into a gleaming lake of molten pearl. Then, clouds sailed again over the face of the moon, and in the bitter darkness, snowflakes fell thick and fast, swirling as in a shaken globe.
It was twelve minutes after six oÆclock when a gray light rose above the brow of Hogback Mountain, exposing an imprint of tractor tires that linked MeadowgateÆs hay barn to the cow pasture and sheep paddock. The imprints of work boots and dog paws were also traceable along the driveway to the barn, and back to the door of the farmhouse, where smoke puffed from the chimney and lamplight shone behind the kitchen windows.
From a tulip poplar at the northeast corner to the steel stake at the southwest, all hundred and thirty acres of Meadowgate Farm lay under a powdery blanket of March snow.
Cynthia Kavanagh stood in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen in a chenille robe, and gazed out on the hushed landscape.
ôIt makes everything innocent again,ö she said. ôA winter Eden.ö
At the pine table, Father Timothy Kavanagh leafed through his quote journal until he found the record heÆd jotted down. ôUnbelievable! WeÆve had snow one, two, three, four . . . this is the fifth time since Christmas Eve.ö
ôSnow, snow, and more snow!ö
ôNot to mention dogs, dogs, and more dogs! It looks like somebody backed up to the door and dumped a truckload of canines in here.ö
Following his customary daylight romp, Barnabas, a Bouvier-wolfhound mix and his boon companion of ten years, was drowned in slumber on the hearth rug; Buckwheat, an English foxhound grown long in the tooth, had draped herself over the arm of the sofa; the Welsh corgi, aptly named Bodacious, snored in a wing chair she had long ago claimed as her own; and Luther, a recent, mixed-breed addition to the Meadowgate pack, had slung himself onto his bed in the corner, belly up. There was a collective odor of steam rising from sodden dog hair.
ôUgh!ö said his wife, who was accustomed to steam rising off only one wet dog.
Father Tim looked up from the journal in which he was transcribing notes collected hither and yon. ôSo what are you doing today, Kavanagh?ö
Cynthia mashed the plunger of the French coffee press. ôIÆm doing the sketch of Violet looking out the kitchen window to the barn, and IÆm calling Puny to find out about the twinsùtheyÆre days late, you know.ö
ôGood idea. Expected around March fourth or fifth, and here it is the fourteenth. TheyÆll be ready for kindergarten.ö
ôAnd you must run to Mitford with the shopping list for DooleyÆs homecoming dinner tomorrow.ö
ôConsider it done.ö
His heart beat faster at the thought of having their boy home for spring break, but the further thought of having nothing more to accomplish than a run to The Local was definitely discouraging. Heaven knows, there was hardly anything to do on the farm but rest, read, and walk four dogs; heÆd scarcely struck a lick at a snake since arriving in mid- January. Willie Mullis, a full-timer whoÆd replaced the part-time Bo Davis, lived on the place and did all the odd jobs, feeding up and looking after livestock; Joyce Havner did the laundry and cleaning, as sheÆd done at Meadowgate for years; Blake Eddistoe ran the vet clinic, only a few yards from the farmhouse door, with consummate efficiency; there was even someone to bush hog and cut hay when the season rolled around.
In truth, it seemed his main occupation since coming to farm-sit for the Owens was waiting to hear from his bishop, Stuart Cullen, who had e-mailed him before Christmas.
He had scratched his head throughout the month of January, trying to reckon what the challenge might be. In February, heÆd called Stuart, attempting to gouge it out of him, but Stuart had asked for another couple of weeks to get the plan together before he spilled the beans.
Now, here they were in the middle of March, and not a word.
ôYouÆre sighing, Timothy.ö
ôWondering when Stuart will get off the pot.ö
ôHeÆs retiring in June and consecrating the cathedralùaltogether, a great deal to say grace over. YouÆll hear soon, dearest.ö
She handed him a mug of black coffee, which he took with gratitude.
So here he sat, retired from nearly four decades of active ministry as a priest, toasting himself by an open fire with his good-humored and companionable wife of seven years, and situated in what he believed to be the most breathtakingly beautiful countryside in America.
Why bother, after all, about some ôchallengeö that may or may not be coming. HadnÆt he had challenges enough to last him a lifetime?
His wife, on the other hand, was ever drumming up a challenge. During their year at the farm, conveniently located twenty min-utes from Mitford, sheÆd decided to accomplish three lifetime goals: learn needlepoint, make perfect oven fries, and read War and Peace.
