by Jan Karon
“No more parking on Wisteria,” Ron Malcolm reported to the rector. “We’ll direct the rest of the crowd to the church lot and shoot ’em back here in the Hope House van.”
A UPS driver, who had clearly made an unwise turn onto Wisteria, sat in his truck in front of the rectory, stunned by the sight of so much traffic on the usually uneventful Holding/Mitford/Wesley run.
“Hit’s what you call a standstill,” Uncle Billy told J. C. Hogan, who showed up with his Nikon and six rolls of Tri-X.
As traffic started to flow again, the rector saw Mack Stroupe turn onto Wisteria Lane from Church Hill. Clearly, he was circling the block.
“I’d like to whop him upside th’ head with a two-by-four,” said Mule. He glared at Mack, who was reared back in the seat with both windows down, listening to a country music station. Mack waved to several women, who immediately turned their heads.
Mule snorted. “Th’ dumb so-and-so! How would you like to have that peckerwood for mayor?”
The rector wiped his perspiring forehead. “Watch your blood pressure, buddyroe.”
“He says he’s goin’ to campaign straight through spring and summer, right up to election in November. Kind of like bein’ tortured by a drippin’ faucet.”
As the truck passed, Emma Newland stomped over. “I ought to climb in that truck and slap his jaws. What’s he doin’, anyway, trying to sway church people to his way of thinkin’?”
“Let him be,” Father Tim cautioned his secretary and on-line computer whiz. After all, give Mack enough rope and . . .
Cynthia was lying in bed, moaning, as he came out of the shower. He went into the bedroom, hastily drying off.
“Why are you moaning?” he asked, alarmed.
“Because it helps relieve exhaustion. I hope the windows are closed so the neighbors can’t hear.”
“The only neighbor close enough to hear is no longer living in the little yellow house next door. She is, in fact, lying right here, doing the moaning.”
She moaned again. “Moaning is good,” she told him, her face mashed into the pillow. “You should try it.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
Warm as a steamed clam from the shower, he put on his pajamas and sat on the side of the bed. “I’m proud of you,” he said, rubbing her back. “That was a tea-and-a-half! The best! In fact, words fail. You’ll have a time topping that one.”
“Don’t tell me I’m supposed to top it!”
“Yes, well, not to worry. Next year, we can have Omer Cunningham and his pilot buddies do a flyover. That’ll give the ladies something to talk about.” He’d certainly given all of Mitford something to talk about last May when he flew to Virginia with Omer in his ragwing taildragger. Four hours in Omer’s little plane had gained him more credibility than thirty-six years in the pulpit.
“A little farther down,” his wife implored. “Ugh. My lower back is killing me from all the standing and baking.”
“I got the reviews as your guests left.”
“Only tell me the good ones. I don’t want to hear about the cheese straws, which were as limp as linguine.”
“ ‘Perfect’ was a word they bandied around quite a bit, and the lemon squares, of course, got their usual share of raves. Some wanted me to know how charming they think you are, and others made lavish remarks about your youth and beauty.”
He leaned down and kissed her shoulder, inhaling the faintest scent of wisteria. “You are beautiful, Kavanagh.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t suppose there are any special thanks you’d like to offer the poor rube who helped unsnarl four thousand three hundred and seventy-nine cars, trucks, and vans?”
She rolled over and looked at him, smiling. Then she held her head to one side in that way he couldn’t resist, and pulled him to her and kissed him tenderly.
“Now you’re talking,” he said.
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
Dooley! “Hey, yourself, buddy.”
“Is Cynthia sending me a box of stuff she made for that tea? I can’t talk long.”
“Two boxes. Went off today.”
“Man! Thanks!”
“You’re welcome. How’s school?”
“Great.”
Great? Dooley Barlowe was not one to use superlatives. “No kidding?”
“You’re going to like my grades.”
Was this the little guy he’d struggled to raise for nearly three years? The Dooley who always shot himself in the foot? The self-assured sound of the boy’s voice made his hair fairly stand on end.
“We’re going to like you coming home, even better. In just six or seven weeks, you’ll be here . . . .”
Silence. Was Dooley dreading to tell him he wanted to spend the summer at Meadowgate Farm? The boy’s decision to do that last year had nearly broken his heart, not to mention Cynthia’s. They had, of course, gotten over it, as they watched the boy doing what he loved best—learning more about veterinary medicine at the country practice of Hal Owen.
“Of course,” said the rector, pushing on, “we want you to go out to Meadowgate, if that’s what you’d like to do.” He swallowed. This year, he was stronger, he could let go.
“OK,” said Dooley, “that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Fine. No problem. I’ll call you tomorrow for our usual phone visit. We love you.”
“I love you back.”
“Here’s Cynthia.”
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, yourself.” It was their family greeting.
“So, you big galoot, we sent a box for you and one to share with your friends.”
“What’s in it?”
“Lemon squares.”
“I like lemon squares.”
“Plus raspberry tarts, pecan truffles, and brownies made by the preacher.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes.”
“No kidding?”
“Yep.”
“Good!” said Cynthia. “Lace Turner asked about you the other day.”
