The roses had already begun to change the very air in the room with their subtle freshness.
He set the box on his desk. All his life, he had been a fool for roses, and she knew it. Perhaps she had been thinking of him as he had been thinking of her, both of them frightened in their own ways, for their own reasons.
He remembered the plaintive way she had said, "Have I been a good influence?"
Well, of course, she had. She deserved a medal for even recognizing his existence. What was he, after all, when you came down to it, but a country parson? Not tall and trim and debonair like Andrew Gregory, who owned a closetful of cashmere jackets, could speak Italian, French, and a bit of Russian, and drove a Mercedes the size of a German tank.
That she would wear a path through their hedge was wonder enough. But to love him into the bargain? That was supernatural.
He put the roses in the vase, stem by stem, and set it on top of the file cabinet, where the morning sun rimmed their petals with a bright glow.
It was as if a light had come on in the room.
He stopped by the rectory after a noon meeting and found a note from Meg Patrick on the kitchen counter: C Cpersmth rang.
He put Barnabas on the red leash and hurried to the office, thinking how he didn't deserve the roses, not at all. He didn't deserve anything from her, not even the consolation of her voice.
What was wrong with him, anyway, to have thought he loved her, to have felt the certainty of loving her—only to have this frozen impotence grip him?
He had the image of one of Hal's Guernsey cows going up against the new electrical fencing and stumbling back, dazed. The mention of marriage was for him an electrical fence; it was a barrier with its own raw shock through which he could not force himself to go.
Why was he, after all, fearful of marriage? He trusted her completely not to make a fool of him, or wound his pride, or do some sort of damage that he couldn't foreknow.
The trouble was, he kept making a fool of himself, wounding his own pride, and doing his own damage—which always included disappointing her.
When he talked with Katherine on the phone, he had fought to keep his concerns to himself. But, little by little, like grinding a kernel of corn to a fine powder, she had got it out of him.
"Teds, fear is not of the Lord. You know that."
"I know that."
"So who do you think it's of?"
"The Enemy, of course."
"Bingo! If this weren't right in God's opinion, he would put sensible caution in your heart, not paralyzing fear. But until you have peace about it, it can't be right—no matter how right it all looks on the surface. And believe me, it looks very right...at least for you. I don't know about her, of course, but she could probably do a great deal better."
"I don't deserve her honesty," he said.
"Well, of course you don't. You hardly deserve the time of day from her the way you keep yanking her feelings around. But it seems to me this relationship is grace, if it's anything at all, so what's to deserve? The good Lord plunked her down practically on your doorstep, while the single people I've talked with at church go scrambling over hill and dale just to find a dinner companion!"
Katherine could give you an earful, all right.
"I definitely think you should stop moaning about how you don't deserve this or that. Men who're scared silly always say that, thinking they sound gallant or modest. Well, they don't. They sound pompous and artificial."
"Katherine, is this friendly counseling or a bloodletting?"
"You wanted the truth. And the other thing I think is, you need to get out of this retreat mode. Tell her you needed time with the idea of going steady, and you need time with this. Why back off when she's not pushing you? She didn't even ask you to marry her!"
"Yes, well." It was true. Cynthia hadn't asked him, but the implications were...numbing.
"Maybe I should go into the city and take her to lunch."
Good grief! "Please," he implored, "don't even think such a thing." If he thought he was in trouble now...
Hoping to improve his heart rate before he made the call, he ran in place in front of his desk, causing the old building to rumble on its moorings. He thought it sounded like Meg Patrick composing an index to her book.
Stop saying I don't deserve...
Ask for time...
But first, thank her for the roses...
He had broken a light sweat when he sat down and dialed her number.
"Hello?"
"Cynthia?"
"Timothy?"
"Yes."
"What's...up?" she asked.
"Oh, lots of things. A few green leaves on your double hollyhocks..."
"I spoke to your cousin earlier."
"Aha."
"She sounds quite...settled in."
"Yes."
There was a pause that he wanted to dive into but couldn't.
"You're out of breath," she said.
"I've...been running."
"Oh."
"...to thank you for the roses. They're even lovelier than the ones you sent before. I...can't tell you how...I hardly know what to say..." He desperately wanted to say he didn't deserve them, for that was the complete and utter truth.
"Cynthia, you are...so gracious and thoughtful, always..." He could hardly bear to go on. Why had he forgotten to pray before he called? He was positively babbling, "...and so, I thank you again and again. They have transformed this room..."
There was an empty silence on the other end.
"Cynthia? Are you there?"
"Timothy," she said in a voice he hardly recognized. "I didn't send you roses."
"You...?"
"The thought wouldn't have occurred to me," she said in that unfamiliar voice.
He was aware only that his chest hurt.
"Nor will it ever occur to me, Timothy."
After the click and the dial tone, he sat at his desk in an agony he could hardly endure.
The Lord's Chapel bells chimed two o'clock. He had never heard them sound so mournful, as if they were ringing for the dead.