ôSo howÆs it coming with War and Peace?ö
ôI despise telling you this, but I havenÆt opened it once. IÆm reading a charming old book called Mrs. Miniver.ö
ôAnd the fries?ö
ôSince Dooley comes tomorrow, IÆll be conducting my next experimentùto see whether soaking the potatoes in ice water will make them crispier. And IÆm definitely using peanut oil this time.ö
ôIÆll peel and cut,ö he said. He hadnÆt seen any activity around the needlepoint plan, so he declined to mention it.
ôPathetic,ö she said, reading his mind. ôIÆm all thumbs. Learning from a book is not the way to do it. IÆve decided to let Olivia tutor me, if she has a free day now and then. Besides, having lunch with someone who also wears eye shadow might be fun.ö
ôIÆm definitely a dud in the eye shadow department.ö
She thumped into the wing chair opposite him and took a sip from her coffee mug. ôAnd what about you, dearest? Have you accomplished all your lifetime goals?ö
Oddly, the question stung him. ôI suppose I havenÆt thought about it.ö Maybe he hadnÆt wanted to think about having any further goals.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the wing chair. ôI believe if I were charged with having a goal, it would be to live without frettingùto live more fully in the moment, not always huffing about as IÆve done in recent years . . . to live humblyùand appreciativelyùwith whatever God furnishes.ö
He reflected for a moment and raised his head and looked at her. ôYes. That would be my goal.ö
ôBut arenÆt you doing that?ö
ôNo. I feel obligated to get out there, to open myself to some new and worthwhile service. IÆve been a bump on a log these last weeks.ö
ôItÆs OK to be a bump on a log once in a while. æBe still,Æ He tells us, æand know that I am God.Æ We must learn to wait on Him, Timothy. All those years of preaching and celebrating, and doing the interim at Whitecapùwhat a lovely legacy God allowed you to have there; and ministering to Louella and Miss Sadie and HTlFne Pringle and Morris Love and George Gaynor and Edith Mallory and the Leepers . . .ö She took a deep breath. ôOn and on, an entire community, for heavenÆs sake, not to mention volunteering at the ChildrenÆs Hospital and rounding up DooleyÆs little sister and brothers . . .ö
ôOne brother still missing,ö he said, ôand what have I done about it?ö
ôThere may be nothing you can do about it. ThereÆs absolutely nothing to go on, no leads of any kind. Maybe God alone can do something about it. Perhaps Kenny is GodÆs job.ö
The fire crackled on the hearth; the dogs snored.
His wife had just preached him a sermon, and it was one he needed to hear. He had a mate who knew precisely what was what, especially when he didnÆt.
ôæLet us then be up and doing,Æö he quoted from Wordsworth, ôæwith a heart for any fate!Æ WhereÆs the grocery list?ö
ôIn my head at present, but letÆs get it out.ö She opened the small drawer in the lamp table and removed her notebook and pen.
ôSteak!ö She scribbled. ôSame old cut?ö
ôSame old, same old. New York strip.ö This would be no Lenten fast, but a Lenten feast for a starving college boy who was seldom home.
ôRusset potatoes,ö she said, continuing the litany.
ôAlways best for fries.ö His blood would soon get up for this cookathon, even if he couldnÆt eat much on the menu. While some theologians construed St. PaulÆs thorn to be any one of a variety of alarming dysfunctions, heÆd been convinced for years that it was the same blasted affliction heÆd ended up withùdiabetes.
ôPie crusts,ö she said, scribbling on. ôOh, rats. For the life of me, I canÆt remember all the ingredients for his chocolate pie, and of course, I didnÆt bring my recipe box.ö
ôI never liked the recipe we use,ö he said, suddenly confessional.
ôYouÆre not supposed to even touch chocolate pie, Timothy, so what difference does it make? Dooley loves it; it isnÆt half bad, really.ö
ôIt needs something.ö
ôLike what?ö
ôSomething more . . . you know.ö
ôWhipped cream!ö
His wife loved whipped cream; with the slenderest of excuses, she would slather it on anything.
ôNot whipped cream. Something more like . . .ö He threw up his hands; his culinary imagination had lately flown south.
