by Jan Karon
“Wow,” Cynthia whispered.
“You must be living right, Kavanagh.”
They parked in the two-car garage, simply because it was a luxury to have one, and went up the stairs to the front door.
“Here,” he said, giving her the key. “You do the honors.”
As the door swung open, they stood looking across the sunlit living room and through the wall of windows to the Sound. The water lay as smooth as a lake, glinting in the sun.
His wife gave a small gasp of wonder and delight.
“Now we’re talking!” she said.
They prowled through the spacious house like a couple of kids, amazed at their discoveries. Central vacuum system, enormous fireplace in both living room and master suite, glorious views all around, a room with the right light and location for her work, a room with a comfortable and easy spirit for his study, an intercom system, a large kitchen in which they felt decidedly lost, and a media room that, thanks to its dumbfounding technology and wall-size television screen, caused them to shut the door hastily.
They thumped onto one of two sofas in the living room, thinking to build a fire against the chill.
“Well,” he said.
“Well,” she said.
He wouldn’t have mentioned it for the world, but he wished they had Jonathan to put some life in this place.
“Let’s unload the car, then. I’ll bring Barnabas and Violet up.”
“Wouldn’t it be marvelous if we had power?” she mused.
“Just in case, try the lamp.”
Sixty watts sprang to life at her touch. “Thanks be to God!” they shouted in spontaneous unison.
They leaped up and dashed to the kitchen and turned on the faucet, which spat and chugged and released a brackish stream of water into the sink.
“Try the phone!” she crowed.
A dial tone!
“The heat . . .” They trotted in tandem, searching for a thermostat.
Having located it at the end of the hallway, they grabbed each other and exchanged a fervent hug as the furnace roared into action.
“Priest and deacon die and go to heaven!” he whooped.
Ah, but no million-dollar house on the Sound could ease the sorrow of his wife’s heart.
He lay in the strange bed and held her as she wept.
Maybe the bright, three-quarter moon was keeping him awake. . . .
He got up and looked through the French doors that gave onto the upstairs deck. A ribbon of platinum cascaded across the water. Only a mile and a half from Dove Cottage and they were in another world. A miraculous thing.
He closed the draperies over the doors, patted his sleeping dog at the foot of the bed, and lay down again.
He remembered the sleepless exhaustion that had helped crank his diabetes into high gear.
Hadn’t Hoppy advised him to find a good doctor when he arrived? Of course. But had he done it? No way.
No more excuses, he promised himself. He would inquire around first thing tomorrow morning. And he must rid his mind of the lawsuit. It was useless to worry and fret about this alarming thing. He and Walter would do what they could; beyond that, he was dependent upon grace alone.
Be anxious for nothing . . .
He began to mentally recite one of the verses he’d tried to live by for a very long time.
... but in everything, with prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, make your requests known unto God, and the peace that passes all understanding will fill your heart and mind through Christ Jesus.
“Ahhh,” he sighed.
Jericho.
Not that again.
Lord, I’m no mind-reader. Reveal to me, please, what You’re talking about here.
He tried to open his heart and mind to the answer, but dozed off and fell, at last, into a peaceful slumber.
As twilight drew over the Sound, he heard the front bell ring and trotted to the door, wondering who’d be poking around out here.
He saw a car parked in the circle, and a woman standing at the foot of the steps. Before him on the stoop were two small persons in pirate costumes, and a very much smaller person clad in a sheet and extending a plastic pumpkin in his direction.
“Trick or treat!” said Jonathan Tolson.
Feeling oddly distant from one another as they sat in the chairs that flanked the fireplace, they piled onto a sofa. “You know what I’m craving?” she asked.
“I can’t begin to know.”
“Your mother’s pork roast with those lovely angel biscuits.”
“My dear Kavanagh, who was it who refused to tote the Dutch oven on our journey into the unknown?”
“I was wrong and I admit it. Can’t you make her roast without it?”
“I never have.”
“Does that mean you never will?”
“A pork roast in that oven is a guaranteed, hands-down success.
Why should I be tempted to veer off on some reckless tangent, like wrapping it in foil or roasting it on a pizza pan or whatever?”
“You’re using your pulpit voice,” she remonstrated.
“A thousand pardons,” he said, getting up to fiddle with the dials on the home entertainment system and trying to make something, anything, happen.
“Julia Child didn’t require a Dutch oven to make a pork roast,” she said, arching one eyebrow.
“And how did you come by this arcane knowledge?”
“I looked it up in her cookbooks in our new kitchen.”
“Well,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“Five pounds of flour . . . ,” she murmured, making a list. Cynthia Kavanagh was bound and determined to have biscuits on her dinner plate, whate’er betide.
“Do we really want to buy flour, only to haul it back to Dove Cottage?”
“How long do you expect we’ll be here?”
“They said the job will probably take three weeks, four at the most.”
