by Jan Karon
“Father? Scott Murphy!”
He could hear it in Scott’s voice. “When? Who?” he asked.
“Last night! Two men who’ve been showing up every Wednesday, one with his kids. They said they wanted to know more about God’s plan for their lives, and we talked, and they prayed and it was a wondrous thing, marvelous. Homeless is beside himself. He thinks that next summer we may be able to do what Absalom Greer did, have weekly services on the creek bank.”
“You must tell me every detail,” said the rector. “Want to run together tomorrow morning?”
“Six-thirty, starting from my place?”
“You got it.”
Scott laughed, exultant. “Eat your Wheaties,” he said.
Andrew rang to find out if Buck Leeper might be available for the renovation of Fernbank. “I don’t think so, but I’ll ask him,” he said.
“I’ll also be looking for a good nursery. I’d like to replace some of the shrubs and trees.”
“I know a splendid nursery, though their trees are fairly small.”
“At my age, Father, one doesn’t permit oneself two things—young wine and small trees.”
The rector laughed.
“I’d give credit to the fellow who said that, but I can’t remember who it was—another distinguishing mark of advancing years.”
“Come, come, Andrew. You’re looking like a lad, thanks to your beautiful bride! I’m smitten with Anna, as everyone else will be. Thanks for bringing Anna and Tony to Mitford. I know they’ll make a wonderful difference.”
“Thank you, Father, we’re anxious to get started on the hill. Anna would like to have a couple of rooms finished by Christmas, though it could take a year to do the whole job properly, given our weather.”
“Let me step down to the church and see what’s up. If Buck is interested, I’ll have him ring you.”
He left the office, zipping his jacket, eager to be in the cold, snapping air, and on a construction site where the real stuff of life was going on.
“Early December, I’m out of here,” said Buck, stomping the mud off his work boots. “Your house is in good hands and I’ll keep in touch, I’ll check on it.”
“Well, you see, there’s another job for you up the hill at Fernbank. I know Andrew Gregory would be a fine person to work with, and certainly Miss Sadie would be thrilled, she was so pleased with what you did at Hope House—”
“I’ve laid out long enough,” Buck said curtly.
Father Tim pressed on. “I believe if you stayed in Mitford, there’d be plenty of work for you. You could grow your own business.”
“No way. There’s nothing here for me.”
He thought of Jessie and the doll . . .
“Well, then,” he said, feeling a kind of despair.
“I brought you somethin’!” said Velma.
“Me? You brought me something?”
“Lookit,” said Velma, taking a tissue-wrapped item from a bag. She held up a shirt with orange, red, and green monkeys leaping around in palm trees.
“Aha. Well. That’s mighty generous . . .”
“You helped Winnie win th’ contest, and I got to go free, so . . .”
“I’ll wear it!” he said, getting up for the idea.
“Have you seen what Winnie brought home?” asked Percy.
“Can’t imagine.”
“And don’t you tell ’im, either,” said Velma. “He gets to find that out for hisself. Go on down there and look and I’ll start your order. But hop to it.”
Tanned people returning from exotic places seemed to bring new energy home with them. He fairly skipped to the bake shop.
He inhaled deeply as he went in. The very gates of heaven! “Winnie!” he bellowed.
She came through the curtains. Or was that Winnie?
“Winnie?” he said, taking off his glasses. He fogged them and wiped them with his handkerchief. “Is that you?”
“Course it’s me!” she said. Winnie was looking ten years younger, maybe twenty, and tanned to the gills.
“Velma said you brought something back.”
“Come on,” she said, laughing. “I’ll show you.”
He passed through the curtains and there, standing beside the ovens, was a tall, very large fellow with full, dark hair and twinkling eyes, wearing an apron dusted with flour.
“This is him!” crowed Winnie, looking radiant.
“Him?”
“You know, the one I always dreamed about standin’ beside me in th’ kitchen. Father Kavanagh, this is Thomas Kendall from Topeka, Kansas.”
