She walked past him, unfurling the faintest scent of wisteria on the air. "You said to think of something we could do to celebrate your return."
She went to the stove and lifted the lid on the pot of soup he was making. "Yum," she said, inhaling. Then, she turned to him and smiled. Her eyes were like sapphires, smoky and deep with that nearly violet hue that always caught him off-guard.
"And have you thought about it?" he asked, afraid he might croak like a frog when he spoke.
"They say walls have ears. I'd better whisper it."
He had completely forgotten how easily she fit into his arms.
Going to a town council meeting was decidedly not what he wanted to do with his evening. After two months away, he hardly knew what was going on. And he was still feeling oddly jet-lagged, shaking his head vigorously on occasion with some hope of clearing it. But he would go; it might put him back in the swing of things, and frankly, he was curious why the mayor, Esther Cunningham, had called an unofficial meeting and why it might concern him.
"Don't eat," Esther told him on the phone. "Ray's bringin' baked beans, cole slaw, and ribs from home. Been cookin' all day."
"Hallelujah," he said with feeling.
There was a quickening in the air of the mayor's office. Ray was setting out his homecooked supper on the vast desktop, overlooked by pictures of their twentyone grandchildren at the far end.
"Mayor," said Leonard Bostick, "it's a cryin' shame you cain't cook as good as Ray."
"I've got better things to do," she snapped. "I did the cookin' for forty years. Now it's his turn."
Ray grinned. "You tell 'em, honey."
"Whooee!" said Paul Hartley. "Baby backs! Get over here, Father, and give us a blessin'."
"Come on!" shouted the mayor to the group lingering in the hall, "it's blessin' time!"
Esther Cunningham held out her hands, and the group eagerly formed a circle.
"Our Lord," said the rector, "we're grateful for the gift of friends and neighbors and those willing to lend their hand to the welfare of this place. We thank you for the peace of this village and for your grace to do the work that lies ahead. We thank you, too, for this food and ask a special blessing on the one who prepared it. In Jesus' name."
"Amen!" said the assembly.
The mayor was the first in line. "You're goin' t' get a blessing, all right," she told her husband. "Just look at this sauce! You've done it again, sweet face."
Ray winked at the rector. There, thought the rector, is a happy man if I ever saw one.
"How's your diabetes, Father?"
"It won't tolerate the torque you've put under the hood of that pot, I regret to say."
"Take doubles on m' slaw, then," said Ray, heaping the rector's plate.
"You know what we're here to talk about," said the mayor.
Everybody nodded, except the rector.
"I don't want it to come up in a town meetin', and I don't want it officially voted on, vetoed, or otherwise messed with. We're just goin' to seek agreement here tonight like a family and let it go at that."
She looked at their faces and leaned forward. "Got it?"
Linder Hayes stood up slowly, thin as a strip of baling wire. He placed his hands carefully behind his back, peered at his shoes, and cleared his throat.
"Here goes," said Joe Ivey, nudging the rector.
"Your honor," said Linder.
"You don't have t' 'your honor' me. This is an unofficial meetin'."
"Your honor," said Linder, who was a lawyer and preferred the formalities, "I'd like to speak for the merchants of this town who have to make a livin' out of the day-to-day run of things.
"Now, we know that an old woman dressed up in party hats and gumboots, directin' traffic around the monument, is not a fit sight for tourists, especially with leaf season comin' on.
"You say she's harmless, but that, in fact, is not the point. With her infamous snaggle tooth and those old army decorations, think what she'd look like if she came flyin' out of th' fog wavin' at cars. She'd clean th' tourists out of here so fast it'd make your head swim."
"And good riddance," said the mayor testily.
"Madam Mayor, we've fought this tourist battle for years. We've all moved over to give you plenty of room to do your job, and you've done it. Your faithful defense of what is good and right and true to the character of this town has been a strong deterrent to the rape and plunder of senseless development and reckless growth.
