by Jan Karon
“Father Tim?”
“Hope! Come in, come in!” The floodgates had opened.
“Uncle Billy!” she said, extending her hand. “How are you feeling? I’m glad to see you out!”
“I’m goin’ t’ make it!”
Hope looked flushed, thought Father Tim. The winter cold had rouged everyone’s cheeks.
“Father, I wanted to tell you something . . .”
He thought his favorite bookseller looked shy as a dove, and especially pretty into the bargain.
“It’s something special, but I can come back. . . .”
Fred poked his head in the doorway and eyed the crowd. “Sorry about that, sir, I was helpin’ unload a truck.”
“Don’t worry about it, Fred.”
“There’s a call for you. You want to take it out here?”
“I’m a-goin’,” said Uncle Billy. “We’ll see y’uns in th’ funny papers.”
“Thanks for the joke.” said Father Tim. “I’m going to laugh when I get a minute!”
Fred shucked off his heavy gloves. “Uncle Billy, you need a ride home?”
“Nossir, I’m rustin’ like a gate hinge, I need t’ trot home by m’self.”
Father Tim stepped into the shop area and took the cordless from Fred.
“Tim Kavanagh here. . . .
“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said. “For many years. . . .
“Strong character, immeasurably hardworking, honest and forthright in every regard. . . .
“In truth, I can’t say enough good things. . . .
“Aha! Thanks be to God! I hope you’ll attend to it immediately, time is certainly flying. . . . ”
He paced around a Regency chest-on-chest, the phone to his ear.
“Yes, indeed, it will be good for all concerned—you have my word on it. . . .
“Well done, then. God bless you!”
He trotted to the back room, where Hope was gazing at the figures on the shelf.
She turned and smiled at him with genuine fondness. “My goodness, Father, you look like the Cheshire cat!”
“As it turns out, my dear, I have something special to tell you, too! But why don’t you go first?” She took a deep breath.
In all the years he’d known Hope Winchester, he had never seen her look so . . . joyful, that was it!
“I wanted to tell you . . .”
“Yes?”
“ . . . that I’m in love.”
Tears sprang at once to his eyes.
“It’s Scott, Father.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I have no words to express my happiness for you both.”
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes and gave her an enthusiastic hug.
The Good Lord had certainly picked a fine way to fill the empty chair at their Christmas dinner table.
“Oh, and Father . . .” She opened her purse and withdrew an envelope. “Before I forget, I have something to show you. . . .”
The goldfish were swimming about in a crystal bowl, hidden from view in the laundry room; the ice skates were done up in bright paper and tucked away on the floor of his closet; the refrigerator and pantry were loaded with supplies; and he wasn’t making another trip to Wesley ’til after the thaw—period, zip, end of discussion.
He’d made his list and checked it twice, and was, in a manner of speaking, wrapping things up. The issue of the haircut, however, remained unresolved.
Full of expectation, he trooped up Lilac Road to visit Joe Ivey.
“I only barber when I want to,” said Joe, occupied with a cross-stitch image of Santa Claus disappearing down a chimney.
“Well, then. Do you want to?”
“Nossir,” said Joe, “I don’t want to.”
So, one, he had given it his best shot, and failed.
And, two, there was no way on God’s green earth he was putting his head in the hands of Fancy Skinner. No more lamb-to-the-slaughter for this country parson!
Three, there had been no time to do it while in Wesley today, and if he wasn’t running over there again anytime soon, one of their overpriced haircuts wasn’t an option, anyway.
“Fred,” he said, “have you ever cut hair?”
“I cut my wife’s hair once.”
Once. Didn’t sound encouraging.
“Turned out she looked s’ much like ’er brother, they thought he’d gone t’ wearin’ a skirt.”
“Umm.”
“I was in th’ doghouse for a good while. But you take my gran’daddy, he was a barber an’ a half. Used to barber th’ men at shearin’ time. Barbered th’ neighbors, too, had a good little business set up on th’ back porch.”
“I see.”
“Ever’ now an’ again, he pulled teeth on th’ side.”
“Enterprising!” And Dooley wasn’t an option, either. Dooley Barlowe had once given him what appeared to be a scallop design along his neck. He checked his watch; he had strict orders to be home in forty-five minutes. . . .
“Is it you that’s wantin’ a haircut?”
“It is, Fred, it is.” He heaved a sigh.
“I wouldn’t have said anything . . .” Fred left his sentence unfinished, but raised one eyebrow.
Time was flying; it was fish or cut bait. “What do you need to do the job?”
“Scissors an’ a comb.”
“I’ve got a comb,” said Father Tim.
“I’ve got scissors,” said Fred.
“While you’re at it, I’ve been having a little trouble with my left molar.”
They laughed. If worse came to worst, he could wear a hat when he left the house, and, as for the Christmas Eve service, it would be pretty dark in the candlelit nave, anyhow.
“Hop on your stool,” said Fred, “an’ I’ll be right back.”