Dazed, he reached into his pocket and removed the small florist's envelope that he'd wanted to save until evening. He drew out the card and read:
Lump benign.
Your prayers worked, as always.
Love, Edith
Dooley had wolfed down his dinner and run upstairs to his homework, leaving the rector to eat alone at the kitchen counter. He hadn't knocked on the guest room door and offered a bite of dinner—frankly, he'd forgotten that anyone else was in the house.
He went to the study and crashed on the sofa, the pain still gripping his chest, when he heard the toilet flush. Immediately afterward, he heard the typewriter.
Thumpetythumpetythumpthumpthump...
She was starting early tonight, about five hours early, by his calculations. Perhaps she was coming out of whatever jet lag she had suffered and returning to a normal schedule. Why jet lag would persist for more than two weeks, he didn't have a clue. Perhaps there was a complication because of some medication she was taking.
Thurnpetythumpthumpthumpthumpety...
Where was the blasted thing sitting, anyway? On the little desk he had inherited with the rectory? Or on the floor? It sounded like she was typing on the floor, which was enough right there to injure someone's back and keep them bedridden for days.
At seven thirty, Dooley apparently finished his homework and turned on the jam box.
Boomboomboornetyboornboomboomthurnpetythumpthumpetythump...
Barnabas stood at the foot of the stairs, howling, while the rector sat on the sofa, frozen.
His sandwich had turned to a rock in his digestive system.
He stared at the wooden tray in his lap and the stationery on which he'd written two words.
Dear Cynthia...
"Cousin Meg!" At nine o'clock, he banged on the door like a federal agent, striving to be heard over the din.
"What is it?" she finally answered.
/>
"Come to the door, please. I'd like to have a word with you."
There was a long pause. "Righto."
After what seemed an eternity, she opened the door a full two inches and pressed her face to the opening. "What is it?" she said in the voice that slightly resembled the lower octaves of a french horn.
"I must tell you that your typewriter sounds like a construction crew working up here. Could you move it onto another surface, please?"
"Righto," she said, shutting the door.
"Whoa! Wait up. Open the door!"
She turned the knob and peered through the crack.
"Look here. I think you need to be getting around, getting some fresh air. I've had an idea. I'll wake you at six in the morning and we'll have breakfast at our Grill on Main Street. You'll meet a lot of interesting people, very likely some Potato Famine descendants. No need to dress. It's casual."
He turned on his heel toward the stairs.
"I can't possibly. I have a schedule I must keep to," she called after him.
He didn't turn around. "Haven't we all? I expect you to be dressed and ready at seven—I'll knock at six."
When he knocked, she didn't answer.
"Cousin Meg!" He could wake the dead when he put his mind to it.
He heard the bedsprings creak. "It's six o'clock!" he shouted. "I'll fetch you at seven!"
Silence.
He'd just looked in the refrigerator and found the squash casserole that Puny had made for the weekend. It appeared that a family of raccoons had gotten hold of it. Worse than that, her fresh lemon curd had been reduced to leftovers.
At seven o'clock, he was knocking again.
No answer.
"Cousin Meg! Either you come out or I'm coming in!" Blast if the words didn't roll out of their own accord, and he meant every one of them.
He heard her stomp across the floor as if she were wearing combat boots.
She opened the door and slipped through sideways, then closed it, locked it, and dropped the key in her pocket.
"Good morning, Cousin," she said, pushing her hair behind her ears.
On the sidewalk at the Grill, they met Buck Leeper. "Mr. Leeper, my cousin, Meg Patrick."
"Pleased," she said, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her trench coat.
The Hope House superintendent nodded and flipped his cigarette over the curb. "Miss Patrick."
"Things are looking good on the hill," said the rector.
"Not good enough."
Leeper sauntered through the door ahead of them and went to his table at the window.
The rector greeted the Collar Button and Irish Woolen crowd who were sitting at the counter. He felt every head in the place turn as they walked to the rear booth.
After Velma poured their coffee, Percy came around, wideeyed with curiosity. "Percy, meet my cousin, Meg Patrick. From Ireland."
"Ireland, is it?" Percy peered into the booth as if into a cage containing a rare panda. "Mule Skinner claims t' be Irish."
"We're distantly related to Skinners," she said, adjusting her bifocals. "Very distantly."
"This one ain't so distant. Here he comes now. How d'you like your eggs?"
"Fried," she said, "and a broiled tomato."
"A what?"
"A broiled tomato." Saying "tomahto" did not cut it with Percy Mosely.
"Grits or hash browns is all we got." Percy appeared to say this through his teeth.
"Are your hash browns freshly peeled and cut, or are they...packaged?"
Father Tim stirred his coffee, though there was nothing in it to stir.
"Packaged, like every other hash brown from here t' California."
"Is your cooking oil saturated?"
"You better believe it."
"Just eggs, thank you, and wholewheat toast. Unbuttered."
"Better have you some of Percy's good sausage t' go with that," said Mule, slipping into the booth.
Please don't say it, thought the rector. But, of course, she did.