ôMeringue, then.ö
ôMeringue!ö he said, slapping his leg. ôThatÆs it!ö
She bolted from her chair and trotted to the kitchen counter. ôMargeÆs recipe box . . . I was thumbing through it the other day and I vaguely remember . . . LetÆs see . . . Onions in Cream Sauce, Penne Pasta with Lump Crabmeat, that sounds good. . . .ö
ôKeep going.ö
ôPie!ö
ôBingo.ö
ôButtermilk Pie . . . Vinegar Pie . . . Fresh Coconut . . .ö
ôMark that one!ö
ôEgg Custard . . . Fresh Peach . . . Deep-Dish Apple . . .ö
ôEnough,ö he said. ôIÆm only human.ö
ôHere it is. Chocolate Pie with Meringue.ö
ôFinish that list, Kavanagh, and IÆm out of here.ö
Ha! HeÆd denied himself as sternly as one of the Desert Fathers these last weeks; he would have the tiniest sliver of that pie, or else . . .
ôI know what youÆre thinking,ö she said.
He pulled on his jacket and foraged in the pockets for his knit cap, and kissed her warm mouth.
ôYou always know what IÆm thinking,ö he said.
His hand was on the doorknob when the phone rang.
ôDo try to find a haircut while youÆre in town,ö she said, picking up the receiver.
ôYouÆve got that John-the-Baptist look again. Hello! Meadowgate Farm.ö
He watched her pause, listening, then grin from ear to ear.
ôThanks for calling, Joe Joe. ThatÆs wonderful! Congratulations! Give Puny our love. IÆll be over on Thursday. TimothyÆs headed into Mitford now, IÆm sure heÆll stop by.ö
ôSo?ö he asked, excited as a kid.
ôBoys! Weighing in at fifteen pounds total! Thomas and . . .ö She paused, and looked all- knowing.
ôAnd?ö
ôThomas and Timothy!ö
ôNo!ö
ôYes! One named for PunyÆs grandfather and one named for you. Now there are two little boys in this world whoÆre named for you, and I hope you realize that people donÆt go around naming little boys for a bump on a log.ö
Boys! And because PunyÆs father was long deceased, he would be their granpaw, just as he was granpaw to Puny and Joe JoeÆs twin girls.
His entire chest felt suffused with a warm and radiating light.
He turned onto the state road, which had already been scraped for the school buses, and headed south past the Baptist church and its snow-covered brush arbor. He glanced at the wayside pulpit, which was changed weekly.
if loving god were a crime, would you be in jail?
Getting around was a piece of cake. The heavens had given them only a couple of inches, and in a farm truck built like a tank, he felt safe and thoroughly above it all.
Patently envious. Patently envious. What could a bigwig bishop, albeit his oldest friend, envy in a country parson? There it was again, the tape running in a loop and promising to work his mind into a lather.
ôI roll this whole mystery over to You, Lord,ö he said aloud, ôand thank You for this day!ö
In truth, the whole day belonged to him. He would stop by the hospital to see Puny and her new brood; he would run over to Hope House and visit Louella; he would make a noon stop at Lew BoydÆs Exxon where the Turkey Club was lately convening; he would have a chin-wag with Avis at The Local. . . .
As for getting a haircut, he had no intention of trusting his balding head to Fancy Skinner ever again, period; Joe Ivy had retired from cutting hair and wanted nothing more to do with such a trade; trooping to the barber shop in Wesley would take too much time. So, no, indeed, absolutely not, there would be no haircut on this trip into civilization. The sun broke through leaden clouds and flooded the countryside with a welcome light.
ôYee hah!ö he shouted against the considerable din of the truck engine. Why had he felt so bereft and grumpy only a half hour before, when he was now beginning to feel like a new man?
He switched on the radio to the blast of a country music station; it was golden oldies time.
ôI bought thÆ shoes that just walked out on me. . . .ö someone sang. He sang along, hardly caring that he didnÆt know the words.
ôCountry come to town!ö he whooped as he drove into Mitford.
Roaring past the Exxon station, he blew the horn twice, just to let the general public know heÆd arrived.
He bent and kissed her forehead.
ôWell done,ö he said, a lump in his throat. Two sets of twins! May God have mercy. . . . ôTheyÆre whoppers,ö she said, smiling up at him.
His so-called house help of ten years, and the one whom he loved like a daughter, lay worn but beaming in the hospital bed.
