Light from Heaven Hardback - 2005

Details

• Title Light from Heaven
• Author Karon, Jan
• Binding Hardback
• Edition First Edition
• Pages 384
• Language EN
• Publisher Viking Adult, New York, New York, U.S.A.
• Date 2005-11-08
• ISBN 9780670034536

Close by the pond in the sheep paddock, a buck, a doe, and two fawns stood motionless as an owl pushed off from the upper branches of a pine tree and sailed, silent and intent, to the ridge of the barn roof.

The owl hooted once, then twice.

As if summoned by its velveteen cry, the platinum moon broke suddenly from the clouds above the pond, transforming the waterïĕēïĕēïĕēs surface into a gleaming lake of molten pearl. Then, clouds sailed again over the face of the moon, and in the bitter darkness, snowflakes fell thick and fast, swirling as in a shaken globe.

It was twelve minutes after six oïĕēïĕēïĕēclock when a gray light rose above the brow of Hogback Mountain, exposing an imprint of tractor tires that linked Meadowgateïĕēïĕēïĕēs hay barn to the cow pasture and sheep paddock. The imprints of work boots and dog paws were also traceable along the driveway to the barn, and back to the door of the farmhouse, where smoke puffed from the chimney and lamplight shone behind the kitchen windows.

From a tulip poplar at the northeast corner to the steel stake at the southwest, all hundred and thirty acres of Meadowgate Farm lay under a powdery blanket of March snow.

Cynthia Kavanagh stood in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen in a chenille robe, and gazed out on the hushed landscape.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIt makes everything innocent again,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said. ïĕēïĕēïĕēA winter Eden.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

At the pine table, Father Timothy Kavanagh leafed through his quote journal until he found the record heïĕēïĕēïĕēd jotted down. ïĕēïĕēïĕēUnbelievable! Weïĕēïĕēïĕēve had snow one, two, three, four . . . this is the fifth time since Christmas Eve.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSnow, snow, and more snow!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNot to mention dogs, dogs, and more dogs! It looks like somebody backed up to the door and dumped a truckload of canines in here.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Following his customary daylight romp, Barnabas, a Bouvier-wolfhound mix and his boon companion of ten years, was drowned in slumber on the hearth rug; Buckwheat, an English foxhound grown long in the tooth, had draped herself over the arm of the sofa; the Welsh corgi, aptly named Bodacious, snored in a wing chair she had long ago claimed as her own; and Luther, a recent, mixed-breed addition to the Meadowgate pack, had slung himself onto his bed in the corner, belly up. There was a collective odor of steam rising from sodden dog hair.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēUgh!ïĕēïĕēïĕē said his wife, who was accustomed to steam rising off only one wet dog.

Father Tim looked up from the journal in which he was transcribing notes collected hither and yon. ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo what are you doing today, Kavanagh?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Cynthia mashed the plunger of the French coffee press. ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēm doing the sketch of Violet looking out the kitchen window to the barn, and Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm calling Puny to find out about the twinsïĕēïĕēïĕētheyïĕēïĕēïĕēre days late, you know.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēGood idea. Expected around March fourth or fifth, and here it is the fourteenth. Theyïĕēïĕēïĕēll be ready for kindergarten.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd you must run to Mitford with the shopping list for Dooleyïĕēïĕēïĕēs homecoming dinner tomorrow.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēConsider it done.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

His heart beat faster at the thought of having their boy home for spring break, but the further thought of having nothing more to accomplish than a run to The Local was definitely discouraging. Heaven knows, there was hardly anything to do on the farm but rest, read, and walk four dogs; heïĕēïĕēïĕēd scarcely struck a lick at a snake since arriving in mid- January. Willie Mullis, a full-timer whoïĕēïĕēïĕēd replaced the part-time Bo Davis, lived on the place and did all the odd jobs, feeding up and looking after livestock; Joyce Havner did the laundry and cleaning, as sheïĕēïĕēïĕēd done at Meadowgate for years; Blake Eddistoe ran the vet clinic, only a few yards from the farmhouse door, with consummate efficiency; there was even someone to bush hog and cut hay when the season rolled around.

In truth, it seemed his main occupation since coming to farm-sit for the Owens was waiting to hear from his bishop, Stuart Cullen, who had e-mailed him before Christmas.

He had scratched his head throughout the month of January, trying to reckon what the challenge might be. In February, heïĕēïĕēïĕēd called Stuart, attempting to gouge it out of him, but Stuart had asked for another couple of weeks to get the plan together before he spilled the beans.

Now, here they were in the middle of March, and not a word.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYouïĕēïĕēïĕēre sighing, Timothy.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWondering when Stuart will get off the pot.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHeïĕēïĕēïĕēs retiring in June and consecrating the cathedralïĕēïĕēïĕēaltogether, a great deal to say grace over. Youïĕēïĕēïĕēll hear soon, dearest.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

She handed him a mug of black coffee, which he took with gratitude.

So here he sat, retired from nearly four decades of active ministry as a priest, toasting himself by an open fire with his good-humored and companionable wife of seven years, and situated in what he believed to be the most breathtakingly beautiful countryside in America.

Why bother, after all, about some ïĕēïĕēïĕēchallengeïĕēïĕēïĕē that may or may not be coming. Hadnïĕēïĕēïĕēt he had challenges enough to last him a lifetime?

