by Jan Karon
A man answered. It was such a shock to hear the deep, baritone voice, that he nearly hung up.
"I'd., like to speak with Cynthia Coppersmith, please."
"Cynthia? Oh, Cynthia's dressing just now, may I have her ring you tomorrow?"
Tomorrow? The word struck him with an odd force.
"Thank you, no," he said, slowly. "She needn't ring me."
•CHAPTER FIVE•
HE WATCHED A SHEEP TROT BRISKLY TOWARD THE NAVE, trailed by two spotted cows, a donkey, and a camel. He noticed that the camel's hump had slipped and was bumping along the floor, but it was too late to do anything about it.
The wise men were already processing down the aisle to the altar, where the angel Gabriel and a heavenly host stood precariously on stepladders, gazing at the manger scene.
In the quarterhour it would take for the children to deliver the pageant, he would just pop back to the parish hall for a drink of water and collect his sermon notes.
How extraordinary, he thought, entering the darkened room. It appears there's an angel in my chair.
Fouryearold Amy Larkin was curled up on the cushion of his favorite armchair, the pale organza wings trembling with her sobs.
"Amy," he said, going down on his knees. "What is it?"
She looked at him with streaming eyes and nose. "Them big angels hurted me! They pushed me and runned in front of me and wouldn't let me in my place! I was in the hall and they runned in front of me and...and..."
"And?"
"I gotted lost!" she wailed.
He lifted her from the chair and consoled her. He was struck by the happiness that flooded him at merely holding a child.
At the end of the pageant, he walked down the aisle at the rear of the procession, carrying Amy in his arms. As the acolytes settled into their places, he turned to the congregation.
"This small angel got separated from the heavenly host. Margaret Ann?..." He searched the pews for her mother.
Amy tightened an arm around his neck and announced in a loud voice, "I was with them big angels, and they runned in front of me and left me and I gotted lost!"
"It occurs to me," he said, "that many of us may be leaving small angels behind. As mature Christians, are we neglecting to help those who would benefit from our love and witness?"
He set Amy down as her mother came quickly along the aisle from a rear pew.
"Just a thought," he said, smiling at his flock.
He couldn't help but notice that Olivia was wearing one of her greatgrandmother's hats this morning. On her, it was not merely an antique curiosity but lent a definite mystery to her violet eyes and striking beauty.
He saw from the pulpit that Olivia was holding Miss Sadie's hand, while Hoppy took Olivia's and Miss Sadie held tight to Louella's. A fine kettle of fish, he thought.
Though the facts of their kinship would almost certainly remain a family secret, Miss Sadie had told him her plans. "When Olivia gets married, I want to open the ballroom and give them a grand reception! It will be the first time it's been open in more than twenty years, and it will surely be the last. Do pray, Father, for it will demand a great deal of energy from these old bones. I wish I'd known about my greatniece before I got so decrepit. I could have done so much more!"
After the coffee hour, he was rinsing his cup at the sink when Edith carried in a tray of coffee cups. Though several people still mingled in the parish hall, they were alone in the kitchen.
She talked to him as she put the cups in the dish-washer, but she did not look at him. Her voice was cold and quiet. "Timothy, I know you are a man of passion. I've always seen this in you."
She spoke as if she might be reading aloud from a legal document. A fine chill raced through him.
"You know that I want you, Timothy, and I have every reason to believe you want me. I'm expecting you to get over this silly little game of cat and mouse and show me how you really feel."
"Edith..."
"You are behaving as if Pat were still alive. Pat is not alive. He is quite dead."
As he stood there, loathing the way the skin stretched over her face, he felt a sudden, wanning sense of power, the conviction that he could face and handle anything. There was even a peculiar sense of being taller.
"Edith, there's something you need to know." He heard the ice in his own voice.
"Whatever it is," she said, continuing to load the dishwasher, "don't bore me with your priestly airs. I can't abide any more of your priestly airs."