He took her hand, feeling the rough palm that had come from years of scrubbing, polishing, cooking, washing, ironing, and generally making his life and CynthiaÆs far simpler, not to mention indisputably brighter. ôThank you for naming one of your fine boys after this old parson.ö
ôWe wonÆt call Æim by thÆ fancy name. ItÆll jisÆ be Timmy.ö
ôTimmy. I always liked it when Mother called me Timmy.ö
ôTimmy anÆ Tommy,ö she said, proudly.
ôTimmy and Tommy and Sissy and Sassy.ö
ôYouÆll be the boysÆ granpaw, too,ö she said, in case he hadnÆt considered this.
ôItÆll be an honor to be their granpaw.ö
ôFather?ö
Since heÆd officiated at her wedding several years ago, she had taken to calling him by his priestly title in a way that subtly claimed him as her true father. He never failed to note this. Blast, if he wasnÆt about to bawl like baby. ôYes, my dear?ö
ôI sure do love you and Cynthy.ö
There they came, rolling down his cheeks like a veritable gulley washer. . . .
ôAnd we sure do love you back,ö he croaked.
ôSo, howÆs the food at Hope House these days?ö
He sat on the footstool by LouellaÆs rocking chair, feeling roughly eight or ten years old, as he always had in the presence of Miss Sadie and Louella.
ôOh, honey, some time itÆs good, some time it ainÆt fit for slop.ö He noted that Louella said ainÆt now that Miss Sadie, who forbade its use, had passed on. ôYou take thÆ soupù thÆ menu has thÆ same olÆ soup on it every day, day after day, long as I been here.ö She looked thoroughly disgusted.
ôWhat soup is that?ö
ôSoup du jour! If they cainÆt come up with moreÆn one soup in this high-dollar outfit, I ainÆt messinÆ with it.ö
ôAha,ö he said.
ôMy granmaw, Big Mama, said soup was for sick people, anyway, anÆ I ainÆt sick anÆ ainÆt planninÆ to be.ö
ôThatÆs the spirit.ö
Louella rocked on. The warm room, the lowering clouds beyond the window, and the faint drone of the shopping network made him drowsy; his eyelids drooped. . . .
Louella suddenly stopped rocking. ôI been meaninÆ to askùwhat you doinÆ Æbout Miss SadieÆs money?ö
He snapped to attention. ôWhat money is that?ö
ôDonÆt you remember? I tolÆ you Æbout thÆ money she hid in that olÆ car.ö
ôOld car,ö he said, clueless.
ôIn that olÆ Plymouth automobile she had.ö Louella appeared positively vexed with him.
ôLouella, I donÆt have any idea what you mean.ö
ôYour memÆry must be goinÆ, honey.ö
ôWhy donÆt you tell me everything, from the beginning.ö
ôSeem like I called you up anÆ tolÆ you, but maybe I dreamed it. Do you ever dream somethinÆ so real you think it happened?ö
ôI do.ö
ôA while before she passed, Miss Sadie got mad Æbout thÆ market fallinÆ off. You know she made good money in that market.ö
ôYes, maÆam, she did.ö HadnÆt she left Dooley Barlowe a cool million plus at her passing? This extraordinary fact, however, was not yet known to Dooley.
ôShe say, æLook here, Louella, IÆm goinÆ to put this little dab where those jack legs at thÆ market canÆt lose it.Æ I say, æMiss Sadie, where you goinÆ to put it, under yoÆ mattress?Æ She say, æDonÆt be foolish, IÆm goinÆ to put it in my car anÆ lock it up.Æ SheÆd quit drivinÆ anÆ her car was up on blocks in thÆ garage. She say, æNow donÆt you let me forget itÆs in there.Æö
ôAnd?ö he asked.
ôAnÆ I went anÆ let Æer forget it was in there!ö
The 1958 Plymouth had been sitting for several years in the garage behind Fernbank, Miss SadieÆs old home on the hill above Mitford. Fernbank was now owned by Andrew Gregory, MitfordÆs mayor, his Italian wife, Anna, and his brother-in-law, Tony.
ôWell, it probably wasnÆt much,ö he said, reassuring.
ôWadnÆt much? It mosÆ certainly was much. It was nine thousand dollars!ö
ôNine thousand dollars?ö He was floored.