His wife, on the other hand, was ever drumming up a challenge. During their year at the farm, conveniently located twenty min-utes from Mitford, sheïĕēïĕēïĕēd decided to accomplish three lifetime goals: learn needlepoint, make perfect oven fries, and read War and Peace.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo howïĕēïĕēïĕēs it coming with War and Peace?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI despise telling you this, but I havenïĕēïĕēïĕēt opened it once. Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm reading a charming old book called Mrs. Miniver.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd the fries?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSince Dooley comes tomorrow, Iïĕēïĕēïĕēll be conducting my next experimentïĕēïĕēïĕēto see whether soaking the potatoes in ice water will make them crispier. And Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm definitely using peanut oil this time.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēll peel and cut,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said. He hadnïĕēïĕēïĕēt seen any activity around the needlepoint plan, so he declined to mention it.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēPathetic,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, reading his mind. ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēm all thumbs. Learning from a book is not the way to do it. Iïĕēïĕēïĕēve decided to let Olivia tutor me, if she has a free day now and then. Besides, having lunch with someone who also wears eye shadow might be fun.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēm definitely a dud in the eye shadow department.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

She thumped into the wing chair opposite him and took a sip from her coffee mug. ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd what about you, dearest? Have you accomplished all your lifetime goals?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Oddly, the question stung him. ïĕēïĕēïĕēI suppose I havenïĕēïĕēïĕēt thought about it.ïĕēïĕēïĕē Maybe he hadnïĕēïĕēïĕēt wanted to think about having any further goals.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the wing chair. ïĕēïĕēïĕēI believe if I were charged with having a goal, it would be to live without frettingïĕēïĕēïĕēto live more fully in the moment, not always huffing about as Iïĕēïĕēïĕēve done in recent years . . . to live humblyïĕēïĕēïĕēand appreciativelyïĕēïĕēïĕēwith whatever God furnishes.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He reflected for a moment and raised his head and looked at her. ïĕēïĕēïĕēYes. That would be my goal.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēBut arenïĕēïĕēïĕēt you doing that?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNo. I feel obligated to get out there, to open myself to some new and worthwhile service. Iïĕēïĕēïĕēve been a bump on a log these last weeks.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēItïĕēïĕēïĕēs OK to be a bump on a log once in a while. ïĕēïĕēïĕēBe still,ïĕēïĕēïĕē He tells us, ïĕēïĕēïĕēand know that I am God.ïĕēïĕēïĕē We must learn to wait on Him, Timothy. All those years of preaching and celebrating, and doing the interim at Whitecapïĕēïĕēïĕēwhat a lovely legacy God allowed you to have there; and ministering to Louella and Miss Sadie and HTlFne Pringle and Morris Love and George Gaynor and Edith Mallory and the Leepers . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē She took a deep breath. ïĕēïĕēïĕēOn and on, an entire community, for heavenïĕēïĕēïĕēs sake, not to mention volunteering at the Childrenïĕēïĕēïĕēs Hospital and rounding up Dooleyïĕēïĕēïĕēs little sister and brothers . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēOne brother still missing,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, ïĕēïĕēïĕēand what have I done about it?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThere may be nothing you can do about it. Thereïĕēïĕēïĕēs absolutely nothing to go on, no leads of any kind. Maybe God alone can do something about it. Perhaps Kenny is Godïĕēïĕēïĕēs job.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

The fire crackled on the hearth; the dogs snored.

His wife had just preached him a sermon, and it was one he needed to hear. He had a mate who knew precisely what was what, especially when he didnïĕēïĕēïĕēt.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēLet us then be up and doing,ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕē he quoted from Wordsworth, ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēwith a heart for any fate!ïĕēïĕēïĕē Whereïĕēïĕēïĕēs the grocery list?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIn my head at present, but letïĕēïĕēïĕēs get it out.ïĕēïĕēïĕē She opened the small drawer in the lamp table and removed her notebook and pen.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSteak!ïĕēïĕēïĕē She scribbled. ïĕēïĕēïĕēSame old cut?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSame old, same old. New York strip.ïĕēïĕēïĕē This would be no Lenten fast, but a Lenten feast for a starving college boy who was seldom home.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēRusset potatoes,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, continuing the litany.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAlways best for fries.ïĕēïĕēïĕē His blood would soon get up for this cookathon, even if he couldnïĕēïĕēïĕēt eat much on the menu. While some theologians construed St. Paulïĕēïĕēïĕēs thorn to be any one of a variety of alarming dysfunctions, heïĕēïĕēïĕēd been convinced for years that it was the same blasted affliction heïĕēïĕēïĕēd ended up withïĕēïĕēïĕēdiabetes.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēPie crusts,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, scribbling on. ïĕēïĕēïĕēOh, rats. For the life of me, I canïĕēïĕēïĕēt remember all the ingredients for his chocolate pie, and of course, I didnïĕēïĕēïĕēt bring my recipe box.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI never liked the recipe we use,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, suddenly confessional.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYouïĕēïĕēïĕēre not supposed to even touch chocolate pie, Timothy, so what difference does it make? Dooley loves it; it isnïĕēïĕēïĕēt half bad, really.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIt needs something.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēLike what?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSomething more . . . you know.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhipped cream!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

His wife loved whipped cream; with the slenderest of excuses, she would slather it on anything.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNot whipped cream. Something more like . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē He threw up his hands; his culinary imagination had lately flown south.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMeringue, then.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMeringue!ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, slapping his leg. ïĕēïĕēïĕēThatïĕēïĕēïĕēs it!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

She bolted from her chair and trotted to the kitchen counter. ïĕēïĕēïĕēMargeïĕēïĕēïĕēs recipe box . . . I was thumbing through it the other day and I vaguely remember . . . Letïĕēïĕēïĕēs see . . . Onions in Cream Sauce, Penne Pasta with Lump Crabmeat, that sounds good. . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēKeep going.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēPie!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēBingo.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēButtermilk Pie . . . Vinegar Pie . . . Fresh Coconut . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMark that one!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēEgg Custard . . . Fresh Peach . . . Deep-Dish Apple . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēEnough,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said. ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēm only human.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHere it is. Chocolate Pie with Meringue.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēFinish that list, Kavanagh, and Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm out of here.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Ha! Heïĕēïĕēïĕēd denied himself as sternly as one of the Desert Fathers these last weeks; he would have the tiniest sliver of that pie, or else . . .

