by Jan Karon
He patted his coat pocket. In it was a check for fifteen thousand dollars, given him at this evening’s vestry meeting.
Ron Malcolm had presented it with some ceremony. “Father, we priced the house to allow for a little negotiation. H. Tide wanted it so badly, they didn’t try to negotiate, so you paid top price. We all feel that ninety thousand is fair to you and to us, and . . . we thank you for your business!”
Warm applause all around.
He was feeling positively over the top. A two-story residence of native stone, all paid for, and fifteen thousand bucks in his pocket. Not bad for an old guy.
He whistled a few bars from the Pastorale as he ran up the front steps to tell his wife the good news.
He didn’t know where Buck had moved, and though he saw the superintendent on the job site, nothing was mentioned of his new whereabouts.
Buck had left the yellow house spotless. This, however, hardly mattered, since the late-starting conversion would be getting under way next week. It would be all sawdust and sawhorses for longer than he cared to think, and Buck would probably leave it in someone else’s hands as soon as the attic job was finished.
He didn’t want to lose Buck Leeper. In some way he couldn’t explain, Buck was part of Mitford now.
“Timothy!”
“Stuart! I was just thinking of you.”
“Good, I hope?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said the rector, chuckling. “What’s up, old friend?”
“Old friend. How odd you’d say that. I’m feeling a hundred and four.”
“Whatever for? You’ve just been where people wear bikinis.”
Stuart groaned. “Yes, and where I held my stomach in for two long weeks.”
“Holding your stomach in is no vacation,” said the rector.
“Look, I’m over on the highway, headed to a meeting in South Carolina. Can we meet for coffee?”
“Coffee. Hmmm. How about the Grill? It’s close to lunchtime. I’ll treat.”
“Terrific. Main Street, as I recall?”
“North of The Local, green awning, name on the window. When?”
“Five minutes,” said the bishop, sounding brighter.
“This,” he said, introducing his still-youthful seminary friend, “is my bishop, the Right Reverend Stuart Cullen.”
“Right Reverend . . .” said Percy, pondering. “I guess you wouldn’t hardly talk about it if you was th’ Wrong Reverend.”
“Percy!” said Velma.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t listen to Timothy, call me Stuart.” Stuart shook hands all around, and the rector watched him charm the entire assembly.
“Hold it right there!” J.C. hunkered over his Nikon and cranked off six shots in rapid succession.
“I ain’t never seen a pope,” said Coot Hendrick, wide-eyed.
“Not a pope, a bishop,” said Mule.
Percy looked puzzled. “I thought you said he was a reverend.”
“Call me Stuart and get it over with,” pleaded the bishop, hastening to a booth with Father Tim.
Stuart poured cream in his coffee. “By the way, someone told me that Abraham’s route to Canaan now requires four visas.”
“Not surprising, since it’s a six-hundred-mile trip. I wouldn’t mind seeing the real thing one day. I was just remembering from a study we did in seminary that Canaan is the birthplace of the word Bible.”
“Not to mention the birthplace of our alphabet. So, how would you like a stint on the Outer Banks at some point? I fancy it might be your Plain of Jezreel, at the very least.”
“Tell me more.”
“Wonderful parish, small Carpenter Gothic church, historic cemetery, gorgeous setting . . .”
“Keep talking.”
“There’s a rector down there who’d like nothing better than a mountain church. I have just the church, and Bill Harvey, who’s the bishop in that diocese, thinks we might work out a trade—you could wn as an interim . . . the summer after you retire.”
“I’ll mention it to Cynthia. Let me know more. So when are you going out to Canaan, my friend?”
“I knew you’d ask, but I don’t know. I’m still terrified, just as you were.”
“How did I get smarter than you?”
“You’re older,” said Stuart, grinning. “Much older.”
“Remember Edith Mallory?”
“The vulture who tried to get her talons in your hide.”
“We have an election coming up, and I feel certain she’s been funneling big money to the opposition.”
“Who’s the opposition?” asked Stuart, taking a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich.
“Not known as the sort who’d be good for this town.”
“If I know where you’re going with this, the best policy is hands off.”
“I agree. Especially since I have no proof.”
“Poisonous business. But you know the antidote.”
“Prayer.”
“Exactly. How’s your Search Committee coming along? I haven’t had a report recently.”
“I’m pretty much out of the loop,” said the rector, “but they seem excited. We surveyed the parish, and the consensus is for a young priest with children.”
“They can save all of us some heartache by asking the candidates a central question.”
“Which is?”
“ ‘Do you believe Jesus is God?’ ”
“Right. I’ve talked about that with the committee. Sad state of affairs when we have to point such a question at candidates who took the ordination vows . . .”
The bishop sighed. “Paul said in the second epistle to the good chap you were named after, ‘The time is coming when people will not put up with sound doctrine . . . they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires, and will turn from the truth and wander away to myths.’ Ah, Timothy . . .”
“Eat up, my friend. You’ve got a long haul ahead of you. Why aren’t you flying?”
“I’m driving because I need time to think, I need some time alone.”