"I eat flesh foods only on Sunday."
Percy Mosely would not let him forget this anytime soon.
Puny stopped by the office the next morning to pick up her check. "Here," he said, handing her the vase full of roses, "take these home."
"Law, they're beautiful! Who give you these?"
"Whangdo."
"Whangwho?" He didn't answer.
"Sometimes, I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"You aren't the only one," he said. She thought she'd never seen such a strange look on his face.
Where was the brooch? The cleaners hadn't turned it up. He had searched the entire room, including the closet, on his hands and knees, not to mention every pocket and drawer.
It was maddening. After all, if something so important could slip away so easily, what else might disappear or run to neglect because of his carelessness? There was the rub.
He was finding scant peace in his own home these days.
Puny was cleaning every blind, curtain, cornice, and shade on the premises, so the rectory could hardly be visited for lunch.
Half the seventh grade was ringing his phone in the evenings to get Dooley's help with their math homework.
And last, but certainly not least, his cousin had turned his home into a hotel, with food vanishing as if into a bottomless pit.
He could remember the time when there was no one here but himself, when the very ticking of the clock could be heard.
Who could hear a clock tick above the din of a Royal manual, a jam box with twin speakers, a vacuum cleaner, a washing machine, a ringing phone, and a toilet that flushed over his head every time he tried catching a nap on the sofa?
It occurred to him that all the people coming and going under his roof, other than himself, were redheads. He wondered if that could have anything to do with it.
"We are not necessarily doubting," said C.S. Lewis, "that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be."
He had spent an hour on his knees, asking for the best, believing in the best, thanking God in advance for the best. No, he didn't doubt that God would do the best for her and for him. But yes, he was wondering how painful the best might be.
At the office, he typed a note to go out with the morning mail.
Dear cynthia
flowers were thankoffering from parishioner who tho't she might have cancer, asked for prayer, and discovered all is well, sorry for mixup.
i know this is a distant relative note but am meeting with adult Sunday school teachers in five mins. Will write long letter soon.
He stared at what he had written and then typed:
I think of you.
Not knowing what else to say, he took the note from his typewriter and signed it by hand.
With love,
Timothy
He didn't add that no one had ever hung up on him before.
"Knock, knock!" said Puny, pushing the door open. "I had to go to Th' Local to git cornmeal. I'm bakin' you a cake of cornbread tonight."
"Hallelujah!" Puny allowed him this sterling indulgence once a month. Golden brown, steaming on the inside and crying out for butter, Puny Bradshaw's cornbread could win a blue ribbon at the state fair.
"I want to ask you somethin'." She sat on the visitors' bench, holding the grocery bag in her lap.
"Shoot."
"You know I said th' washroom always looks j is' like I leave it? That's 'cause it is like I leave it. Your cousin ain't usin' it." She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.
"Ummm."
"The question is, three weeks on th' same sheets? An' how many changes of underwear do you reckon she has in there, anyway?" From the look on her face, the thought was appalling.
"Well..."
"An' when does she bring 'er dishes down, for another thing?"
"The middle of the night?"
"I suppose you know she shoves 'em in the dishwasher whether th' stuff in there is clean or dirty.
I found a clean load settin' in there with a dirty plate an' glass an' silverware."
"Ah," he sighed.
"For another thing, where does she empty 'er wastebasket?"
"Good question. I don't know."
"Not in th' bag under the sink, I can tell you that. An' not in th' garbage cans in th' garage."
She let him ponder that.
"I'm makin' you a nice, lean roast tonight, an' I intend to stay there 'til you git home, or there might not be a bite left, if you git my meanin'."
He hated to say it. "Don't worry. She eats flesh foods only on Sunday."
Puny shook her head, disgusted.
He might have walked into a graveyard for the odd silence that hung over the Grill on Wednesday morning.
Over the years, he'd gotten used to the noise in the place, hardly noticing it. Now, he noticed the lack of it.
He was ready for Percy to give him plenty of heat about his cousin, but Percy looked up from taking an order and didn't even acknowledge that he'd come in.
He sat in the rear booth, strangely anxious. Yesterday morning, he had breakfast with Dooley, skipping the Grill. What had he missed? Was something going on that he hadn't heard about?
He turned around and looked at the door. Where was Mule? Where was J.C? He heard only forks against plates and shoe leather against bare floors, as if the Grill were observing a wake.
Velma poured his coffee, wordless.
"Has somebody...died?"
"I wish," she said curtly, taking the pot to a nearby table.
He might have been a tourist for all they cared.
J.C. slammed into the booth, throwing his briefcase in the corner. He thought how the editor's red face was not a good sign along with sixty pounds of extra weight. "I hope you been on your knees," he growled.
"About what?"
J.C. stared at him, wideeyed. "You don't know what's goin' on?"
"I don't have a clue."
"Edith Mallory has stuck it to Percy with a hoe handle." He wiped his perspiring face with a muchused handkerchief. "That's who owns this place, in case you didn't know. Kicked up his rent..."