ôDonÆt holler,ö she instructed. ôYou donÆt know who might be listeninÆ.ö ôYouÆre sure of that amount, Louella?ö
ôSure, IÆm sure! Miss Sadie anÆ me, we count it out in hunÆerd dollar bills. How many hunÆerd dollar bills would that be? I forget.ö
ôUmm, that would be ninety bills.ö
ôYessir, honey, it was ninety, it took us Ætil way up in thÆ day to count them hunÆerds out, Æcause everÆ time we counted Æem out, Miss Sadie made us start all over anÆ count Æem out agÆin!ö
ôGood idea,ö he said, not knowing what else to say.
ôWe got a rubber band and put it arounÆ all them bills, anÆ took out a big envelope and whopped Æem in there, anÆ I licked thÆ flap and sealed it up tight as DickÆs hat band, so nothinÆ would fall out.
ôShe say tÆ me, æLouella, you thÆ best frienÆ I ever had, but you cainÆt go down there with me, this is between me anÆ thÆ Lord.Æ
ôThen she struck out to thÆ garage, anÆ when she come back, she was proud as a pup witÆ two tails.
ôI say, æMiss Sadie, where you put that money in case you pass?Æ She say, æI ainÆt goinÆ tÆ pass any time soon, donÆt worry about it. Sometime later she mention that money; we was livinÆ at Miss OliviaÆs olÆ house. She say she ought to go get it out of where she put it, but thÆ market was still real bad.
ôThen, we both plumb forgot.
ôThÆother day I was settinÆ in this rockinÆ chair watchinÆ thÆ soaps anÆ it come to me like a lightninÆ strike. I said, oh, law! SomethinÆ bad goinÆ to happen to Miss SadieÆs money, anÆ Miss Sadie, sheÆll be hoppinÆ mad.ö He was dumbfounded by this strange turn of events. As far as what might be done about it, his mind felt oddly pickled.
LouellaÆs immense bosom heaved with a sense of the urgent mission to be carried forth; she leaned toward him and lowered her voice. ôSo,ö she said, ôwhat you goinÆ tÆ do Æbout Miss SadieÆs money?ö
On the way to Main Street, he zoomed by their yellow house on Wisteria Lane and found it looking spic, not to mention downright span. HarleyÆs general supervision of its welfare made it possible to spend this carefree year at Meadowgate.
He threw up his hand and waved.
ôWeÆll be back!ö he shouted.
He wheeled into Lew BoydÆs Exxon, still occasionally referred to as the Esso station, and saw the Turkey Club sprawled in plastic deck chairs inside the front window. The lineup included J. C. Hogan, longtime Mitford Muse editor; Mule Skinner, semiretired realtor; and Percy Mosely, former proprietor of the now-defunct Main Street Grill. HeÆd been hanging out with this bunch for eighteen or twenty years, and it had been a rude awakening when Percy and Velma packed it in last Christmas Eve, vacating a building that quickly became a discount shoe store. Currently occupying the spot where the clubÆs rear booth had stood was a rack of womenÆs pumps, sizes eight to ten.
ôHooboy!ö Mule stood and saluted. ôHere comes our Los Angelees movie producer.ö
ôWho, me?ö
ôPretty soon, youÆll be whippinÆ that back in a ponytail anÆ wearinÆ a earring.ö
Father Tim suddenly felt his hair flowing over his shoulders like a medieval mantle.
ôCome on, leave Æim alone,ö said Percy. ôHeÆs livinÆ out in thÆ boonies, he donÆt have to slick up like we do.ö
ôIf you call that slicked up, IÆm a monkeyÆs uncle.ö
ôHow longÆre you stuck out there in thÆ sticks?ö asked Percy.
ôHal and Marge will be living in France for a year, so . . . roughly nine more months. But we donÆt feel stuck, we like it.ö
ôI lived in thÆ country when I was cominÆ up,ö said Percy, ôanÆ it like to killed me. They ainÆt nothinÆ but work on a farm. Haul this, fix that, hoe this, feed that. If it ainÆt chickens, itÆs feathers.ö
ôAbout time you showed up, buddyroe, my fish sanÆwich is goinÆ south.ö J.C. rooted around in his overstuffed briefcase and came up with something wrapped in recycled foil. Mule sniffed the air. ôHow long has that thing been in there?ö
ôSeven oÆclock this morning.ö
ôYouÆre not goinÆ to eat it?ö
ôWhy not? ThÆ temperatureÆs just a couple degrees above freezinÆ.ö
Father Tim noted that the editorÆs aftershave should effectively mask any offensive odors within, loosely, a city block.