“A man has to get in a car and hurtle down the interstate to get time alone? Ah, Stuart . . .”
Stuart chuckled. “Two weeks at the beach doesn’t solve everything.”
“Especially not when you’re holding your stomach in,” said the rector.
“I’ve done it,” Winnie announced.
He couldn’t tell whether she was going to laugh or cry.
“Would you take this copy of the contract home and look it over?” she asked. “I had a lawyer look it over, but I don’t know how good he is, maybe if you’re not too busy, you could do it, I should have asked you before. Course I guess it’s too late now, since it’s mailed, but still, if you would . . .”
“I don’t know what help I can be, but yes, I’ll look it over.” Dadgum it, why didn’t he just go study for a broker’s license? He seemed to be spending as much time in real estate as in the priesthood.
“They’ve about ragged me to death, Father. I guess I’ll stay on and run it.” She looked white as a sheet, he thought.
“I’m thrilled to hear you’ll stay in Mitford. Your business is thriving, you have a legion of friends here—”
“But my family’s up there—a brother and sister and two nieces and a nephew.”
“I know. But aren’t we family? Don’t we love you?” Shame on him, trying to win her heart from her own blood kin.
“I’ll be glad to go on that cruise next week,” she said, not looking glad about anything.
Lace was sitting at the kitchen table doing her history homework when Dooley called from school. Father Tim answered the wall phone by the sink. “Rectory . . .”
“I’m on my way to study hall.”
“Hey, buddy!”
“Hey, yourself,” said Dooley. “What’s going on?”
“Not much. What about you?”
“We’re having our fall mixer tomorrow night. Man!”
“Man, what?”
“Four busloads of girls are coming, maybe five.”
“Man!” He agreed that seemed to say it all.
“How’s Barn?”
“Looking good. Eating well. Sleeping a lot.”
“I sort of miss him.”
“He misses you more. So, what kind of mixer is it?”
“We’re having a band, it’s gong to be in the field house. I helped decorate.”
“Aha.”
“We hung a lot of sheets with wires and turned it into a huge tent. It’s neat, you should see it.”
“When are we coming up for a visit?”
“I’ll let you know. I gotta go.”
“Want to say a quick hello to Lace? She’s here.”
“Sure.”
He handed the phone to Lace. “Dr. Barlowe.”
Her smile, which he had seldom seen, was so spontaneous and unguarded, he blushed and left the room.
They were sitting at the table having a cup of tea as Lace organized her books and papers to go home.
“What’s interesting in school these days?” Cynthia wanted to know.
“I just found out about palindromes, I’m always lookin’ for ’em,” she said.
“Like Bob, right?”
“Right. Words that’re the same spelled forwards or backwards. Like that,” she said, pointing to the contract he’d left lying on the table, “isn’t a palindrome, it says H. Tide readin’ forwards, and Edith if you read it backwards. But guess what, you can also make a palindrome with whole sentences, like ‘Poor Dan is in a droop.’ ”
“Neat!” said Cynthia.
“See you later,” she said, going to the basement door. “ ’Bye, Harley! Read your book I left on the sink!”
“What did you leave on the sink?” inquired the rector, filled with curiosity.
“Silas Marner.”
“Aha. Well, come back, Lace.”
“Anytime,” said Cynthia.
“OK!”
He pulled the contract toward him.
EdiT .H
His blood pounded in his temples. Edith? Could H. Tide be owned by Edith Mallory?
Is that why H. Tide wanted the rectory so urgently? Edith knew he and Cynthia would be living in the yellow house. Did she want to control the house next door to him in some morbid, devious way?
“What is it, Timothy?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.” He took the contract into the study and sat at his desk, looking out the window at the deepening shadows of Baxter Park.
Mack Stroupe. H. Tide. Edith Mallory.
If what Lace just prompted him to think was true, Edith was now trying to get her hands on another piece of Main Street property. The way she had treated Percy wasn’t something he’d like to see happen to anyone else, especially Winnie. And what might Edith be trying to gouge from Winnie, who was selling her business without the aid of a realtor?
He glanced at the contract—it was right up there with cave-wall hieroglyphs—and called his attorney cousin, Walter. “You’ve reached Walter and Katherine, please leave a message at the sound of the beep. We’ll return your call with haste.”
Wasn’t a signed contract legal and binding?
He paced the floor.
Edith Mallory had always held a lot of real estate. But why would she sell the Shoe Barn to her own company? He didn’t understand this. Was he making too much of a name spelled backward?
Then again, why had Mack Stroupe swaggered around town, boasting of his influence on H. Tide’s buying missions?
Another thing. Could Miami Development have anything to do with all this? Or was that merely a fluke?
He didn’t know what the deal was, but he knew something was much worse than he had originally believed.
He knew it because the feeling in the pit of his stomach told him so.
Walter rang back.
“Cousin! What transpires in the hinterlands?”
“More than you want to know. Legal question.”
“Shoot,” said his cousin and lifelong best friend.