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI know what youïĕēïĕēïĕēre thinking,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said.

He pulled on his jacket and foraged in the pockets for his knit cap, and kissed her warm mouth.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYou always know what Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm thinking,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said.

His hand was on the doorknob when the phone rang.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēDo try to find a haircut while youïĕēïĕēïĕēre in town,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, picking up the receiver.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYouïĕēïĕēïĕēve got that John-the-Baptist look again. Hello! Meadowgate Farm.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He watched her pause, listening, then grin from ear to ear.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThanks for calling, Joe Joe. Thatïĕēïĕēïĕēs wonderful! Congratulations! Give Puny our love. Iïĕēïĕēïĕēll be over on Thursday. Timothyïĕēïĕēïĕēs headed into Mitford now, Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm sure heïĕēïĕēïĕēll stop by.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo?ïĕēïĕēïĕē he asked, excited as a kid.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēBoys! Weighing in at fifteen pounds total! Thomas and . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē She paused, and looked all- knowing.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThomas and Timothy!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNo!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYes! One named for Punyïĕēïĕēïĕēs grandfather and one named for you. Now there are two little boys in this world whoïĕēïĕēïĕēre named for you, and I hope you realize that people donïĕēïĕēïĕēt go around naming little boys for a bump on a log.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Boys! And because Punyïĕēïĕēïĕēs father was long deceased, he would be their granpaw, just as he was granpaw to Puny and Joe Joeïĕēïĕēïĕēs twin girls.

His entire chest felt suffused with a warm and radiating light.

He turned onto the state road, which had already been scraped for the school buses, and headed south past the Baptist church and its snow-covered brush arbor. He glanced at the wayside pulpit, which was changed weekly.

if loving god were a crime, would you be in jail?

Getting around was a piece of cake. The heavens had given them only a couple of inches, and in a farm truck built like a tank, he felt safe and thoroughly above it all.

Patently envious. Patently envious. What could a bigwig bishop, albeit his oldest friend, envy in a country parson? There it was again, the tape running in a loop and promising to work his mind into a lather.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI roll this whole mystery over to You, Lord,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said aloud, ïĕēïĕēïĕēand thank You for this day!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

In truth, the whole day belonged to him. He would stop by the hospital to see Puny and her new brood; he would run over to Hope House and visit Louella; he would make a noon stop at Lew Boydïĕēïĕēïĕēs Exxon where the Turkey Club was lately convening; he would have a chin-wag with Avis at The Local. . . .

As for getting a haircut, he had no intention of trusting his balding head to Fancy Skinner ever again, period; Joe Ivy had retired from cutting hair and wanted nothing more to do with such a trade; trooping to the barber shop in Wesley would take too much time. So, no, indeed, absolutely not, there would be no haircut on this trip into civilization. The sun broke through leaden clouds and flooded the countryside with a welcome light.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYee hah!ïĕēïĕēïĕē he shouted against the considerable din of the truck engine. Why had he felt so bereft and grumpy only a half hour before, when he was now beginning to feel like a new man?

He switched on the radio to the blast of a country music station; it was golden oldies time.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI bought thïĕēïĕēïĕē shoes that just walked out on me. . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē someone sang. He sang along, hardly caring that he didnïĕēïĕēïĕēt know the words.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēCountry come to town!ïĕēïĕēïĕē he whooped as he drove into Mitford.

Roaring past the Exxon station, he blew the horn twice, just to let the general public know heïĕēïĕēïĕēd arrived.

He bent and kissed her forehead.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWell done,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, a lump in his throat. Two sets of twins! May God have mercy. . . . ïĕēïĕēïĕēTheyïĕēïĕēïĕēre whoppers,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, smiling up at him.

His so-called house help of ten years, and the one whom he loved like a daughter, lay worn but beaming in the hospital bed.

He took her hand, feeling the rough palm that had come from years of scrubbing, polishing, cooking, washing, ironing, and generally making his life and Cynthiaïĕēïĕēïĕēs far simpler, not to mention indisputably brighter. ïĕēïĕēïĕēThank you for naming one of your fine boys after this old parson.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWe wonïĕēïĕēïĕēt call ïĕēïĕēïĕēim by thïĕēïĕēïĕē fancy name. Itïĕēïĕēïĕēll jisïĕēïĕēïĕē be Timmy.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēTimmy. I always liked it when Mother called me Timmy.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēTimmy anïĕēïĕēïĕē Tommy,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, proudly.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēTimmy and Tommy and Sissy and Sassy.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYouïĕēïĕēïĕēll be the boysïĕēïĕēïĕē granpaw, too,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, in case he hadnïĕēïĕēïĕēt considered this.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēItïĕēïĕēïĕēll be an honor to be their granpaw.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēFather?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Since heïĕēïĕēïĕēd officiated at her wedding several years ago, she had taken to calling him by his priestly title in a way that subtly claimed him as her true father. He never failed to note this. Blast, if he wasnïĕēïĕēïĕēt about to bawl like baby. ïĕēïĕēïĕēYes, my dear?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI sure do love you and Cynthy.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

There they came, rolling down his cheeks like a veritable gulley washer. . . .