ôWhatÆd you bring?ö Mule asked Percy.
ôLast nightÆs honey-baked pork chop on a sesame-seed roll with lettuce, mayo, and a side of chips.ö
ôMan!ö said Mule. He expected that anybody whoÆd owned the Grill for forty-odd years would show up with a great lunch, but nothing like this. He peered into his own paper sack.
ôSo, what is it?ö asked J.C., hammering down on the fish sandwich.
ôI canÆt believe it.ö Mule appeared disconsolate. ôFancyÆs got me on some hoo-doo diet again.ö
ôWhy is your wife packinÆ your lunch? YouÆre a big boy, pack your own bloominÆ lunch.ö
Mule examined the contents of the Ziploc bag. ôA sweet potato,ö he said, devastated. ôWith no butter.ö
ôA sweet potato?ö Percy eyed the pathetic offering with disbelief. ôWhat kind of diet is that?ö
Mule slumped in his chair. ôI canÆt eat a sweet potato; no way can I eat a sweet potato. I feel trembly, I had breakfast at six-thirty and now itÆs way past twelve.ö
ôWhatÆd she give you for breakfast? A turnip?ö
ôHard-boiled eggs. I hate hard-boiled eggs; they give me gas.ö
ôSo, Percy,ö said Father Tim, unwrapping a ham and cheese on white from the vending machine, ôsee what you did by going out of business? Left us all high and dry.ö
ôYeah,ö said Mule. ôI was happy with things thÆ way they were.ö
J.C. gobbled the remaining half of his sandwich in one bite. ôAh guss nobar hurrbowwissonor . . .ö
ôDonÆt talk with your mouth full,ö snapped Mule, who was digging in his pockets for vending machine change.
J.C. swallowed the whole affair, and knocked back a half can of Sprite. ôI guess you turkeys didnÆt hear the latest about thÆ Witch of thÆ North.ö
ôWitch of thÆ South,ö said Percy, recognizing the nickname, albeit incorrect, for his much-despised former landlord.
ôTurns out she said her first clearly understandable word since that big crack on thÆ head in September.ö
ôMoney!ö exclaimed Percy.
ôWhat about money?ö
ôMoney had to be thÆ first word out of that back-stabbinÆ, hardhearted, penny-pinchinÆ . . .ö
ôNow, Percy,ö said Father Tim.
J.C. glared at the assembly. ôDo you want to hear thÆ dadgum story or not?ö
ôSay on,ö commanded Father Tim.
ôEd Coffey was in town yesterday, haulinÆ stuff out of her carriage house up at Clear Day to take down to her Florida place. He said that right before he left, she was sittinÆ in her wheelchair at thÆ window, lookinÆ at birds, and she motioned him to come over. . . .ö
Mule looked disgusted. ôIf brains were dynamite, Ed Coffey wouldnÆt have enough to blow his nose!ö
ôThen, she motioned Æim to come closer. . . .ö
The Turkey Club sat forward.
ôEd said instead of all that word salad sheÆd been talking, she spoke up as good as anybody. . . .ö
ôWhatÆd she say, dadgummit?ö PercyÆs pork chop was stuck in his gullet; if there was anything he disliked, it was the way some people had to be thÆ bride at every weddinÆ and thÆ corpse at every funeral.
ôYessir, he said he was standinÆ right there when it rolled out, slick as grease.ö
ôYou already told us that, you goofball. What was it she said?ö
J.C. wiped his perspiring forehead with a wadded-up paper towel. ôGet off my bumper,ö he snapped at Percy.
The Muse editor sat back in the plastic chair and looked once more at the eager assembly. ôShe said God.ö
ôGod?ö Percy and Mule exclaimed in unison.
ôNo way!ö Mule shook his head. ôNo way Edith Mallory wouldÆve said God, unless she was tryinÆ to say thÆ word that used to get my butt whipped when I was little.ö
ôRight,ö said Percy. ôNo way.ö
Yes, thought Father Tim. Yes!
He stopped by the grease pit where Harley Welch was lying on his back under a crew-cab truck.
ôHarley!ö He squatted down and peered at his old friend.
