Growling, huffing, rattling of pots and pans.
“I had to set it on the counter, plus check my beans, I’m havin’ string beans and . . . go get your sock and lie down . . . mashed potatoes with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
“Listen to this. Who just jumped in th’ mayor’s race against Andrew Gregory? You will not believe it. Three guesses! Call me and tell me who you think it is, OK? You will keel over.
“By th’ way, I heard it’s not even hot where y’all are, they say it’s strange th’ way th’ weather’s so cool at th’ beaches this year. Oh, I just remembered you got a big box of somethin’ from Florida at th’ post office, I think somebody sent you grapefruit, do you want me to ship it down there or haul it home with me? Harold loves grapefruit, it would save payin’ postage all th’ way to that island you’re on.
“Speakin’ of Harold, here he comes, he does not like me talkin’ on long-distance.”
Click. Beep.
“Father? Otis Bragg here. Wanted to send you a little present by one of my boys. You like bourbon? Scotch? You name it. How ’bout a little Wild Turkey? Somebody said you like sherry, but I must’ve heard wrong.
“Call my secretary on th’ mainland, two-eight-two-four, and let ’er know, OK?”
Click. Beep.
“Hmmm,” said his wife, puzzling over who had jumped into Mitford’s mayoral race.
“Lew Boyd!” he said. “That’s who I’d guess. Either Lew or Mule Skinner. Mule’s mentioned doing it for years.”
Cynthia furrowed her brow. “Would you like to see Fancy Skinner as first lady of Mitford?”
“It might add a certain . . .” He was at a loss for words.
“I don’t know, I don’t have a clue,” said his wife, who was usually up for guessing games.
“What do you think about . . . no, no way . . . let’s see . . .”
“Or maybe . . . ,” said Cynthia, pondering deeply.
“Then again . . . but I don’t think so.”
“Oh, poop! If you don’t call Emma back, I will!”
They raced into the sitting room and took their chairs. He dialed Emma’s number.
“ Who?” he inquired, when she answered the phone.
“Is this an owl?” asked Emma.
“I guess Lew Boyd!”
“Two more guesses.”
He hated that she always made him do three guesses.
“Mule Skinner!”
“Wrong.”
“J. C. Hogan!” shouted Cynthia, in a burst of supernatural insight.
“Is it J.C.?” asked Father Tim.
“Are you sittin’ down?” inquired his erstwhile secretary.
“We are. Get on with it.”
“Coot Hendrick!”
“Coot Hendrick?”
“He says his great-grandaddy founded th’ whole town, and it’s time he did something that carries on th’ family tradition.”
“I’ll be darned.”
“I personally couldn’t vote for anybody who has stubs for teeth, but he says he’s goin’ to work hard to win.”
“It’s just as well we aren’t there. I don’t think I could go through another mayor’s race,” he said, still not fully over the last one.
While he cooked dinner, his wife sat in the kitchen window seat, looking out but not seeing. She was busy twisting a strand of hair around one finger and humming.
He didn’t have to be as wise as Solomon to know that every time she got that glazed-over look and twisted her hair and hummed, something was up.
The fresh croaker sizzled in the skillet. “Cynthia?”
No reply. Still humming.
Blast. She definitely had that conjuring-up-a-book look. All of which meant she would soon stop riding her bicycle and lash herself to the drawing board for months on end, getting a crick in her neck and feeling grumpy. When people did what they profess to absolutely love, why didn’t they smile and laugh and be carefree and upbeat?
Salt, pepper, a spritz of lemon . . .
Another book would mean this whole beach experience, which might have been relaxing for his overworked wife, would, in fact, be just another nose-to-the-grindstone deal. . . .
“Timothy,” she said, “I’ve been thinking.”
He sighed and flipped the croaker, without breaking it apart. He was getting good at this.
“You know how lovely everyone’s been to us,” she said.
“They have.”
“How they’ve loved us. . . .”
“Right.”
“We must do something that loves them back.”
“Aha.”
She turned to face him, looking fierce. “But not a Primrose Tea!” His wife had worked her fingers to the very bone doing two enormous and successful Primrose Teas in Mitford.
“I don’t think there’s a primrose within two hundred miles of here.”
“Absolutely, positively not a Primrose Tea!” she said.
“I hear you, Kavanagh!”
“It’s killing, you know.”
“No Primrose Tea.”
“Anyway, I’m not sure beach people drink tea. Hot tea, I mean, to go with things like scones or shortbread.”
“I never thought much about it.”
“It seems beach people would be more interested in . . . something cold, like lemonade, or a lovely punch with an ice ring of lime sherbet . . . and maybe lots of fresh fruit in a vast, icy watermelon carved with its own handle, to which we could attach a bouquet of flowers from our little garden. . . .”
“There you go!” Out of the pan, onto the plate, and done to perfection.
“And a beautiful cake, three or four layers with white icing—and wedding cookies, don’t you think? Except they’re so messy, all that powdered sugar falling on your shoes . . .”
“My mouth is watering.” He spooned new potatoes onto the dinner plates, cheek by jowl with the fish. Now a dollop of butter, a sprinkle of fresh parsley . . .
“I think we should have everyone here, not at the parish hall,” she said. “Parishioners like seeing how their priest lives.”
“I’ll help. You can count on me.”
. . . and a dash of paprika, for color. He felt like a heel for thinking his wife was plotting to write a new book and get a crick in her neck when she was, in fact, intent on doing something exceedingly generous for others. Thank goodness he hadn’t opened his big mouth and put his foot in it.
“And I’ll probably try something wonderful with peaches, too, I don’t know what yet, maybe tarts, very small like this.” She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “I hear the peaches are lovely this year!”