“What . . . where . . . ?”
“I met him on th’ ship!”
“In the kitchen, actually,” said Thomas, extending a large hand and grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a pastry chef, Father.”
“You stole the ship’s pastry chef? Winnie!”
They all laughed. “No,” said Winnie, “it was his last week on the job, he was going back to Kansas and decided he’d come home with me first. He’s stayin’ with Velma and Percy.”
No doubt about it, he was dumbfounded. First Andrew, now Winnie . . .
“He likes my cream horns,” she said, suddenly shy.
“Who doesn’t?”
Thomas put his arm around Winnie and looked down at her, obviously proud. “I’m mighty glad to be in Mitford,” he said simply.
“By jing, we’re mighty glad to have you,” replied the rector, meaning it.
Esther Cunningham released a special news story to the Mitford Muse, which ran the morning before the election.
“When I’m re-elected,” she was quoted as saying, “I’ll give you something we’ve all been waiting for—new Christmas decorations!” The single ropes of lights up and down Main Street had caused squawking and grumbling for over a decade. So what if this solution had been forced by economic considerations, when it made the town look like a commuter landing strip?
“Stick with the platform that sticks by the people,” said the mayor, “and I’ll give you angels on Main Street!”
He was among the first at the polls on Tuesday morning. He didn’t have to wonder about Mule’s and Percy’s vote, but he was plenty skeptical about J.C.’s. Had J.C. avoided looking him in the eye when they saw each other in front of Town Hall?
His eyes scanned the crowd.
The Perkinses, they were big Esther fans. And there were Ron and Wilma . . . surely the Malcolms were voting for Esther. Based on the crowd standing near the door, he figured eight or nine out of ten were good, solid, dependable Stickin’ votes.
So what was there to worry about?
Mack’s last hoorah had been another billboard, which definitely hadn’t gone over well, as far as the rector could determine.
“Did you see th’ pores in his face?” asked Emma, who appeared completely disgusted. They looked like craters on th’ moon. If I never set eyes on Mack Stroupe again, it’ll be too soon!”
From the corner of his eye, he watched her boot the computer and check her E-mail from an old schoolmate in Atlanta, a prayer chain in Uruguay, and a church in northern England. Emma Newland in cyberspace. He wouldn’t have believed he’d live to see the day.
He walked up the street after lunch, leaning into a bitter wind. As Esther Bolick still wasn’t going out, he hoped Gene had seen to turning in her proxy vote.
“Good crowd?” he asked at the polls.
“Oh, yes, Father. Real good. Bigger than in a long while.”
He adjusted his Stickin’ button and stood outside, greeting voters, for as long as he could bear the knifing wind.
He hoped his bishop didn’t drive by.
“You and Cynthia come on over and bring that little fella who lives in your basement,” said the mayor.
“Harley.”
“Right. I’d like to get him workin’ on our RV. Anyway, we’re havin’ a big rib feast while they count th’ votes, Ray’s cookin’.”
“What time?” he asked, thrilled that his carefully watc
hed food exchange would actually permit such an indulgence.
“Th’ polls close at seven-thirty, be at my office at seven thirty-five.”
“Done!” he said. He could just see the red splotches breaking out on the mayor.
Uncle Billy and Miss Rose were there when he arrived with Cynthia and Harley. Cynthia zoomed over to help Ray finish setting up the food table.
“I’ve done got a joke t’ tell you, Preacher.”
“Shoot!” he said. “And tell Harley, while you’re at it.”
Miss Rose sniffed and stomped away.
“Rose don’t like this ’un,” said Uncle Billy. “Well, sir, a feller died who had lived a mighty sinful life, don’t you know. Th’ minute he got down t’ hell, he commenced t’ bossin’ around th’ imps an’ all, a-sayin’ do this, do that, and jump to it. Well, sir, he got so dominatin’ that th’ little devils reported ’im to th’ head devil who called th’ feller in, said, ‘How come you act like you own this place?’