ôRevÆrenÆ, is that you?ö
ôWhatÆs left of me. HowÆs it going?ö
ôGoinÆ good if I can git this U joint worked offa here. WhenÆs our boy cominÆ home?ö
ôTomorrow. WeÆll catch up with you in a day or two. Did you hear about the twins?ö
ôYessir, hitÆs thÆ big town news. SpittinÆ image of thÆ olÆ mayor, they say.ö He laughed. ôI guess Lace is coming in?ö
ôYessir, sheÆs wrote me a time or two lately; you know she got that big scholarship.ö
ôI heard. ThatÆs wonderful! By the way, when is the last time you worked on Miss SadieÆs car?ö
ôOh, law, thatÆs goinÆ too far back fÆr mÆ feeble mind. LetÆs see, didnÆt she pass in thÆ spring?ö
ôShe did.ö
ôI worked on it sometime before she passed, she was still drivinÆ. I remember she rolled in here one morninÆ, I had to change out Æer clutch. Miss Sadie was bad tÆ ride Æer clutch.ö
ôDo you know if itÆs still parked in the garage up at Fernbank?ö
ôI donÆt know if heÆs sold it. They was some talk Mr. Gregory was goinÆ to restore it. . . . George Gaynor worked on it a day or two, maybe. I cainÆt hardly recall.ö
ôYou pushing along all right with Miss Pringle?ö HTlFne Pringle was the piano teacher who rented his house in Mitford, and Harley was his old buddy who lived in the basement.
ôLetÆs jisÆ say IÆve heered more piana music than I ever knowed was wrote.ö
Father Tim laughed. ôCome out to the sticks and see us, will you?ö
ôI will,ö said Harley. ôIÆll bring youÆuns a pan of mÆ brownies.ö
ôIÆll hold you to it.ö
ôHowÆs Miss Cynthy?ö
ôCouldnÆt be better.ö He stood, hearing the creaking of his knees. ôGot to put the chairs in the wagon, as my grandmother used to say, and run to The Local. Regards to Miss Pringle!ö
He walked to the truck, whistling a tune heÆd heard on the radio.
There was nothing like a visit to Mitford to get a manÆs spirits up and running.
He blew through the door of one of his favorite Mitford haunts, the bell jingling behind him.
ôæI love the smell of book ink in the morning!Æö he called out, quoting Umberto Eco.
ôFather Tim!ö Hope Winchester turned from the shelf where she was stocking biographies. ôWeÆve missed you!ö
ôAnd I, you. How are you, Hope?ö
She lifted her left hand to his gaze.
ôMan!ö he said, quoting Dooley Barlowe.
ôIt was his grandmother MurphyÆs. Scott is at a chaplainÆs retreat this week, he gave it to me before he left.ö
ôOne knee or two?ö
ôTwo!ö
ôGood fellow!ö He still felt a sap for having done a mere one knee with his then neighbor.
He gave Hope a heartfelt hug. ôFelicitaciones! Mazel tov!ö
ôMuchas gracias. Umm. Obrigado!ö
They laughed easily together. He thought heÆd never seen the owner of Happy Endings Bookstore looking more radiant.
ôI have a list,ö he said, hauling it from the breast pocket of his jacket.
ôYour lists have helped Happy Endings stay afloat. Thank you a thousand times. Oh, my, thatÆs a long one.ö
ôItÆs been a long time since I came in. Tell me, how is Louise liking Mitford?ö
ôIÆll be right back,ö she said. She hurried to the foot of the stairs and called up for her sister, recently moved from their deceased motherÆs home place.
Louise came down the stairs at once, fixing her eyes on her feet. Hope took her sister by the arm and trotted her over.
ôFather Tim, this is my sister, Louise Winchester.ö
With some difficulty, Louise raised her eyes and met his gaze. ôSo happy . . .ö she said. Hope smiled. ôLouise is shy.ö
ôI find shyness a very attractive characteristic. ItÆs as scarce these days as hensÆ teeth.ö
He took LouiseÆs hand, finding her somehow prettier than her sister, with a mane of chestnut hair and inquisitive green eyes.
ôLouise, weÆre happy to have you among us, youÆll make a difference, I know. May God bless you to find your way here, and prosper you in all you do.ö
He was delighted by her seemingly involuntary, albeit slight, curtsy.
ôFather Tim wondered how you like living in Mitford.ö
A slow flush came to her cheeks. ôIt feels like . . . home.ö
ôLouise is working wonders with our mail-order business and has organized everything from A to Z.ö
ôWell done, Louise!ö He felt suddenly proud, as if she were one of his own.