“Right. Now, double that prediction, thanks to lumber that doesn’t arrive on time or is out of stock altogether, and for the crew who decides to go to another job for a whole week, and the rainy weather that makes the floor too tacky for us to move in for ten days, and . . . you get the idea.”
“Two months,” he said. “Buy the flour.”
Cynthia saluted him with her glass. “Here’s to Martha Talbot!”
“And here’s to Miss Child, bless her heart!”
He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but this was as toothsome a pork roast as a man could want, not to mention their first square meal at Sound Doctrine, the name they found engraved on a plaque at the door.
“Three guesses!” said Emma, munching what sounded like popcorn.
“Andrew won by a landslide!”
“Well, he won, all right, but not by a landslide, a lot of people who were born in Mitford voted for Coot. Anyway, guess what else.”
“Just tell me and get it over with.”
“No, you have to guess. Guess what’s going to happen to Coot as soon as Andrew’s sworn in.”
“He’ll be the envoy to our sister village of Mitford, England?”
“No, but I love the idea of a sister village! Somebody ought to recommend that to Andrew, he’d pick right up on it. Guess again.”
“I give up.” After one guess, she usually let him off the hook.
“Andrew’s goin’ to appoint him to chair a historical committee!”
What he’d always feared might be true, he now knew for a fact—in appointing Coot Hendrick to chair any committee at all, Andrew Gregory had proved to be a man of far greater largesse than himself.
He’d done his utmost to sever the umbilical cord that typically united a parish to a long-term priest, and felt it was at last a done deal. Indeed, he hadn’t heard a word from Esther Bolick or anybody else at Lord’s Chapel in a month of Sundays. So, the heck with his interim bishop and two-for-a-penny wisdom, he was calling the Bolicks.
“Esther?”
“Who’s this?”
“How quickly you forget. It’s your old priest.”
“Father Hammond?”
“Esther!”
“Just kidding. How in th’ world are you? We hadn’t heard from you in a coon’s age.”
“Lots to do in a new parish, but I think about you and Gene and pray for you faithfully. How is he?”
“Better. I’ve tried to stop worryin’ myself sick.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. And you may be glad to hear that your fame now extends to Whitecap. In truth, I’m calling with a total of eleven requests for your marmalade cake recipe. I know you don’t give it out, but they implored me to ask.”
“Eleven?” He didn’t know whether she was pleased with the number or disappointed.
“I’m sure as many more are interested, but I’ve personally received the names of eleven, including that of the Baptist preacher who’s renowned for his lemon meringue pie.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, “I don’t see why not. That recipe’s been bootlegged forty ways for Sunday, anyhow.”
“They’ll be thrilled, and not only that, I’ll be a hero.”
“Cynthia has a copy I told her she could use. She can pass that around.”
“Yes, but it’s in Mitford. Do you think you could mail me a copy?”
“I declare, that recipe will pester me to my grave. But I’ll do it. What’s your address?”
“Just send it to St. John’s, post office box fourteen.” He gave her the zip code. “Bless you, Esther.”
“Father Talbot moved into that big house up th’ street from the Harpers. He’s th’ handsomest thing you’d ever want to see, an’ th’ whitest teeth, oh, mercy. . . .”
He seemed to recall hearing this before.
“We think he bleaches, you know, wears what they call bleach trays, like people on TV.”
“So, I’m glad to know Gene is—”
“And nice? You wouldn’t want to see nicer! Crosses th’ street to talk to you, waves at you from his car . . . not to mention has been to visit Gene on a house call, and he was just installed two days ago!”
“My goodness,” he said, quoting Sam.
“And his children—why, they’re meek as lambs and smart as whips, plus you should see his wife, she’s a regular movie star. And preach? Up a storm! Why, he brings th’ house down! We’re goin’ to tie his leg to the altar, is what Gene says. This one’s too good to let get away.”
“Ahhh,” he said, exhaling.
He and Walter had talked for more than an hour, but he felt precious little consolation.
What should he do, if anything, about the rumor she was moving back to Boston? Didn’t she owe him the courtesy of telling him she was leaving? On the other hand, what did courtesy have to do with anything—under the circumstances?
Walter suggested he lie low on that one, but go ahead and inform the Hope House board of the lawsuit.
He dreaded this like the plague, for more reasons than one. He would wait until after the weekend, when things were . . . calmer. At the moment, St. John’s was under exterior scaffolding front to back, a Bobcat was digging out part of the basement, and a backhoe was on the job, doing God knows what. As anyone in their right mind could see, this was no time to call a board and relay bad news.
As he and Cynthia offered their nighttime prayers, he exhorted the Lord with something from “St. Patrick’s Hymn at Evening.”
“ ‘May our sleep be deep and soft,’ ” he whispered, “ ‘so our work be fresh and hard.’ ”
His wife, who was again going at her book hammer and tong, liked St. Patrick’s way of putting it.
Nonetheless, he still wasn’t sleeping soundly.
And he could scarcely believe what he felt God was writing upon his heart.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked aloud, standing on the upstairs deck at sunset. A snowy egret flew over the roof and settled into the tall grasses at water’s edge.