"But..." Under gave a long pause and looked around the room. "Two Model Village awards will not suffice our merchants for cold, hard cash. That ol' woman is enough to make babies squall and grown men tuck tail and run. Clearly, I don't have to make a livin' off tourists, but my wife does—and so, incidentally, do half your grandchildren."
"We're in for it," muttered Joe Ivey. "I should've carried a bed roll and a blanket."
"Linder," said Esther Cunningham, "sit down and take a load off your feet."
"Your honor..."
"Thank you, Linder," the mayor said, measuring each word.
Linder appeared to waver for a moment, like a leaf caught in a breeze. Then, he sat down.
"I'd like us to look at a couple of things before we open for a brief discussion," said the mayor. "First, let's look at my platform. There is no such thing in it as a middle plank, a left plank, or a right plank. It's just one straight platform. Period. Joe, why don't you remind us what it is?"
Joe stood up. "Mitford takes care of its own!" He sat down again, flushed with pride.
"Mitford...takes...care...of...its...own. That's been my platform for fourteen years, and as long as I'm mayor, it will continue to be th' platform. Number one. Miss Rose Watson may be snaggletoothed and she may be crazy, but she's our own. Number two. Based on that, we're goin' to take care of 'er.
"Number three. Directin' traffic around the monument is the best thing that's happened to her since she was a little girl, as normal as you and me. Uncle Billy says she sleeps like a baby now, instead of ramblin' through that old house all night, and she's turned nice as you please to him. Directin' traffic is a genuine responsibility to her. She takes pride in it."
"She does a real good job," said Ernestine Ivory, who colored beet red at the sound of her own voice.
"What's that, Ernestine?" asked the mayor.
"Miss Rose does a real good job of directing traffic. 'Course that's just me..."
"That's just you and a lot of other people who think the same thing. She's very professional. I don't know where in th' world she learned it.
"Now, here's what I propose, and I ask you to consider it in your hearts. Every day from noon to one o'clock, traffic drops off and Mitford eats lunch. My stomach starts growlin' right on th' button, like th' rest of this crowd.
"I propose we let Miss Rose direct traffic five days a week, from noon 'til one, which'll give her just enough cars to keep her happy.
"Now, Linder, I have to hand it to you about those cocktail hats and funny clothes, so I propose we give 'er a uniform. Navy hat, skirt, and jacket from my old days in th' Waves. Be a perfect fit. I was skinny as a rail, wasn't I, doll?"
Ray gave the mayor a thumbsup.
"Ernestine, I want you to go with me to dress her in th' mornin' at ten o'clock, and Joe, how about you givin' her a nice haircut. We'll bring 'er up to your shop about eleven."
"Be glad to."
"Father, I wish you'd make it your business to pray about this."
"You have my word," he said.
"And Linder, honey, I really appreciate the way you're lookin' after the merchants. God knows, somebody needs to. Any questions?"
Before anyone could respond, the mayor pounded her desk with a gavel. "Meeting adjourned. All in favor say aye."
"I declare," said the rector, walking home with Joe Ivey, "every time I go to a meeting with Esther Cunningham, I feel like somebody's screwed my head around backwards."
You'll be coming home to a new Dooley, Marge had written jus
t before he left Ireland. When he read that, his heart sank. He had managed to grow fond of the old Dooley.
He's actually learning to speak English, his friend wrote from Meadowgate Farm. Just wait; you'll be thrilled.
He couldn't say he had been thrilled, exactly, on seeing his twelve year old charge again. First, the cowlick had miraculously disappeared. When he left for Sligo in July, it had been shooting up like a geyser; now, it simply wasn't there, and frankly, he missed it. Then, he noticed that Dooley's freckles appeared to be fading, an upshot that he especially regretted.
He also found a new resoluteness in the boy that he'd only fleetingly glimpsed before, not to mention the fact that he was putting the top back on the catsup and the mayonnaise. How could so much change have taken place in two short months?