“Feller said, ‘I do own it, my wife give it to me when I was livin’.’ ”
Harley bent over and slapped his leg, cackling. Father Tim laughed happily. Oh, the delight of an Uncle Billy joke.
“Seein’ as you like that ’un, I’ll tell you ’uns another’n after we’ve eat.”
“I’ll keep up with you,” promised the rector.
Aha, there was a fellow clergyman, heedlessly exposing his political views. Bill Sprouse of First Baptist bowled over with his dog, Sparky, on a leash. “Sparky and I were out walking, Esther hailed us in.”
“You stuck with Esther at the polls, I devoutly hope.”
“Is the Pope a Catholic?”
“You bet,” said the rector, shaking his colleague’s hand. “Reverend Sprouse, Harley Welch.”
“Pleased to meet you, Harley. I heard you’re mighty good with automobiles. Here lately, my car’s been actin’ funny, don’t know what th’ trouble is, makes a real peculiar sound. Kind of like ooahooojigji-gooump. Like that.”
Harley nodded, listening intently. “Might be y’r fan belt.”
Ray Cunningham strode up, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Got you boys some ribs laid on back there, I want you to eat up. Harley, be sure and get with me before you leave. I got a awful knock in my RV engine.”
“What time do you think we’ll know somethin’?” wondered Bill Sprouse.
“Oh, ’bout nine,” said Ray, who, after eight elections, considered himself heavily clued in.
The rector backed away from Sparky, who seemed intent on raising his leg on his loafer.
“For th’ Lord’s sake, Sparky!” the preacher hastily picked up his dog, whereupon Sparky draped himself over his master’s arm, looking doleful.
“Esther’s got Ernestine Ivory up at th’ polls where the countin’s goin’ on,” said Ray. “She’ll run down here when it’s all over, shoutin’ th’ good news. Well, come on, boys, and don’t hold back, I been standin’ over a hot stove all day.”
Omer rolled in, flashing a fugue in G major. “Ninth term comin’ up!” he said to his sister-in-law, giving her a good pounding on the back.
Uncle Billy yawned hugely. “Hit’s way after m’ bedtime,” he said as the clock struck nine. Miss Rose, who even in her sleep looked fierce, was snoring in a blue armchair transported years ago from the mayor’s family room. In her hands, Miss Rose clutched several tightly sealed baggies of take-outs.
“Won’t be long,” announced Ray. “Doll, does Ernestine have the cell phone? She ought to at least be callin’ in with a status report.”
The phone rang as if on cue, making several people jump.
“Speak of th’ devil,” said Bill Sprouse, who often did.
The mayor bounded across the room to her desk. “Hello? Ernestine? Right. Right.”
Every eye in the room was on Esther Cunningham, as the color drained slowly from her face.
“You don’t mean that, Ernestine,” she said in a low voice.
Everybody looked at everybody else, wondering, aghast.
Esther slowly hung up the phone.
“Mack Stroupe,” she said, unbelieving, “is th’ mayor of Mitford.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
New Every Morning
In the stunned silence that followed the announcement of Mack Stroupe’s win, Ernestine Ivory delivered yet another confounding report:
He had won by one vote.
Esther Cunningham’s various red splotches congregated as a single flame as she dialed the Board of Elections bigwig at home and demanded a recount on the following Thursday.
No problem, he said.
Feeling Ray’s supper turned to stone in their alarmed digestive systems, and not knowing what else to say or do, nearly everyone fled for home.
Looking ashen, Uncle Billy shook Miss Rose awake. “Esther’s lost,” he said.
“Esther’s boss?” shouted Miss Rose. “She’s always been boss, and always will be, so what’s the commotion?”
As the Lord’s Chapel bells tolled seven a.m., he left home with Barnabas and turned north on Main Street. Following Hal’s orders, they could now cover a couple of blocks of their running route, but only at normal walking speed.