He did as he was told. Lord, he prayed, I’d appreciate it if You’d be in on this. . . .
He had mentioned it to Cynthia this morning, but only in a casual, offhand way. He didn’t want to get excited, it was too soon.
I will almost certainly have something for you next year. . . .
It isn’t anything fancy, and God knows, it will be a challenge. . . .
But he couldn’t help getting excited. Every time he thought about it, he felt his heart beat a jot faster; he picked up his gait as he walked home, and recalled that he’d twice found himself whistling in the mall.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Will wonders never cease!” How he loved this earnest boy with his intense gaze and tousled hair and faithful remnant of freckles.
“I don’t want my father’s name anymore.” Dooley stared into the blazing fire on the study hearth, his brow furrowed.
There was a long silence; the fire crackled; the clock ticked.
Dooley turned to face him. “So what if I take your name?”
Dooley Kavanagh! It was something he’d discussed with Cynthia, and prayed about more than a few times. Now he did his own staring into the fire, searching his own heart. Lord, I need wisdom here. . . .
Dooley’s voice was hoarse with feeling. “Barlowe is a bad name to have.”
“But you’ll make it a good name to have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Barlowe. In fact, you’re already making it a good name to have. I’m proud of you, son.”
“But I don’t want anything of his. Nothing!”
“You have something quite precious of his—your brothers and little sister.”
Though the winter dark had come, no lamps were lit; firelight illumined the study.
“If you were to take the Kavanagh name, you would do it great honor. In truth, nothing would make me prouder. Yet Barlowe is a name that came to you by a long and winding stream—I remember reading about a Barlowe who was co-captain with Sir Walter Raleigh on Raleigh’s first voyage to Virginia in the sixteenth century. The fact that he helped get the ship there and back to England was no mean feat in those days.”
Dooley shrugged.
“Your family roots are Anglo-Saxon and can be traced to the ancient territories of England. Thus, your name embodies far more than the connection to a man who abandoned you and brought great suffering—you might say it’s part of what you’re made of . . .”
The ticking of the clock, the snoring of his dog . . .
“ . . . and, son . . .”
“Yes?”
“You’re made of very fine stuff.”
Dooley gazed into the fire, unspeaking.
“Why don’t you think about it a while longer? Make sure of your feelings.”
Dooley waited, then nodded, his lips tight. “OK.”
“Please know that I respect your feelings. Though I never thought of changing my name, there were times when I’d have given anything to sever connections with my own father.”
Dooley looked surprised.
“We’ll talk about it one of these days.” He checked his watch. “You said you need to be out of here by six-thirty. It’s six twenty-five.”
Dooley sat back in the chair, making no move to leave. “It’s going to be really good at Meadowgate next summer.”
“Yes! It will be.”
“I always kind of missed you and Cynthia when I was out there.”
“You did?” He remembered how bereft he’d felt when Dooley chose Meadowgate over staying with them for the summer; it had wrenched his soul.
Dooley looked at his loafers.
“Anything else on your mind, son?”
“Yes, sir.” Dooley took a deep breath. “I want to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
What could he say? “I thank you back.”
“Well. . . ,” said Dooley.
“Going to a movie?”
“Out to dinner.”
“Aha.” That explained the blazer.
“With Lace.”
He was the nosiest man on the planet, but he was keeping his mouth shut.
“It’s her birthday.”
“Her birthday! How old?”
“Nineteen. A year younger than me.”
“Aha.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out two twenties.
“Where are you taking her?”
“To Miss Sadie’s.”
Several people in town referred to the Gregorys’ Italian restaurant, Lucera, as Miss Sadie’s, given its location on the main floor of Fernbank.
“Well, then!” he said, withdrawing another twenty. Lucera was no drive-through; as he recalled, the veal piccata was a cool $24.95. “The car keys are on the hall table.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Dooley grinned and, making certain Mr. Jackson faced the same way on all three bills, folded them and stuck them in the pocket of his khakis. “Her curfew is eleven-thirty. I’ll be in right after.”
“Dooley . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
I love you, he wanted to say. “Have fun! Give Lace our love. Tell her happy birthday!”
“Yep. I will.”
“Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember the heater takes a while to warm up, and the radio only gets one station.”
“Got it. Catch you later.”
“They’re calling for snow tonight!”
Dooley disappeared through the kitchen doorway; Father Tim raced behind him into the hall.
“Dooley?”
Dooley turned; the light of the lamp by the stair shone on his face. “Yes, sir?”
“I love you,” he said, hoarse as a frog.
“Where the dickens are my handle pulls?”
His wife confronted him before he’d hardly gotten up the back steps from the garbage can.
“What handle pulls is that?”
“The ones that were on my cabinets below the silver drawer! How is a body supposed to open the doors?”
“Poke a dadjing knife blade under th’ door and hit’ll pop right open.” It was freezing cold this morning; Uncle Billy stuck one hand in his jacket pocket and brandished his cane with the other. “Let me in th’ house, by johnny!”