“That dumb girl that dresses like a guy?”
“She doesn’t dress like a guy anymore. Oh, and your friend Jenny was asking about you, too.”
“How’s Tommy?”
“Missing you. Just as we do. So hurry home, even if you are going to spend the summer at Meadowgate, you big creep.”
Dooley cackled.
“We love you.”
“I love you back.”
Cynthia placed the receiver on the hook, smiling happily.
“Now, you poor rube,” she said, “where were we?”
He sat on the study sofa and took the rubber band off the Mitford Muse.
Good grief! There he was on the front page, standing bewildered in front of the UPS truck with his nose looking, as usual, like a turnip or a tulip bulb. Why did J. C. Hogan run this odious picture, when he might have photographed his hardworking, good-looking, and thoroughly deserving wife?
Primrose Tee Draws
Stand-Out Crowd
Clearly, Hessie had not written this story, which on first glance appeared to be about golf, but had given her notes to J.C., who forged ahead without checking his spelling.
Good time had by all . . . same time next year . . . a hundred and thirty guests . . . nine gallons of tea, ten dozen lemon squares, eight dozen raspberry tarts . . . traffic jam . . .
The phone gave a sharp blast.
“Hello?”
“Timothy . . .”
“Hal! I’ve just been thinking of you and Marge.”
“Good. And we of you. I’ve got some . . . hard news, and wanted you to know.”
Hal and Marge Owen were two of his closest, most valued friends. He was afraid to know.
“I’ve just hired a full-time assistant.”
“That’s the bad news? It sounds good to me, you work like a Trojan.”
“Yes, but . . . we won’t be able t
o have Dooley this summer. My assistant is a young fellow, just starting out, and I’ll have to give him a lot of time and attention. Also, we’re putting him up in Dooley’s room until he gets established.” Hal sighed.
“But that’s terrific. We know Dooley looked forward to being at Meadowgate—however, circumstances alter cases, as my Mississippi kin used to say.”
“There’s a large riding stable coming in about a mile down the road, they’ve asked me to vet the horses. That could be a full-time job right there.”
“I understand. Of course. Your practice is growing.”
“We’ll miss the boy, Tim, you know how we feel about him, how Rebecca Jane loves him. But look, we’ll have him out to stay the first two weeks he’s home from school—if that works for you.”
“Absolutely.”
“Oh, and Tim . . .”
“Yes?”
“Will you tell him?”
“I will. I’ll talk to him about it, get him thinking of what to do this summer. Be good for him.”
“So why don’t you and Cynthia plan to spend the day when you bring him out? Bring Barnabas, too. Marge will make your favorite.”
Deep-dish chicken pie, with a crust like French pastry. “We’ll be there!” he said, meaning it.
“Will you tell him?” he asked Cynthia.
“No way,” she said.
Nobody wanted to tell Dooley Barlowe that he couldn’t spend the summer doing what he loved more than anything on earth.
She opened her eyes and rolled over to find him sitting up in bed.
“Oh, my dear! Oh, my goodness! What happened?”
He loved the look on his wife’s face; he wanted to savor it. “It’s already turned a few colors,” he said, removing his hand from his right temple.
She peered at him as if he were a butterfly on a pin. “Yes! Black . . . and blue and . . . the tiniest bit of yellow.”
“My old school colors,” he said.
“But what happened?” He never heard such tsking and gasping.
“T.D.A.,” he replied.
“The Dreaded Armoire? What do you mean?”
“I mean that I got up in the middle of the night, in the dark, and went out to the landing and opened the windows to give Barnabas a cool breeze. As I careened through the bedroom on my way to the bathroom, I slammed into the blasted thing.”
“Oh, no! Oh, heavens. What can I do? And tomorrow’s Sunday!”
“Spousal abuse,” he muttered. “In today’s TV news climate, my congregation will pick up on it immediately.”
“Timothy, dearest, I’m so sorry. I’ll get something for you, I don’t know what, but something. Just stay right there and don’t move.”
She put on her slippers and robe and flew downstairs, Barnabas barking at her heels.
T.D.A. might stand for “The Dreaded Armoire” as far as his wife was concerned. As far as he was concerned, it stood for something else entirely.
CHAPTER TWO
Step by Step
He was missing her.
How many times had he gone to the phone to call, only to realize she wasn’t there to answer?
When Sadie Baxter died last year at the age of ninety, he felt the very rug yanked from under him. She’d been family to him, and a companionable friend; his sister in Christ, and favorite parishioner. In addition, she was Dooley’s benefactor and, for more than half a century, the most generous donor in the parish. Not only had she given Hope House, the new five-million-dollar nursing home at the top of Old Church Lane, she had faithfully kept a roof on Lord’s Chapel while her own roof went begging.
Sadie Baxter was warbling with the angels, he thought, chuckling at the image. But not because of the money she’d given, no, indeed. Good works, the Scriptures plainly stated, were no passport to heaven. “For by grace are you saved through faith,” Paul wrote in his letter to the Ephesians, “and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God—not of works, lest any man should boast.”