After talking with Walter, he rang an old acquaintance who worked at the state capitol. So what if it was nine-thirty in the evening and he hadn’t seen Dewey Morgan in twelve years? Maybe Dewey didn’t even work at the state capitol anymore.
“No problem,” said Dewey, who’d received quite a bureaucratic leg up in the intervening years. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“As quickly as possible, if you’d be so kind. And if you’re ever in Mitford, our guest room is yours.”
“I may take you up on it. Arlene has always wanted to see Mitford.”
If all the people he’d invited to use the guest room ever cashed in their invitations . . .
At ten o’clock, the phone rang at the church office.
“Tim? Dewey. I looked up the name of the undisclosed partner in H. Tide of Orlando, right? And also Miami Development. It says here Edith A. Mallory—both companies. Hope that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Exactly!”
He’d been looking for it, all right, but he hated finding it.
He pushed through the curtains to the bakery kitchen without announcing himself from the other side.
“Winnie, I’ve got to tell you something.”
“What is it, Father? Sit down, you don’t look so good.”
“H. Tide is owned by someone who may not treat you very well, I won’t go into the details. The truth is, you probably don’t want to sell to these people and be under their management.”
“Oh, no!”
“You’d be in the hands of Percy’s landlord. I think you should talk to Percy.”
“But I’ve already signed the contract and sent it off.”
“And I’ve just talked with my cousin who’s an attorney. Please. Talk with Percy about his landlord. And if you don’t like what you hear, we need to move fast.”
She wiped her hands and straightened her bandanna. “Whatever you say, Father.”
“Don’t get ’is blood pressure up ’til we’ve served th’ lunch crowd,” said Velma.
She turned to Winnie. “I’m takin’ three pairs of shorts, not short short, just medium, three tops, and two sleeveless dresses with my white sweater. Are you takin’ a formal for Captain’s Night?”
“Oh, law,” said Winnie, looking addled, “I don’t even have time to think about it, I don’t know what I’m takin’, I don’t have a formal.”
“Well, be sure and take a pair of shoes with rubber soles so you don’t slip around on deck.” Velma had been on a cruise sponsored by her children, and knew what was what.
“Velma,” urged the rector, “we need to move quickly. May I ask Percy just one question? How high can his blood pressure shoot if we ask just one question?”
“Oh, all right, but don’t go on and on.”
Coot Hendrick banged a spoon against his water glass. Ever since Velma got invited on that cruise, she hadn’t once refilled his coffee cup unless he asked for it outright.
The rector motioned to the proprietor. “Percy, give us a second, if you can.”
Percy stepped away from the grill, slapping a towel over his shoulder, and came to the counter.
Why was he always putting himself in the middle of some unpleasant circumstance? Had he become the worst thing a clergyman could possibly become—a meddler?
“Percy, now, take it easy. Don’t get upset. I just need you to tell Winnie about . . .”
“About what?”
“Your landlord.”
The color surged into Percy’s face. Two hundred and forty volts, minimum.
“Just a sentence or two,” he said lamely.
He marched down to Sweet Stuff with Winnie, who called H. Tide to say she was withdrawing the contract. She held the phone out for him to hear the general babble that erupted on the other end.
According to Walter, until the contract had been delivered back to the seller by the buyer, either by hand or U.S. mail, it was unenforceable
.
When she hung up, he went to a table out front and thumped down in a chair. His own blood pressure wasn’t exactly one-twenty over eighty.
“Earl Grey!” he said to Winnie. “Straight up, and make it a double.”
Once again, the candy had been snatched from Edith Mallory’s hand. She’d lost Fernbank. She’d lost the rectory. And now she’d lost a prime property on Main Street.
In truth, the only property she’d been able to buy was one she already owned.
He was certain she’d make every effort not to lose Mack Stroupe.
Winnie served his tea, looking buoyant. “Lord help, I feel like a truck’s just rolled off of me. Now I’m right back where I started—and glad to be there!”
“I have a verse for you, Winnie, from the prophet Jeremiah. ‘The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him, to the one who seeks Him; His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is His faithfulness.’ ”
“Have a piece of chocolate cake!” said Winnie, beaming. “Or would you like a low-fat cookie?”
Esther Bolick was at home and mending, Barnabas was gaining strength, the yellow house was full of sawing and sanding, Cynthia’s book was finished, and Winnie and Velma had sent postcards back to Mitford.
Percy taped Velma’s to the cash register.
Dear Everybody, Wish you were here, you wouldn’t believe the colors of the fish, their like neon. Winnie is sunburnt. If you include the ice cream sundae party and early bird breakfast on deck, you can eat 11 times a day. I am keeping it to 9 or 10. Ha ha.
Velma
Winnie had left a sign in her window:
Gone cruisin.’ Back on October 30
Percy trotted down the street and taped her postcard next to the sign.
Hi, folks, sorry I can’t be here to serve you, but I am in the Caribean soaking up some sun. The Golden Band people had a fruit basket in our cabin and champagne which gave Velma a rash. Gosh, its beautiful down here, some places there are pigs in the road, though. Well, you keep it in the road til I get back, I will have you a big surprise in the bake case. Winnie