“I’ll let you in the house, Bill Watson, when you tell me what you’ve done with my handle pulls!”
“I give ’em t’ ol’ Santy, is what I done!”
“Santy, my foot!”
“He come an’ wanted ’em, an I let let ’im have ’em! They ain’t nothin’ in them cab’nets no way, but a mess of paper cups you toted home from church.”
“And Fig Newtons,” she said, looking thoroughly disgusted.
Dear Louise,
Thanks for calling me last night. I miss you, too. I know the house feels lonely without Mama in it, and I don’t blame you for wanting to make a change, even though change can be hard. I’m learning that God wants the best for us, and if we pray for His will in our lives, He will show us how and when to move ahead, and He will help us through.
You know that I had finally given up, and then the call came to Father Tim. They phoned me at almost the final hour! How amazing that my letter had been lost, and when they read it to Mrs. Mallory she blinked her eyes yes! God was in this all along, as He will be in helping you make a big change in your life.
And that’s why I’m writing. I believe God has given me another great idea. I hope you will think it’s a great idea, too.
I know it sounds unbelievable, but I always loved that we shared a room, and even our clothes. The only thing that was absolutely, positively mine was the blue sweater with embroidery, and I know you sneaked and wore it when I wasn’t around!
Louise, will you share a room with me again?
Will you come to Mitford and live with me above HappyEndings and help me make the bookstore grow? I can’t pay you much at the beginning, but we could rent Mama’s house, which would make things better, and as business increases and the debt is settled, I will pay you whatever we agree is fair.
You have never liked your computer job at the hospital, and I think you would love the bookstore as I do. You would be so wonderful with our summer reading program. Helen never wanted to do it at all, and I’m determined we shall have one next year! You would also be the best imaginable help with the rare-books business, which is all done on the Internet.
But I have saved the best for last, which is~
I think you will love living in Mitford!I walk almost everywhere, and know everyone in town and they know me. The people are truly wonderful (for the most part!), and I can practically promise that you’ll find a new and wonderful life in Mitford, just as I have.
Though you don’t like to drive beyond Granville, it’s only a hundred and nine miles to Mitford, and there are basically only three turns—all to the left!
I know this comes out of the blue, but if you think about it, that’s where a lot of good things come from.
Love,
Hope
P.S. I decided to write this instead of calling, as it will give you a better chance to think things through. I am praying for you, and so excited that you might say yes!
P.P.S. Wish you could see the Christmas tree in the upstairs window of HE.
Hope folded the letter and put it in an ivory envelope and licked the flap and sealed it. She would tell Louise about Scott after Christmas. Her feelings toward Scott were very tender and private, she couldn’t yet talk about this to anyone, though Father Tim, of course, knew.
She went to the hot plate and turned on the teakettle, then gazed around her new room with the pictures on the walls, and the bookcases full of books she had loved for years, and the lace curtains through which the Sunday-afternoon light fell upon the faded rug. She knew that she had never felt so happy, so expectant, nor so deeply grateful.
She brewed the tea and took the pot and a mug to her desk, where she thumped into her favorite old chair from her mother’s screened-in porch and withdrew another sheet of ivory paper from the box. She poised her pen above it, smiling.
Scott Lewis Murphy, she wrote.
Scott Lewis Murph
y
Scott Lewis Murphy
There was another name she also wished to write, but, no, she mustn’t even think such a thing. She mustn’t yet hope for something so precious. . . .
She poured a cup of tea and sipped it, and watched the light play upon the rug. She realized that, more than anything, she wanted to write the other name, but feared that doing it might bring bad luck.
Then she remembered—she didn’t believe in luck anymore, good or bad. She believed in grace, and grace alone.
Mrs. Scott Lewis Murphy
Mrs. S. L. Murphy
Hope Elizabeth Murphy
Dooley cackled when he saw it.
“No way can I do that camel!”
“If I can do it, you can do it.”
“No, sir, that’s way too hard, I could never do it. This guy is huge.”
“Yes. Agreed. But it has to be done, and I was counting on you. I’ve got just enough time to repaint the Virgin Mother and the Babe.”
“I’m sorry. Really. But I can’t. This is . . .” Dooley searched for a word, but couldn’t find it. “I can’t.”
“You could pick a color, I could mix it, and you could brush it on. . . . We might stipple it a little. . . .”
“Just a little,” said Fred.
“Nope. I can’t. Really. I thought maybe it was just slap some paint on something, have some fun.”
“It is fun. I promise.”
“What about his ear? Would I have to do something about his ear?”
“I could do the ear.”
Dooley thought for a moment. “No, sir,” he said, sounding firm. “I can’t do it. But everything looks great. It blows me away that you did this.”
Father Tim looked at Fred, imploring.
“My wife has her quiltin’ club tonight. I can give you a hand.”
“Can we do it?”
“It’ll take a couple of evenin’s, but we can do it!”
He leaned over and gave Fred a high five.