“I’d hate to get this wrong,” he said.
Then again, if he got it wrong, what did he have to lose?
Nothing.
Nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
He spent much of Monday morning speaking with Hoppy Harper and other members of the board. They were shocked, of course. But he was glad he made the calls, because they were rallying together, and he felt the encouragement of it.
They agreed that it was a blow, but if the suit succeeded, they felt they could replace the money via other avenues.
He felt the encouragement, yes, but in the very pit of his stomach was a sick feeling that appeared to be lodged in for the long haul.
“Barnabas and I are going to walk around the old neighborhood, see what’s what.” Nine o’clock, now, and a meeting at ten with Sewell Joiner at the church. Perfect timing.
“And please do something about cleaning up the car,” said Cynthia. “It looks like a farm wagon.”
“Consider it done.”
“I don’t know what you do to cars,” she muttered.
“We had a storm, remember?”
“But that was days ago, and the rust is going to leap onto the fenders any minute, mark my words.”
“Rust ...”
“It’s a living thing, you know. It grows. Have you noticed the cars and trucks running around down here? There’s hardly anything left but chassis and steering wheel.”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“Surely I do, but please—washed and waxed and whatever else it needs; I must have it tomorrow to go up hill and down dale.”
“Tomorrow’s supposed to be a beautiful day, you could ride your Schwinn.”
“Not if it’s under Morris Love’s stairwell.”
“Good point,” he said. “See you for lunch.”
After checking the progress at Dove Cottage, he began his first march around the wall of Nouvelle Chanson by walking east from the iron gate, hooking a left on Hastings, and praying as he went.
Staying hard by the wall, he trotted north on Hastings and rounded the corner into the lane that dead-ended in front of Ernie’s.
He saw the figure up ahead, crossing the lane toward the Love wall. It was someone tall and slender, dark in color, and, though carrying what appeared to be a grocery bag in either arm, moving gracefully.
“Easy,” he said to his dog, who was always curious about who and what crossed their path.
Though trying not to stare, he witnessed the sudden collapse of a paper bag, and saw items go spilling onto the sandy lane. Grapefruits rolled hither and yon.
He sprinted ahead.
“Here, let me help!” he said to the woman. “Barnabas, sit!”
Barnabas didn’t sit; he reared on his hind legs so he might greet the stranger who stood looking at him with alarm. Grabbing his dog, Father Tim trotted to a small tree growing outside the wall and fastened the leash around it.
“There. I’m sorry. He’s harmless.” He went to his knees and began collecting grapefruits and bananas, sticks of butter that had burst loose from their package. . . .
“At least there were no eggs,” he said, looking up at the elegant, dark-skinned woman who looked down upon him.
“Thank you kindly.” Her voice was soft and lilting—genteel, he thought. “That’s a big dog,” she said simply.
“He is that. Well, now, what shall we put all this in?”
“I’ll go back to the house and get my basket,” she said. “I almost never carry groceries without my basket, but this mornin’ . . . if you’d watch this for me, I’d thank you.”
“Be glad to,” he said, taking the other bag from her arm.
She walked toward the house at the opposite side of the lane, a house he’d often noticed and admired for its tidy appearance and large, well-tended garden. He’d exchanged greetings with a man working the garden one summer evening, and had occasionally seen a wash hanging on the clothesline. In a world that seldom displayed its wash on a line, the sight always, and happily, took him back to his boyho
od.
He stood guarding the small pile of groceries, organized neatly in the middle of the lane, as she left the house and came toward him carrying a large basket. He thought she moved regally for her age, though he couldn’t really determine her age.
“Always, always, I use this basket,” she said pleasantly, “and this mornin’, wouldn’t you know . . .”
Together, they stooped down and loaded the basket.
“May I carry it for you?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she said, standing. “I’m just goin’ right through there.” She pointed to an opening in the thick hedge that camouflaged the wall.
“Ah. Morris Love’s place.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re Mamie,” he said, noting her carefully braided hair and the printed scarf tied round like a headband.
“Yes, sir, I’m Mamie. And you’re the preacher whose wife sent Mr. Love that nice banana bread.”
“I am!” He was as excited as a child. “So pleased to meet you, Miss, Mrs. . . .”
“Just Mamie is all,” she said.
“Sure I can’t carry that for you? I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you, I’ve been carrying this basket through there for more years than I care to reckon. Well, I hope you’ll tell your wife that Mr. Love enjoyed the taste of lemon in her bread.”
“Oh, I will. And thank you. Thank you!” A woman with a strong and lively spirit. . . .
Feeling strangely moved and oddly blessed he watched her disappear along a well-worn path through the opening in the wall.
He looked eagerly for her when he circled the wall on the second day, which was Wednesday, but she didn’t appear. What he did see was a small wash, neatly arranged on the clothesline and flapping smartly in the November wind.
He received the welcome sight as a sign, a confirmation, and walked on, praying.