Out to Canaan

by Jan Karon

  “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

  “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 f
igured 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 watched 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.