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd we sure do love you back,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he croaked.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo, howïĕēïĕēïĕēs the food at Hope House these days?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He sat on the footstool by Louellaïĕēïĕēïĕēs rocking chair, feeling roughly eight or ten years old, as he always had in the presence of Miss Sadie and Louella.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēOh, honey, some time itïĕēïĕēïĕēs good, some time it ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt fit for slop.ïĕēïĕēïĕē He noted that Louella said ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt now that Miss Sadie, who forbade its use, had passed on. ïĕēïĕēïĕēYou take thïĕēïĕēïĕē soupïĕēïĕēïĕē thïĕēïĕēïĕē menu has thïĕēïĕēïĕē same olïĕēïĕēïĕē soup on it every day, day after day, long as I been here.ïĕēïĕēïĕē She looked thoroughly disgusted.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhat soup is that?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSoup du jour! If they cainïĕēïĕēïĕēt come up with moreïĕēïĕēïĕēn one soup in this high-dollar outfit, I ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt messinïĕēïĕēïĕē with it.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAha,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMy granmaw, Big Mama, said soup was for sick people, anyway, anïĕēïĕēïĕē I ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt sick anïĕēïĕēïĕē ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt planninïĕēïĕēïĕē to be.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThatïĕēïĕēïĕēs the spirit.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Louella rocked on. The warm room, the lowering clouds beyond the window, and the faint drone of the shopping network made him drowsy; his eyelids drooped. . . .

Louella suddenly stopped rocking. ïĕēïĕēïĕēI been meaninïĕēïĕēïĕē to askïĕēïĕēïĕēwhat you doinïĕēïĕēïĕē ïĕēïĕēïĕēbout Miss Sadieïĕēïĕēïĕēs money?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He snapped to attention. ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhat money is that?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēDonïĕēïĕēïĕēt you remember? I tolïĕēïĕēïĕē you ïĕēïĕēïĕēbout thïĕēïĕēïĕē money she hid in that olïĕēïĕēïĕē car.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēOld car,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, clueless.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIn that olïĕēïĕēïĕē Plymouth automobile she had.ïĕēïĕēïĕē Louella appeared positively vexed with him.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēLouella, I donïĕēïĕēïĕēt have any idea what you mean.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYour memïĕēïĕēïĕēry must be goinïĕēïĕēïĕē, honey.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhy donïĕēïĕēïĕēt you tell me everything, from the beginning.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSeem like I called you up anïĕēïĕēïĕē tolïĕēïĕēïĕē you, but maybe I dreamed it. Do you ever dream somethinïĕēïĕēïĕē so real you think it happened?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI do.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēA while before she passed, Miss Sadie got mad ïĕēïĕēïĕēbout thïĕēïĕēïĕē market fallinïĕēïĕēïĕē off. You know she made good money in that market.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYes, maïĕēïĕēïĕēam, she did.ïĕēïĕēïĕē Hadnïĕēïĕēïĕēt she left Dooley Barlowe a cool million plus at her passing? This extraordinary fact, however, was not yet known to Dooley.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēShe say, ïĕēïĕēïĕēLook here, Louella, Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm goinïĕēïĕēïĕē to put this little dab where those jack legs at thïĕēïĕēïĕē market canïĕēïĕēïĕēt lose it.ïĕēïĕēïĕē I say, ïĕēïĕēïĕēMiss Sadie, where you goinïĕēïĕēïĕē to put it, under yoïĕēïĕēïĕē mattress?ïĕēïĕēïĕē She say, ïĕēïĕēïĕēDonïĕēïĕēïĕēt be foolish, Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm goinïĕēïĕēïĕē to put it in my car anïĕēïĕēïĕē lock it up.ïĕēïĕēïĕē Sheïĕēïĕēïĕēd quit drivinïĕēïĕēïĕē anïĕēïĕēïĕē her car was up on blocks in thïĕēïĕēïĕē garage. She say, ïĕēïĕēïĕēNow donïĕēïĕēïĕēt you let me forget itïĕēïĕēïĕēs in there.ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd?ïĕēïĕēïĕē he asked.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnïĕēïĕēïĕē I went anïĕēïĕēïĕē let ïĕēïĕēïĕēer forget it was in there!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