"I refuse to take credit," Marge told him on the phone from Meadowgate the morning after his return. "It's all that wonderful spade work you'd already done, laced with a strong dose of cow manure and fresh air. Last weekend, he helped Hal deliver a colt, which was like a shot of MiracleGro to his self-confidence. Furthermore, I'm crushed to tell you that Rebecca Jane took her first step to...guess who? Uncle Dools!"
I have planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the increase, the rector mused as he approached the rectory from the council meeting. Joe Ivey had offered him "a taste of brandy" if he cared to walk up the stairs to the barber shop, but he declined. He could hardly wait to get home and into the old burgundy bathrobe he'd sorely missed in Ireland.
After a quick trip with Barnabas to the Baxter Park hedge, he took a bottle of mineral water from the cabinet, and the two of them climbed the stairs.
"Dooley!"
"Yessir?"
Yessir? He walked down the hall to the boy's room and found him sitting against the head of his bed, reading and absently scratching his big toe. The room seemed remarkably well ordered.
"How's it going?"
Dooley looked up. "Great."
"Terrific." He stood in the doorway, feeling an awkward joy. "What's the book?"
"Dynamics of Veterinary Medicine."
"Aha."
"See this?" Dooley held the book toward him. "It's a picture of a colt being born. That's jis' the way it happened last weekend. It's the neatest thing I ever done...did. I want t' be a vet. Doc Owen said I could be one."
"Of course you can. You can be whatever you want to be." He stepped into the room.
"I never wanted to be anything before."
"Maybe you never saw any choices before."
"I never wanted to be an astronaut or a rock star or anything, like. Buster Austin wants t' be."
"That's OK. Why rush into wanting to be something?" He sat down on the bed.
"That's what I thought." Dooley went back to his book, ignoring him but somehow comfortable with the fact that he was there.
"So, how's Buster?" Only months ago, he and Buster Austin had been the darkest adversaries, with Dooley whipping the tar out of him twice.
"Cool. We swapped lunches today. He likes 'at old meatloaf you make. I got 'is baloney."
"Done your homework?"
"Yessir."
Yessir. It rang in his ears like some foreign language. "How's the science project coming? Are we finishing it up Sunday evening?"
"Yep. You'll like it. It's neat."
Since he came home from Ireland, he'd been peering into Dooley's face, searching it out. Something was different. A wound had healed, perhaps; he was looking more like a boy instead of someone who'd grown old before his time.
It had been nearly a year since Russell Jacks, the church sexton and Dooley's grandfather, had come down with pneumonia and was rushed into emergency treatment. The boy had come home with him from the hospital, and he'd been here ever since.
One of the best things he had ever done was bring Dooley Barlowe home. Yes, he'd been trouble and calamity and plenty of it—but worth it and then some.
"I hear you went to see your grandpa every week. Good medicine."
"Yep."
"How is he?"
"That woman that's lookin' after 'im, she says he's doing good, but he ain't had any livermush since you left..."
"Uhoh."
"And he was riled about it."
"We'll take him some. And I'll see you at breakfast. Has Jenny been around?"
"I ain't into 'at ol' poop, n' more."
The rector grinned. There! he thought. There's my old Dooley.
In his room, Barnabas leapt onto the blanket at the foot of the bed, then lay down with a yawn as the rector stepped into the shower. While the raftered room in the Sligo farmhouse had been perfectly comfortable, the long passage down the hall to the finicky shower was another story entirely. As far as he could see, it might be months before the thrill of his own bathroom, en suite, began to wane.
He felt as mindless and contented as a steamed clam as he sat on the bed and dialed his neighbor.
"Hello?"
"Hello, yourself."
"Timothy!" said Cynthia. "I was just thinking of you."
"Surely you have something better to do."
"I was thinking that my idea of how to celebrate was too silly."
"Silly, yes, but not too silly," he said. "In fact, I was wondering— when are we going to do it?"
"Ummmm..."
"Saturday night?" he asked, hoping.