ôHereÆs Father TimÆs list. We have only three of the nine. Could you order the others today?ö
ôJust regular shipping,ö he said, noting that Margaret Ann, the bookstore cat, was giving his pant legs a good coating of fur. ôIÆm about to be covered up, and not much time to read.ö
ôPleased to meet . . .ö said Louise.
By George, she did it again! If push came to shove, Emma Newland could get a curtsy demo right here on Main Street.
ôAny plans?ö he asked Hope.
ôWeÆd like to talk with you about that; weÆre thinking October, when the leaves change. Would you marry us, Father?ö
ôI will!ö he vowed.
ôThough we attend LordÆs Chapel, weÆre hoping to find a little mountain church somewhere. Something . . .ö She hesitated, thoughtful.
ôSomething soulful and charming?ö
ôWhy, yes!ö
ôCompletely unpretentious, with a magnificent view?ö
ôThatÆs it!ö
ôIÆll put my mind to it,ö he said.
He told her about the hospital staff that was blown away by its patientÆs delivery of a second set of twins; how the boys looked strong, healthy, and uncommonly like their paternal great-grandmother and MitfordÆs former mayor, Esther Cunningham; how Louella had apprised him of nine thousand dollars that she thought was hidden in Miss SadieÆs car, and that so far, he had no clue what to do about it.
He reported that the snow on the roads was freezing fast; that Edith Mallory had spoken an intelligible, not to mention extraordinary, word for the first time since her grave head injury seven months ago; that J.C. Hogan was wearing aftershave again, for whatever this piece of news was worth; that Avis had given him a considerable bit of advice about perfecting oven fries; that Hope Winchester had an engagement ring and wanted him to marry them; that Louise Winchester promised to be a fine addition to Mitford; and last but certainly not least, that heÆd seen a crocus blooming in the snow, hallelujah.
He was positively exhausted from the whole deal, both the doing of it and the talking about it; he felt as if heÆd trekked to another planet and back again.
ôGood heavens,ö said his wife, ôIÆm worn out just listening.ö
And how had her day gone?
Joyce Havner had called in sick.
Violet, the aging model for the cat books his wife was famous for writing and illustrating, had brought a dead mouse into the kitchen.
A pot of soup had boiled over on the stove while she did the watercolor sketch of Violet gazing out the window.
She had handed off the sketch to the UPS driver at one oÆclock sharp; it was on its way to her editor in New York.
Olivia Harper had called, and Lace was arriving from UVA tomorrow.
ôThatÆs it?ö he asked.
ôDonÆt get high and mighty with me, Reverend, just because youÆve gone to the big city and bagged all the news, and your wife stayed home, barefoot.ö
He laughed. ôMissed you.ö
ôMissed you back,ö she said, laughing with him.
In the farmhouse library, an e-mail from Father TimÆs former secretary, Emma Newland, joined the queue.
They had prayed their Lenten prayer, eaten their modest supper, and made the pieù which would doubtless improve by an overnight repose in the refrigerator.
Now, they drew close by the fire, to the sound of a lashing March wind; she with Mrs. Miniver and he with The Choice of Books, a late-nineteenth-century volume heÆd found in their bedroom. He was vastly relieved that sheÆd made no more mention of his hair, what was left of it.
ôListen to this, Timothy.ö
Cynthia adjusted her glasses, squinting at the fine print. ôæItÆs as important to marry the right life as it is the right person.Æö
ôAha! Never thought of it that way.ö
ôI considered that very thing when I married you.ö
ôWhether I was the right person?ö
ôWhether it would be the right life,ö she said.
ôAnd?ö
ôAnd it is. ItÆs perfect for me.ö
His wife, who preferred to read dead authors, put her head down again.
ôHow dead, exactly, must they be?ö he had once asked.
ôNot very dead; I usually draw the line at the thirties and forties, before the mayhem began setting in like a worm. So . . . moderately dead, I would say.ö
He tossed a small log onto the waning fire; it hissed and spit from the light powder of snow that had blown into the wood box by the door. A shutter on the pantry window made a rattling sound that was oddly consoling.
ôAnd hereÆs something else,ö she said.
ôæThis was the cream of marriage, this nightly turning out of the dayÆs pocketful of memories, this deft, habitual sharing of two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears. It gave you, in a sense, almost a double life: though never, on the other hand, quite a single one.Æö He nodded slowly, feeling a surge of happiness.
ôYes,ö he said, meaning it. ôYes!ö
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