The 1958 Plymouth had been sitting for several years in the garage behind Fernbank, Miss Sadieïĕēïĕēïĕēs old home on the hill above Mitford. Fernbank was now owned by Andrew Gregory, Mitfordïĕēïĕēïĕēs mayor, his Italian wife, Anna, and his brother-in-law, Tony.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWell, it probably wasnïĕēïĕēïĕēt much,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, reassuring.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWadnïĕēïĕēïĕēt much? It mosïĕēïĕēïĕē certainly was much. It was nine thousand dollars!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNine thousand dollars?ïĕēïĕēïĕē He was floored.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēDonïĕēïĕēïĕēt holler,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she instructed. ïĕēïĕēïĕēYou donïĕēïĕēïĕēt know who might be listeninïĕēïĕēïĕē.ïĕēïĕēïĕē ïĕēïĕēïĕēYouïĕēïĕēïĕēre sure of that amount, Louella?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSure, Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm sure! Miss Sadie anïĕēïĕēïĕē me, we count it out in hunïĕēïĕēïĕēerd dollar bills. How many hunïĕēïĕēïĕēerd dollar bills would that be? I forget.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēUmm, that would be ninety bills.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYessir, honey, it was ninety, it took us ïĕēïĕēïĕētil way up in thïĕēïĕēïĕē day to count them hunïĕēïĕēïĕēerds out, ïĕēïĕēïĕēcause everïĕēïĕēïĕē time we counted ïĕēïĕēïĕēem out, Miss Sadie made us start all over anïĕēïĕēïĕē count ïĕēïĕēïĕēem out agïĕēïĕēïĕēin!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēGood idea,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, not knowing what else to say.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWe got a rubber band and put it arounïĕēïĕēïĕē all them bills, anïĕēïĕēïĕē took out a big envelope and whopped ïĕēïĕēïĕēem in there, anïĕēïĕēïĕē I licked thïĕēïĕēïĕē flap and sealed it up tight as Dickïĕēïĕēïĕēs hat band, so nothinïĕēïĕēïĕē would fall out.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēShe say tïĕēïĕēïĕē me, ïĕēïĕēïĕēLouella, you thïĕēïĕēïĕē best frienïĕēïĕēïĕē I ever had, but you cainïĕēïĕēïĕēt go down there with me, this is between me anïĕēïĕēïĕē thïĕēïĕēïĕē Lord.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThen she struck out to thïĕēïĕēïĕē garage, anïĕēïĕēïĕē when she come back, she was proud as a pup witïĕēïĕēïĕē two tails.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI say, ïĕēïĕēïĕēMiss Sadie, where you put that money in case you pass?ïĕēïĕēïĕē She say, ïĕēïĕēïĕēI ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt goinïĕēïĕēïĕē tïĕēïĕēïĕē pass any time soon, donïĕēïĕēïĕēt worry about it. Sometime later she mention that money; we was livinïĕēïĕēïĕē at Miss Oliviaïĕēïĕēïĕēs olïĕēïĕēïĕē house. She say she ought to go get it out of where she put it, but thïĕēïĕēïĕē market was still real bad.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThen, we both plumb forgot.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThïĕēïĕēïĕēother day I was settinïĕēïĕēïĕē in this rockinïĕēïĕēïĕē chair watchinïĕēïĕēïĕē thïĕēïĕēïĕē soaps anïĕēïĕēïĕē it come to me like a lightninïĕēïĕēïĕē strike. I said, oh, law! Somethinïĕēïĕēïĕē bad goinïĕēïĕēïĕē to happen to Miss Sadieïĕēïĕēïĕēs money, anïĕēïĕēïĕē Miss Sadie, sheïĕēïĕēïĕēll be hoppinïĕēïĕēïĕē mad.ïĕēïĕēïĕē He was dumbfounded by this strange turn of events. As far as what might be done about it, his mind felt oddly pickled.

Louellaïĕēïĕēïĕēs immense bosom heaved with a sense of the urgent mission to be carried forth; she leaned toward him and lowered her voice. ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, ïĕēïĕēïĕēwhat you goinïĕēïĕēïĕē tïĕēïĕēïĕē do ïĕēïĕēïĕēbout Miss Sadieïĕēïĕēïĕēs money?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

On the way to Main Street, he zoomed by their yellow house on Wisteria Lane and found it looking spic, not to mention downright span. Harleyïĕēïĕēïĕēs general supervision of its welfare made it possible to spend this carefree year at Meadowgate.

He threw up his hand and waved.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWeïĕēïĕēïĕēll be back!ïĕēïĕēïĕē he shouted.

He wheeled into Lew Boydïĕēïĕēïĕēs Exxon, still occasionally referred to as the Esso station, and saw the Turkey Club sprawled in plastic deck chairs inside the front window. The lineup included J. C. Hogan, longtime Mitford Muse editor; Mule Skinner, semiretired realtor; and Percy Mosely, former proprietor of the now-defunct Main Street Grill. Heïĕēïĕēïĕēd been hanging out with this bunch for eighteen or twenty years, and it had been a rude awakening when Percy and Velma packed it in last Christmas Eve, vacating a building that quickly became a discount shoe store. Currently occupying the spot where the clubïĕēïĕēïĕēs rear booth had stood was a rack of womenïĕēïĕēïĕēs pumps, sizes eight to ten.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHooboy!ïĕēïĕēïĕē Mule stood and saluted. ïĕēïĕēïĕēHere comes our Los Angelees movie producer.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWho, me?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēPretty soon, youïĕēïĕēïĕēll be whippinïĕēïĕēïĕē that back in a ponytail anïĕēïĕēïĕē wearinïĕēïĕēïĕē a earring.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Father Tim suddenly felt his hair flowing over his shoulders like a medieval mantle.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēCome on, leave ïĕēïĕēïĕēim alone,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Percy. ïĕēïĕēïĕēHeïĕēïĕēïĕēs livinïĕēïĕēïĕē out in thïĕēïĕēïĕē boonies, he donïĕēïĕēïĕēt have to slick up like we do.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIf you call that slicked up, Iïĕēïĕēïĕēm a monkeyïĕēïĕēïĕēs uncle.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHow longïĕēïĕēïĕēre you stuck out there in thïĕēïĕēïĕē sticks?ïĕēïĕēïĕē asked Percy.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHal and Marge will be living in France for a year, so . . . roughly nine more months. But we donïĕēïĕēïĕēt feel stuck, we like it.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI lived in thïĕēïĕēïĕē country when I was cominïĕēïĕēïĕē up,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Percy, ïĕēïĕēïĕēanïĕēïĕēïĕē it like to killed me. They ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt nothinïĕēïĕēïĕē but work on a farm. Haul this, fix that, hoe this, feed that. If it ainïĕēïĕēïĕēt chickens, itïĕēïĕēïĕēs feathers.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAbout time you showed up, buddyroe, my fish sanïĕēïĕēïĕēwich is goinïĕēïĕēïĕē south.ïĕēïĕēïĕē J.C. rooted around in his overstuffed briefcase and came up with something wrapped in recycled foil. Mule sniffed the air. ïĕēïĕēïĕēHow long has that thing been in there?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSeven oïĕēïĕēïĕēclock this morning.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYouïĕēïĕēïĕēre not goinïĕēïĕēïĕē to eat it?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhy not? Thïĕēïĕēïĕē temperatureïĕēïĕēïĕēs just a couple degrees above freezinïĕēïĕēïĕē.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Father Tim noted that the editorïĕēïĕēïĕēs aftershave should effectively mask any offensive odors within, loosely, a city block.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhatïĕēïĕēïĕēd you bring?ïĕēïĕēïĕē Mule asked Percy.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēLast nightïĕēïĕēïĕēs honey-baked pork chop on a sesame-seed roll with lettuce, mayo, and a side of chips.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMan!ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Mule. He expected that anybody whoïĕēïĕēïĕēd owned the Grill for forty-odd years would show up with a great lunch, but nothing like this. He peered into his own paper sack.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo, what is it?ïĕēïĕēïĕē asked J.C., hammering down on the fish sandwich.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI canïĕēïĕēïĕēt believe it.ïĕēïĕēïĕē Mule appeared disconsolate. ïĕēïĕēïĕēFancyïĕēïĕēïĕēs got me on some hoo-doo diet again.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhy is your wife packinïĕēïĕēïĕē your lunch? Youïĕēïĕēïĕēre a big boy, pack your own bloominïĕēïĕēïĕē lunch.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Mule examined the contents of the Ziploc bag. ïĕēïĕēïĕēA sweet potato,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, devastated. ïĕēïĕēïĕēWith no butter.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēA sweet potato?ïĕēïĕēïĕē Percy eyed the pathetic offering with disbelief. ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhat kind of diet is that?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Mule slumped in his chair. ïĕēïĕēïĕēI canïĕēïĕēïĕēt eat a sweet potato; no way can I eat a sweet potato. I feel trembly, I had breakfast at six-thirty and now itïĕēïĕēïĕēs way past twelve.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhatïĕēïĕēïĕēd she give you for breakfast? A turnip?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHard-boiled eggs. I hate hard-boiled eggs; they give me gas.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo, Percy,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Father Tim, unwrapping a ham and cheese on white from the vending machine, ïĕēïĕēïĕēsee what you did by going out of business? Left us all high and dry.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYeah,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Mule. ïĕēïĕēïĕēI was happy with things thïĕēïĕēïĕē way they were.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