"Oh, Father!" Ron Malcolm came into the kitchen, putting on his topcoat. "Before I leave, I need to talk to you about a little problem on the hill. Could we step up the hall a minute?"
He could have hugged his pinkcheeked building chairman on the spot. There was, however, a drawback to this providential escape, which he realized as he walked up the hall.
Standing at the sink, he had felt a surge of complete control; he had total confidence that, once and for all, he could tell Edith Mallory what was on his mind and in no uncertain terms.
He chose to believe he had not missed the moment.
The contents of Cynthia's gift box vanished rapidly. Puny shared the truffles with Joe Joe, Barnabas wolfed down the contents of the deli package inscribed with his name, and Dooley disappeared up the stairs with more than a fair share of cookies, candy, nuts, and chips.
His own portion was put in the cupboard, except for the elaborately boxed cookies that he stashed in his nightstand. Though they were utterly sugarless, he found them addictively delicious. He began to look for ward to having one with a cup of tea before bed, while dreading the time they would all be eaten.
Don't think of it that way, he told himself. Think of it this way:
When the box is empty, she'll be home.
Stuart Cullen would arrive on Thursday for an overnight at the rectory on his way to a meeting down the mountain.
"Th' pope's comin'," he heard Puny announce to her sister on the phone.
"Stuarts not a pope," he told her, "he's a bishop. It's the Catholics that have a pope."
"My grandpa said he never met a Catholic that knew pea turkey about th' Bible..."
"Well, then," he said, heading off a diatribe, "let's do something with the guest room. It's been awhile since we had a guest."
"Never had one, period, since I been here. Needs airin' out, turnin' th' mattress, needs flowers—where'U they come from in th' dead of winter? Holly! We could use holly and save you th' florist bill."
"You're a good one! Let's do it. And let's put a copy of the Muse by the bed. Stuart likes a good laugh."
Puny would spend Thursday baking bread and a cake, and he would roast a tenderloin and do the potatoes. When he went by the Local, Avis gave him a bottle of Bordeaux, on the house.
"Seem' as it's th' pope," he said.
Dearest Timothy,
We've had snow flurries all morning and everyone on the street below is bundled in jurs and hats and mufflers, looking like a scene from It's a Wonderful Life.
But, oh, it is not a wonderful life to be in this vast city alone!
Sometimes I think I'd like to fling it all away and go somewhere warm and tropical and wear a sarong! I would like to live in my body for awhile instead of in my head!
I've been working far too hard and find it impossible to turn ojj my thoughts at night. I lie here for hours thinking of you and Mitford and Main Street and the peace of my dear house—and then, the little army of creatures in the new book starts marching in, single file.
I review the tail of the donkey I did this morning, the snout of the pig I'm doing tomorrow, the heavylidded eyes of the chicken, wondering—should a chicken look this sexy??!
This can go on for hours, until I've exhausted all the creatures and go back and start at the beginning with the tail of the donkey that I'm afraid looks too much like the tail of a collie. That's when I get up and go to my reference books and find I'm wrong—it looks exactly like the tail of a jersey cow!
This is the pr
ice I pay for calling a halt to the Violet books. Yet, I should jump out the window if I had to do another Violet book! She, by the way, lies curled beside me as I write, dreaming of a harrowing escape from the great, black dog who lives next door in her hometown. I'm thrilled at the thought of coming home and spending my second Christmas in Mitford. It is the truest home I've ever known.
I've looked and looked for a letter from you, and if I don't have one soon, I shall ring you up at the Grill and tell you I'm absolutely mad for you, which will make you blush like crazy while all your cronies look on with amusement.
There! That should compel you to write. I'm sure I'll hear by return mail!
With love, Cynthia
He hadn't wanted not to write, but where was the chance to sit down and begin? It was the busiest time of the year for clergy, not to mention the rest of the human horde. Besides, what was he going to do about the question that kept forcing itself in his mind—namely, Who was the man who answered your phone?