The issue of works versus grace was about as popular as the issue of sin. Nonetheless, he was set to preach on Paul’s remarks, and soon. The whole works ideology was as insidious as so many termites going after the stairs to the altar.
Emma blew in, literally. As she opened the office door, a gust of cold spring wind snatched it from her hand and sent it crashing against the wall.
“Lord have mercy!” she shouted, trying to snatch it back against a gale that sent his papers flying. She slammed the door and stood panting in front of it, her glasses crooked on her nose.
“Have you ever?” she demanded.
“Ever what?”
“Seen a winter that lasted nine months goin’ on ten? I said, Harold, why don’t we move to Florida? I never thought I’d live to hear such words come out of my mouth.”
“And what did Harold say?” he asked, trying to reassemble his papers.
“You know Baptists,” she replied, hanging up her coat. “They don’t move to Florida; they don’t want to be warm! They want to freeze to death on th’ way to prayer meetin’ and shoot right up to th’ pearly gates and get it over with.”
The Genghis Khan of church secretaries wagged her finger at him. “It’s enough to make me go back to bein’ Episcopalian.”
“What’s Harold done now?”
“Made Snickers sleep in the garage. Can you believe it? Country people don’t like dogs in the house, you know.”
“I thought Snickers was sleeping in the house.”
“He was, ’til he ate a steak off Harold’s plate.”
“Aha.”
“Down th’ hatch, neat as a pin. But then, guess what?”
“I can’t guess.”
“He threw it all up in the closet, on Harold’s shoes.”
“I can see Harold’s point.”
“You would,” she said stiffly, sitting at her desk.
“I would?”
“Yes. You’re a man,” she announced, glaring at him. “By the way . . .”
“By the way what?”
“That bump on your head is the worst-lookin’ mess I ever saw. Can’t you get Cynthia to do somethin’ about it?”
Then again, maybe works could have an influence. Exercising the patience of a saint while putting up with Emma Newland for fifteen years should be enough to blast him heavenward like a rocket, with no stops along the way.
Emma booted her computer and peered at the screen.
“I nearly ran over Mack Stroupe comin’ in this morning, he crossed th’ street without lookin’. I didn’t know whether to hit th’ brakes or the accelerator. You know that hotdog stand of his? He’s turnin’ it into his campaign headquarters! Campaign headquarters, can you believe it? Who does he think he is, Ross Perot?”
The rector sighed.
“You know that mud slick in front that he called a parkin’ lot?” She clicked her mouse. “Well, he’s having it paved, the asphalt trucks are all over it like flies. Asphalt!” she muttered. “I hate asphalt. Give me cement, any day.”
Yes, indeed. Straight up, right into a personal and highly favorable audience with St. Peter.
“Something has to be done,” he said.
“Yes, but what?”
“Blast if I know. If we don’t get a new roof on it soon, who can guess what the interior damage might be?”
Father Tim and Cynthia sat at the kitchen table, discussing his second most worrisome problem—what to do with the rambling, three-story Victorian mansion known as Fernbank, and its endless, overgrown grounds.
When Miss Sadie died last year, she left Fernbank to the church, “to cover any future needs of Hope House,” and there it sat—buffeted by hilltop winds and scoured by driving hailstorms, with no one even to sweep dead bees from the windowsills.
In Miss Sadie’s mind, Fernbank had been a gift; to him, it was an albatross. After all, she had clearly made him responsible for doing the best thing by her aging homeplace.
There had been talk of leasing it to a private school
or institution, a notion that lay snarled somewhere in diocesan red tape. On the other hand, should they sell it and invest the money? If so, should they sell it as is, or bite the bullet and repair it at horrendous cost to a parish almost certainly unwilling to gamble in real estate?
“We just got an estimate on the roof,” he said.
“How much?”
“Thirty, maybe thirty-five thousand.”
“Good heavens!”
They sat in silence, reflecting.
“Poor Fernbank,” she said. “Who would buy it, anyway? Certainly no one in Mitford can afford it.”
He refilled his coffee cup. Even if they were onto a sour subject, he was happy to be hanging out with his wife. Besides, Cynthia Kavanagh was known for stumbling onto serendipitous solutions for all sorts of woes and tribulations.
“Worse than that,” she said, “who could afford to fix it up, assuming they could buy it in the first place?”
“There’s the rub.”
After staring at the tablecloth for a moment, she looked up. “Then again, why worry about it at all? Miss Sadie didn’t give it to you . . .”
So why had he worn the thing around his neck for more than ten months?
“ . . . she gave it to the church. Which, in case you’ve momentarily forgotten, belongs to God. So, let Him handle it, for Pete’s sake.”
He could feel the grin spreading across his face. Right! Of course! He felt a weight fly off, if only temporarily. “Who’s the preacher around here, anyway?”
“Sometimes you go on sabbatical, dearest.”
He stood and cranked open the kitchen window. “When are we going up there and pick out the token or two that Miss Sadie offered us in the letter?”
She sighed. “We don’t have a nook, much less a cranny that isn’t already stuffed with things. My house next door is full, the rectory is brimming, and we’re retiring.”
She was right. It was a time to be subtracting, not adding.
“What have the others taken?” she wondered.