J.C. gobbled the remaining half of his sandwich in one bite. ïĕēïĕēïĕēAh guss nobar hurrbowwissonor . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēDonïĕēïĕēïĕēt talk with your mouth full,ïĕēïĕēïĕē snapped Mule, who was digging in his pockets for vending machine change.

J.C. swallowed the whole affair, and knocked back a half can of Sprite. ïĕēïĕēïĕēI guess you turkeys didnïĕēïĕēïĕēt hear the latest about thïĕēïĕēïĕē Witch of thïĕēïĕēïĕē North.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWitch of thïĕēïĕēïĕē South,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Percy, recognizing the nickname, albeit incorrect, for his much-despised former landlord.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēTurns out she said her first clearly understandable word since that big crack on thïĕēïĕēïĕē head in September.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMoney!ïĕēïĕēïĕē exclaimed Percy.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhat about money?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMoney had to be thïĕēïĕēïĕē first word out of that back-stabbinïĕēïĕēïĕē, hardhearted, penny-pinchinïĕēïĕēïĕē . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNow, Percy,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Father Tim.

J.C. glared at the assembly. ïĕēïĕēïĕēDo you want to hear thïĕēïĕēïĕē dadgum story or not?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSay on,ïĕēïĕēïĕē commanded Father Tim.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēEd Coffey was in town yesterday, haulinïĕēïĕēïĕē stuff out of her carriage house up at Clear Day to take down to her Florida place. He said that right before he left, she was sittinïĕēïĕēïĕē in her wheelchair at thïĕēïĕēïĕē window, lookinïĕēïĕēïĕē at birds, and she motioned him to come over. . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Mule looked disgusted. ïĕēïĕēïĕēIf brains were dynamite, Ed Coffey wouldnïĕēïĕēïĕēt have enough to blow his nose!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThen, she motioned ïĕēïĕēïĕēim to come closer. . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

The Turkey Club sat forward.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēEd said instead of all that word salad sheïĕēïĕēïĕēd been talking, she spoke up as good as anybody. . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhatïĕēïĕēïĕēd she say, dadgummit?ïĕēïĕēïĕē Percyïĕēïĕēïĕēs pork chop was stuck in his gullet; if there was anything he disliked, it was the way some people had to be thïĕēïĕēïĕē bride at every weddinïĕēïĕēïĕē and thïĕēïĕēïĕē corpse at every funeral.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYessir, he said he was standinïĕēïĕēïĕē right there when it rolled out, slick as grease.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYou already told us that, you goofball. What was it she said?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

J.C. wiped his perspiring forehead with a wadded-up paper towel. ïĕēïĕēïĕēGet off my bumper,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he snapped at Percy.

The Muse editor sat back in the plastic chair and looked once more at the eager assembly. ïĕēïĕēïĕēShe said God.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēGod?ïĕēïĕēïĕē Percy and Mule exclaimed in unison.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNo way!ïĕēïĕēïĕē Mule shook his head. ïĕēïĕēïĕēNo way Edith Mallory wouldïĕēïĕēïĕēve said God, unless she was tryinïĕēïĕēïĕē to say thïĕēïĕēïĕē word that used to get my butt whipped when I was little.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēRight,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Percy. ïĕēïĕēïĕēNo way.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Yes, thought Father Tim. Yes!