If a man answers, hang up! He never dreamed he would be the butt of such a classic, almost vaudevillian joke. The man had spoken her name with a certain familiarity. "Cynthia," he had said, "is getting dressed."
Getting dressed?
He hated this. It made his stomach churn. Number one, he clearly did not know how to have a romantic relationship; he had no idea what the rules were. And number two, he especially did not relish playing games, secondguessing someone, and generally suffering a gutwrenching anxiety over what he would absolutely not allow to become jealousy.
He supposed the thing to do was write her at once and just say it:
Dear Cynthia, Who was the man who answered the phone when I called you on Sunday evening?
Maybe that was the way to handle it. He hadn't the time, however, to figure it out. He would simply dash off a note that made no reference to the incident and forget the whole thing. If Cynthia Coppersmith were nothing else, she was guileless. She was not the sort to say one thing and do another; that was only one of the reasons he loved her.
But, then—did he really love her? Had he merely been swept along by the force of her own impulsive feelings?
Blast!
He slung the notebook against the study wall at the moment Dooley walked in.
"Hey," said Dooley, looking at the notebook.
His face burned. "Hey, yourself."
"When're we gittin' a Christmas tree?"
"Right now," he said. "Put on your jacket, and bring your gloves. I'll get the axe."
The snow began on Thursday afternoon.
He and Dooley had trimmed the tree the night before and he had gone home for lunch, simply to look at it again. Yes! The magic had invaded the rectory. He could smell it as he walked in the door, the permeating fragrance of fir and forest and freedom, which refused to be lost among the smells of baking bread. He felt fairly lifted off the floor.
Barnabas dashed from the rug in front of the study sofa and gave him a resounding wallop on the chest with his paws, followed by a proper licking. What more could he have asked of this life? A job to do, a warm home filled with intoxicating smells, a dog of his own, a growing boy, and all of it covered by the astonishing facts of the nativity.
"Come and see the guest room!" Puny called from the top of the stairs.
The room that was so often shut away and cold, with closed heating vents and a frozen toilet seat, was now warm and inviting. Puny had found extra pillows in the closet and covered them with starched shams. She had stolen a braided rug from the foot of his own bed and a rocking chair from the garage. Bottled water sat on the nightstand with a copy of the Muse, a worn copy of Country Life magazine, and a chocolate truffle from her own gift box from Cynthia.
She had placed a branch of holly atop the picture frame over the bed.
"You don't reckon it could fall on 'im in the night, do you?" She was clearly concerned.
"It'll be fine."
"Don't be mad about me takin' your rug. He's a bishop, you know, and you're just..."
"A lowly preacher."
"No offense."
"None taken!"
He reached in his pocket and handed her an envelope. "Merry Christmas! While I'm but a lowly preacher, you, on the other hand, are an angel. And that's a fact."
Her chin quivered as she opened the envelope and removed the hundred-dollar bill. "I jis' knew it!" she wailed, throwing her arms around his neck. "You'll never know how I needed this. My sister got laid off, and her least one is sick and needs shots, and this is jis' th' best thing in th' world!"
"Well, then, quit crying, if you don't mind."
"I cain't he'p it!" she insisted, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. He handed her his handkerchief.
"I jis' ironed that thing. I'll use toilet paper!" she said, fleeing to the bathroom.
The snow, which had begun as a light sprinkle of small flakes, was falling harder as he headed back to the office. "I'd stay home if I was you," Puny advised. "You know they're callin' for a bad storm."
One of his great failings was paying too little attention to the daily news. And since he had once again missed breakfast at the Grill, it was no wonder he knew nothing of immediate importance.
"I'm leavin' early in case th' roads get slick," she said, handing him his hat and gloves. "Be sure'n take that hall rug out of th' dryer. It's th' last thing I'm washin'."
"Consider it done."
"I'd stay in," she said again.