As they passed Sweet Stuff, he saw Thomas, attired in an apron and baker’s hat, putting a tray of something illegal in the window. The big, dark-haired fellow looked up and smiled, waving.
This was only the second time he’d laid eyes on Thomas Kendall, yet it seemed as if the jovial baker had always been there. His face was utterly comfortable and familiar.
“Father!”
He was hoofing past the office building and closing in on the Grill when he turned around and saw Winnie. She waved furiously. “Can you come back a minute?”
Barnabas yanked the leash from his hand and galloped toward Winnie, who always smelled like something good to eat. Before she could duck, he lunged up to give her face a proper licking.
“Oh, no!” she whooped.
“The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him,” bellowed the rector, “His compassions never fail!”
Barnabas sprawled on the sidewalk, obedient. He could not, however, resist licking the powdered sugar off Winnie’s shoes.
“They are new every morning! Great is his faithfulness!” Barnabas sighed, desisted, and rolled over on his back.
“Amen!” shouted Winnie. “You said my verse!”
“What’s up with you on this glorious day?”
“Can you come in a minute, Father? We were going to call you today, we have somethin’ special to tell you.” He thought she might begin jumping up and down.
They trooped into the bakery, as Thomas came through the curtains with yet another tray from the kitchen.
“Good morning, Father! Top of the day! It’s baclava!” The rector felt his knees grow weak as Thomas displayed the tray of honey-drenched morsels under his very nose; Barnabas salivated.
“Please have one,” urged Winnie. “I never made baclava in my life, but Thomas is an expert.”
Thomas decided they should all thump down and have a diamond-shaped piece of the flaky baclava. This moment’s indiscretion would cramp his food exchanges for a week, mused the rector. How could he be such a reckless gambler when he appeared so altogether conservative?
“Guess what?” said Winnie, unable to wait any longer.
“I can’t guess,” he replied, although, in truth, he thought he might be able to.
“Thomas isn’t going back to Kansas City.”
“Aha.”
“Not to live, anyway.”
“Father,” said Thomas, “I’d like to ask you for Winnie’s hand in marriage.”
“Aha!” Was Thomas Kendall a man of character? Would he be good for Winnie? He’d simply have to trust his instincts, which, as far as he could tell, had no reservations at all.
“He’s th’ one, Father,” Winnie said with conviction. “God sent him.”
“Well, then!”
The men laughed
, then stood and embraced, slapping each other on the back. The rector pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Oh, for gosh sake!” said Winnie, dabbing her eyes with the hem of her apron.
“I’ll be gladder than glad to give you her hand in marriage, Thomas, but Winnie, what about your brother? Shouldn’t he have the say in this?”
Winnie beamed. “Joe told us to ask you. He said whatever you say is fine with him.” She looked proudly at the gentle man beside her.
“Would you perform the ceremony, Father? Sometime in early January? I need to run back to Kansas to see my mother and pack up a few boxes. I’ve lived on and off a cruise ship for fifteen years, so I haven’t accumulated much.” Thomas’s large hand covered Winnie’s.
“Velma will be matron of honor,” Winnie said, barely able to contain her joy.
The rector took Winnie’s other hand.
“May the Lord bless you both!” he said, meaning it.
“Hello, Father Kavanagh here—”
“Town Hall, tomorrow at four o’clock,” said Esther Cunningham darkly. “I told th’ Lord I’d give up sausage biscuits. Pray!”
“I am praying!” he exclaimed.
“Timothy?” Cynthia looked thoughtful. “About your hair . . .”
Not again.
“You could drive to Charlotte.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“You could forgive Fancy Skinner, and—”
“I have forgiven Fancy Skinner, which has nothing to do with the fact that I will never set foot in her chair again.”
She eyed him. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Never,” he said, eyeing her back.
He was there at three forty-five, as was nearly everyone else, as far as he could see. Even Esther Bolick turned up, with Gene, who looked worried.