He stopped by the grease pit where Harley Welch was lying on his back under a crew-cab truck.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHarley!ïĕēïĕēïĕē He squatted down and peered at his old friend.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēRevïĕēïĕēïĕērenïĕēïĕēïĕē, is that you?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhatïĕēïĕēïĕēs left of me. Howïĕēïĕēïĕēs it going?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēGoinïĕēïĕēïĕē good if I can git this U joint worked offa here. Whenïĕēïĕēïĕēs our boy cominïĕēïĕēïĕē home?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēTomorrow. Weïĕēïĕēïĕēll catch up with you in a day or two. Did you hear about the twins?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYessir, hitïĕēïĕēïĕēs thïĕēïĕēïĕē big town news. Spittinïĕēïĕēïĕē image of thïĕēïĕēïĕē olïĕēïĕēïĕē mayor, they say.ïĕēïĕēïĕē He laughed. ïĕēïĕēïĕēI guess Lace is coming in?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYessir, sheïĕēïĕēïĕēs wrote me a time or two lately; you know she got that big scholarship.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI heard. Thatïĕēïĕēïĕēs wonderful! By the way, when is the last time you worked on Miss Sadieïĕēïĕēïĕēs car?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēOh, law, thatïĕēïĕēïĕēs goinïĕēïĕēïĕē too far back fïĕēïĕēïĕēr mïĕēïĕēïĕē feeble mind. Letïĕēïĕēïĕēs see, didnïĕēïĕēïĕēt she pass in thïĕēïĕēïĕē spring?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēShe did.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI worked on it sometime before she passed, she was still drivinïĕēïĕēïĕē. I remember she rolled in here one morninïĕēïĕēïĕē, I had to change out ïĕēïĕēïĕēer clutch. Miss Sadie was bad tïĕēïĕēïĕē ride ïĕēïĕēïĕēer clutch.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēDo you know if itïĕēïĕēïĕēs still parked in the garage up at Fernbank?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI donïĕēïĕēïĕēt know if heïĕēïĕēïĕēs sold it. They was some talk Mr. Gregory was goinïĕēïĕēïĕē to restore it. . . . George Gaynor worked on it a day or two, maybe. I cainïĕēïĕēïĕēt hardly recall.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYou pushing along all right with Miss Pringle?ïĕēïĕēïĕē HTlFne Pringle was the piano teacher who rented his house in Mitford, and Harley was his old buddy who lived in the basement.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēLetïĕēïĕēïĕēs jisïĕēïĕēïĕē say Iïĕēïĕēïĕēve heered more piana music than I ever knowed was wrote.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Father Tim laughed. ïĕēïĕēïĕēCome out to the sticks and see us, will you?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI will,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Harley. ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēll bring youïĕēïĕēïĕēuns a pan of mïĕēïĕēïĕē brownies.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēll hold you to it.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHowïĕēïĕēïĕēs Miss Cynthy?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēCouldnïĕēïĕēïĕēt be better.ïĕēïĕēïĕē He stood, hearing the creaking of his knees. ïĕēïĕēïĕēGot to put the chairs in the wagon, as my grandmother used to say, and run to The Local. Regards to Miss Pringle!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He walked to the truck, whistling a tune heïĕēïĕēïĕēd heard on the radio.

There was nothing like a visit to Mitford to get a manïĕēïĕēïĕēs spirits up and running.

He blew through the door of one of his favorite Mitford haunts, the bell jingling behind him.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēI love the smell of book ink in the morning!ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕē he called out, quoting Umberto Eco.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēFather Tim!ïĕēïĕēïĕē Hope Winchester turned from the shelf where she was stocking biographies. ïĕēïĕēïĕēWeïĕēïĕēïĕēve missed you!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd I, you. How are you, Hope?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

She lifted her left hand to his gaze.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMan!ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, quoting Dooley Barlowe.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIt was his grandmother Murphyïĕēïĕēïĕēs. Scott is at a chaplainïĕēïĕēïĕēs retreat this week, he gave it to me before he left.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēOne knee or two?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēTwo!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēGood fellow!ïĕēïĕēïĕē He still felt a sap for having done a mere one knee with his then neighbor.

He gave Hope a heartfelt hug. ïĕēïĕēïĕēFelicitaciones! Mazel tov!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMuchas gracias. Umm. Obrigado!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

They laughed easily together. He thought heïĕēïĕēïĕēd never seen the owner of Happy Endings Bookstore looking more radiant.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI have a list,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, hauling it from the breast pocket of his jacket.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYour lists have helped Happy Endings stay afloat. Thank you a thousand times. Oh, my, thatïĕēïĕēïĕēs a long one.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēItïĕēïĕēïĕēs been a long time since I came in. Tell me, how is Louise liking Mitford?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēll be right back,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said. She hurried to the foot of the stairs and called up for her sister, recently moved from their deceased motherïĕēïĕēïĕēs home place.

Louise came down the stairs at once, fixing her eyes on her feet. Hope took her sister by the arm and trotted her over.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēFather Tim, this is my sister, Louise Winchester.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

With some difficulty, Louise raised her eyes and met his gaze. ïĕēïĕēïĕēSo happy . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said. Hope smiled. ïĕēïĕēïĕēLouise is shy.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI find shyness a very attractive characteristic. Itïĕēïĕēïĕēs as scarce these days as hensïĕēïĕēïĕē teeth.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He took Louiseïĕēïĕēïĕēs hand, finding her somehow prettier than her sister, with a mane of chestnut hair and inquisitive green eyes.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēLouise, weïĕēïĕēïĕēre happy to have you among us, youïĕēïĕēïĕēll make a difference, I know. May God bless you to find your way here, and prosper you in all you do.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He was delighted by her seemingly involuntary, albeit slight, curtsy.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēFather Tim wondered how you like living in Mitford.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

A slow flush came to her cheeks. ïĕēïĕēïĕēIt feels like . . . home.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēLouise is working wonders with our mail-order business and has organized everything from A to Z.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWell done, Louise!ïĕēïĕēïĕē He felt suddenly proud, as if she were one of his own.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHereïĕēïĕēïĕēs Father Timïĕēïĕēïĕēs list. We have only three of the nine. Could you order the others today?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēJust regular shipping,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, noting that Margaret Ann, the bookstore cat, was giving his pant legs a good coating of fur. ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēm about to be covered up, and not much time to read.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēPleased to meet . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē said Louise.