He opened the door and squinted at the sky. "It probably won't amount to much."
"I'd change my shoes, if I was you."
"Ah, well, Puny, you're not me and be glad of it. Otherwise you wouldn't be marrying Joe Joe come June."
He was surprised to see that everything was already wellcovered, including the bushes at Cynthia's front door. Putting his hat on, he set off briskly.
Lay the train tracks after Stuart leaves tomorrow morning. Deliver the baskets. Get enough ribbon to wrap the jam box and tie a bow. Take the car to Lew Boyd. Carry the chocolates to the hospital. Remember to thaw two pounds of Russell's livermush to include in his basket.
Should he decorate Cynthia's mantel, put some greenery on her banisters, a wreath on her door? Surely, it would be no fun coming home to a house barren of Christmas greenery.
Passing Evie Adams' house, he saw Miss Pattie at the window, waving; a mere glance told him that Miss Pattie was excited about Christmas. He grinned, waving back. She would be even more excited if she knew her basket included a dozen Snickers bars.
The snow churned icily into his face as he walked. Beautiful though it was, it was not soft and friendly like some mountain snows; it was the sort one endured until it spent itself.
As he turned the corner toward the office, he saw that Mitford was fast becoming one of those miniature villages in a glass globe, which, when shaken and set on its base, literally teemed with falling flakes.
The mail had come late today. He had seen Harold Newland on Main Street, bowed under the weight of his mailbag and bundled above the ears against the cold.
"I won't send you a Christmas card," Emma had said by way of warning. "I've decided to quit sending Christmas cards, period. It's less for Harold to fool with."
"A noble gesture."
"Every little bit helps," she said, pleased.
He was thrilled to find the cream-colored envelope near the bottom of the pile of greeting cards.
Dear Timothy,
Thank you for the note that might have been written to a greataunt who once invited you to a tea of toast and kippers. Yours sincerely, Cynthia
When he tramped home at three o'clock, barely able to see the green awnings of Main Street, he shucked off his coat and hat and sodden loafers and went at once to the phone, his feet frozen, and dialed her number. Busy.
Stuart Cullen appeared at his door with a hat brim full of snow and a black topcoat frosted across the shoulders like so much Christmas stollen.
"Rough going," he said, stomping snow onto the
hall rug and removing his gloves and muffler. "I thought I wasn't going to make it. Windshield started icing up. Cars off the road. Miserable! What smells so good? I'm starved! No time for lunch and running late for dinner! I could eat a table leg."
"Chippendale or federal?"
"A little of both, if it's no trouble."
He had never seen his old friend eat so hungrily, even as a penniless seminarian. "It's great to be at your table, Timothy. Some priests I visit can barely boil water."
They were having dinner in front of the fire, careful to watch the TV screen for a weather report.
"I've got to make it down the mountain in the morning, no fail. I'm praying this thing won't last."
"So far, no good," said the rector, nodding toward the window. The outside lights illumined the steadily falling snow. "But—the town crew is good about keeping the roads clear, and the county will be working the mountain tonight. I think you can relax."
"Relax! That may as well be a word from a foreign language. What does it mean, anyway?"
"I don't suppose you'd like the lecture you gave me several months ago about kicking back, taking it easy, slowing down, letting up?"
"I most certainly would not. I was very tough on you, but it worked. In fact, you look the best I've seen you look in years." Stuart took a sip of the Bordeaux. "By the way, you'll never guess who I saw only a week ago."
"Bill Mutton!"
"No, thanks be to God. Peggy Cramer. I must say she's still very beautiful, but..." Stuart stroked his chin and looked vague.
But what? Cancer? Some crippling disease? "But what, for Pete's sake?"
"But boring."
"It could be worse."
"Perhaps. In any case, if you'd seen her, I think you'd be able to thank me for the advice I gave you years ago."
"But I do thank you, you know that. It was completely right. I've never once regretted my decision."