"Oh, rats. My nephew's coming. I mean, I'm delighted he's coming. You must meet him. He's very dear. Saturday would have been so perfect. Could we do it Monday evening?"
"Vestry meeting," he said.
"Tuesday I have to finish an illustration and FedEx it first thing Wednesday morning. Could you do it Wednesday around six-thirty?"
"Building committee at seven."
"Darn."
"I could do it Friday," he said.
"Great!"
"No. No, wait, there's something on Friday," he said, extending the phone cord to the dresser where he opened his black engagement book. "Yes, that's it. The hospital is having a staff dinner for Hoppy, and I'm giving the invocation. Would you come?"
"Dinner in a hospital? That's suicide! Besides, I can't stand hospitals. I nearly died in one, you know."
"No, I didn't know."
"And I don't know how you ever will know these things unless we can figure out a way to see each other. What about Sunday evening? That's usually a relaxing time for you. Sunday might be lovely."
"I'm helping Dooley finish his science project. He has to hand it in Monday morning." A nameless despair was robbing him of any contentment he had just felt.
"I could meet you on the bench by your German roses at six o'clock tomorrow. We could do it there and get it over with."
But he didn't want to do it and get it over with. He wanted to linger over it, to savor it.
"You're sighing," she said.
"It's just that there's so much going on after being away for two months."
"I understand," she said simply.
"You do? Do you really?"
"Of course I do."
"I'll call you tomorrow. Let's not waste it on the garden bench."
"All that lumpy, wet moss," she said, laughing.
"All that cold, damp concrete," he said forlornly.
"I hope you sleep well." He could hear a tenderness in her voice. "Jet lag really does persist for days."
"Yes. Well. So," he said, feeling immeasurably foolish, "blink your bedroom lights good night."
"I will if you will."
"Cynthia?"
"Yes?"
"I..." He cleared his throat. "You..."
"Spit it out," she said.
He had started to croak; he couldn't have uttered another word if his life depended on it.
"I'm not going to worry anymore about being too silly. Its you, Timothy, who are far too silly!"
His heart pounded as he hung up the phone. He had nearly told her he loved her, that she was wonderful; he had nearly gone over the edge of the cliff, with no ledges
to break his fall.
He went to the window and looked down upon her tiny house. He saw the lights blink twice through the windows of her bedroom under the eaves. He raced around the bed and flipped his own light switch off, then on again, and off.
"Good Lord," he said, breathlessly, standing there in the dark. "Who is the twelve year old in this house, anyway?"
When he called at noon, her answering machine emitted a long series of beeps followed by a dial tone.
He had just hung up when the phone rang.
"Father!" It was Absalom Greer, the country preacher.
"Brother Greer! I was going to call you this very afternoon."
"Well, sir, how bad a mess did I leave for you to clean up?"
"People are still telling me how much they enjoyed your supply preaching at Lord's Chapel. We caught them offguard, you know. I hope it didn't go too hard for you in the beginning."
"The first Sunday was mighty lean. Your flock didn't mind you too good about throwin' their support to an old revival preacher. Then the next Sunday, about halffull, I'd say. Third Sunday, full up. On and on like that 'til they were standin' on the steps.
"If you hadn't come home s' soon, we'd have had an altar call. It was all I could do t' hold it back toward the end."
Father Tim laughed. "You're going to be a tough act to follow, my friend."
"I tried to hold back on the brimstone, too, but I didn't always succeed. 'Repent and be saved!' said John, 'Repent and be saved!' said Jesus. There's the gist of it. If you don't repent, you don't get saved. So, you're lookin' at the alternative, and people don't want to hear that nowadays."
"You'd better prepare your crowd for me when I come out to the country."
Absalom laughed heartily. "That might be askin' the impossible!" He could see the faces of his rural Baptist congregation when they got a load of a preacher in a long dress.
"I've got something for you," said the rector. "I'd like to bring it out one day and hear what another man saw from the backside of my pulpit."
"Just let us know when you're comin'. We'll lay on a big feed."