By George, she did it again! If push came to shove, Emma Newland could get a curtsy demo right here on Main Street.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAny plans?ïĕēïĕēïĕē he asked Hope.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWeïĕēïĕēïĕēd like to talk with you about that; weïĕēïĕēïĕēre thinking October, when the leaves change. Would you marry us, Father?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI will!ïĕēïĕēïĕē he vowed.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThough we attend Lordïĕēïĕēïĕēs Chapel, weïĕēïĕēïĕēre hoping to find a little mountain church somewhere. Something . . .ïĕēïĕēïĕē She hesitated, thoughtful.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēSomething soulful and charming?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhy, yes!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēCompletely unpretentious, with a magnificent view?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThatïĕēïĕēïĕēs it!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēll put my mind to it,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said.

He told her about the hospital staff that was blown away by its patientïĕēïĕēïĕēs delivery of a second set of twins; how the boys looked strong, healthy, and uncommonly like their paternal great-grandmother and Mitfordïĕēïĕēïĕēs former mayor, Esther Cunningham; how Louella had apprised him of nine thousand dollars that she thought was hidden in Miss Sadieïĕēïĕēïĕēs car, and that so far, he had no clue what to do about it.

He reported that the snow on the roads was freezing fast; that Edith Mallory had spoken an intelligible, not to mention extraordinary, word for the first time since her grave head injury seven months ago; that J.C. Hogan was wearing aftershave again, for whatever this piece of news was worth; that Avis had given him a considerable bit of advice about perfecting oven fries; that Hope Winchester had an engagement ring and wanted him to marry them; that Louise Winchester promised to be a fine addition to Mitford; and last but certainly not least, that heïĕēïĕēïĕēd seen a crocus blooming in the snow, hallelujah.

He was positively exhausted from the whole deal, both the doing of it and the talking about it; he felt as if heïĕēïĕēïĕēd trekked to another planet and back again.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēGood heavens,ïĕēïĕēïĕē said his wife, ïĕēïĕēïĕēIïĕēïĕēïĕēm worn out just listening.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

And how had her day gone?

Joyce Havner had called in sick.

Violet, the aging model for the cat books his wife was famous for writing and illustrating, had brought a dead mouse into the kitchen.

A pot of soup had boiled over on the stove while she did the watercolor sketch of Violet gazing out the window.

She had handed off the sketch to the UPS driver at one oïĕēïĕēïĕēclock sharp; it was on its way to her editor in New York.

Olivia Harper had called, and Lace was arriving from UVA tomorrow.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēThatïĕēïĕēïĕēs it?ïĕēïĕēïĕē he asked.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēDonïĕēïĕēïĕēt get high and mighty with me, Reverend, just because youïĕēïĕēïĕēve gone to the big city and bagged all the news, and your wife stayed home, barefoot.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He laughed. ïĕēïĕēïĕēMissed you.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēMissed you back,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said, laughing with him.

In the farmhouse library, an e-mail from Father Timïĕēïĕēïĕēs former secretary, Emma Newland, joined the queue.

They had prayed their Lenten prayer, eaten their modest supper, and made the pieïĕēïĕēïĕē which would doubtless improve by an overnight repose in the refrigerator.

Now, they drew close by the fire, to the sound of a lashing March wind; she with Mrs. Miniver and he with The Choice of Books, a late-nineteenth-century volume heïĕēïĕēïĕēd found in their bedroom. He was vastly relieved that sheïĕēïĕēïĕēd made no more mention of his hair, what was left of it.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēListen to this, Timothy.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

Cynthia adjusted her glasses, squinting at the fine print. ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēItïĕēïĕēïĕēs as important to marry the right life as it is the right person.ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAha! Never thought of it that way.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēI considered that very thing when I married you.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhether I was the right person?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēWhether it would be the right life,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd?ïĕēïĕēïĕē

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd it is. Itïĕēïĕēïĕēs perfect for me.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

His wife, who preferred to read dead authors, put her head down again.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēHow dead, exactly, must they be?ïĕēïĕēïĕē he had once asked.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēNot very dead; I usually draw the line at the thirties and forties, before the mayhem began setting in like a worm. So . . . moderately dead, I would say.ïĕēïĕēïĕē

He tossed a small log onto the waning fire; it hissed and spit from the light powder of snow that had blown into the wood box by the door. A shutter on the pantry window made a rattling sound that was oddly consoling.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēAnd hereïĕēïĕēïĕēs something else,ïĕēïĕēïĕē she said.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēThis was the cream of marriage, this nightly turning out of the dayïĕēïĕēïĕēs pocketful of memories, this deft, habitual sharing of two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears. It gave you, in a sense, almost a double life: though never, on the other hand, quite a single one.ïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕēïĕē He nodded slowly, feeling a surge of happiness.

ïĕēïĕēïĕēYes,ïĕēïĕēïĕē he said, meaning it. ïĕēïĕēïĕēYes!ïĕēïĕēïĕē

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