“Dinner is served,” he announced, setting the plates on the table. “Come and get it.”
She stared at the plates with surprise. “You angel !” She apparently hadn’t noticed he was making dinner. “Croaker! And new potatoes and fresh asparagus! Oh, Timothy, I’m so glad you can cook.”
“I’m even gladder that you can cook. You have kitchen duty for the next four evenings, I hope you recall.”
“Four? Why four?”
“Meetings,” he said “Choir practice. The Whitecap Fair Planning Commission. The vestry . . .”
“Umm,” she said.
“Umm what?”
“Well, dearest, I’ve been thinking that maybe . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s so beautiful here, and so liberating, even Violet loves it, have you noticed?”
“I have.”
She looked at him in that way he could never resist, with her head tilted slightly to one side and her sapphire eyes gleaming. “I thought I might begin right away . . . working on a new book.”
“Let’s bow in prayer,” he said.
He dialed a number he easily remembered by heart.
“Esther? Is that you?” Esther Bolick didn’t sound like herself.
“What’s left of me.”
His heart ached for his old friends; worse, he felt guilty that he
wasn’t there to go the mile with them.
“How’s Gene?”
“Not good.” He heard Esther sigh. He couldn’t bear it when Esther sighed; Esther was not a sigher, she was a doer.
“We’re praying,” he said, “and believing Gene’s going to be well and strong again. Now tell me about you, Esther, how’re you doing?”
“I went yesterday to pick out my casket.”
“You what?”
“It had to be done sometime. All this with Gene reminded me.”
“Do you think this is the right time, I mean . . . ?”
“When Louise Parker went to Wesley to pick hers out, Reverend Sprouse went with her.”
“Aha.”
“There was nobody to go with me.”
He felt very uncomfortable. It was the guilt again. “What about your interim? Couldn’t he go?”
“Father Hayden? Lord help! He’s so wet behind the ears, he’s still on strained peas and applesauce!”
Father Hayden was forty-five if he was a day. “So what did you pick?” Might as well be upbeat about it.
“Do you know it costs four thousand dollars to get buried in Mitford? Can you believe it? I was goin’ to be cremated, but there’s nothin’ to look at in a jar. I remember when we buried Mama, it was a comfort to see her in th’ casket.”
“Closure,” he said.
“So I picked somethin’ with a nice iv’ry satin lining. I always looked good in iv’ry.”
“I seem to recall that.” He honestly did.
“Then you think you’re through with th’ whole mess, and what happens?”
“What?” He was interested.
“They want to sell you a liner! Some bloomin’ metal thing you drop th’ casket down in, to keep it protected from dirt.” Esther snorted.
Miss Sadie had been very upset about liners, he remembered.
“Anyway, so I got th’ dadblame thing, and now it’s all taken care of and if I kick before Gene, everything’s done, he can put his feet up! I even filled th’ freezer in case I go first.”
He didn’t like this at all. Clearly, Esther was in denial about Gene’s uncertain future; to avoid thinking of his, she was concentrating on her own.
“Lasagna, chicken divan, squash casserole—”
“Esther . . .”
“There’s only only one problem,” said his former parishioner.
“What’s that?”
“I can’t decide what to be buried in. Mama had her outfit hangin’ in th’ closet, ready to go, even panty hose. Course, it hung there so long, th’ dress rotted off th’ hanger and we had to dive in and come up with another outfit at th’ last minute.”
“Umhmm.”
“So yesterday, Hessie came over and helped me go through th’ closet. I laid out my royal blue suit, do you remember my royal blue suit?”
“I think so.” He really did think so.
“But Hessie says it’s too plain. So I laid out my pink dress with the chiffon sleeves. Do you remember my pink dress with the chiffon sleeves?”
“Ah . . . let’s see . . .”
“I wore it to Fancy and Mule’s anniversary party in their basement. It’s Gene’s favorite.”
“Right.” He felt like dropping onto the floor prostrate, and giving up the ghost.
“Well, that’s what we finally decided on. But after Hessie left, it hit me—what if I die in th’ winter?”
He hesitated. “I don’t understand.”
Esther sighed heavily, “Pink is a summer color!”
He gave her what was his only word of wisdom in the entire conversation.
“I recommend you surrender all this to the Lord, Esther. He’ll be glad to take care of everything when the time comes.”
She kissed him goodbye, one of those lingering kisses that he feared might come to a grinding halt when her book began. Seizing the moment, he kissed her back.
“Darling,” she said, brushing his face with the tips of her fingers, “I think you need to take a day off.”
“Why? We just got here!”
“We just got here six weeks ago, and you’ve been working nonstop. I mean, racing across to the hospital twice a week, and teaching adult Sunday School, and setting up the men’s fall prayer breakfast, and working with Reverend Harmon . . .”
“But it all seems like a vacation, somehow.”
“Trust me. You need to take a day off.” She kissed him again, drawing him close in that protective way she sometimes had of making him feel both a man and a child.
He sighed. “I can’t do it today.”
“Rats!”
“But maybe tomorrow. . . .”
“I’ll count on it, dearest.”
Headed for St. John’s, he ran down the steps of the cottage with Barnabas on the red leash.
Another glorious day! If they ever had to pay a price for the ambrosial weather they continually enjoyed, he shuddered to think how steep the cost might be.
Taking out his pocketknife, he stopped at their bed of cosmos and cut several stems for his office bookshelf.
Glory! He gazed at the cumulus clouds scudding overhead, and took a deep breath. The flowers, the everlasting gulls, the patch of blue beyond the dunes—it hit a man in the solar plexus, between the eyes, in the soul.
It was vastly different, this place, from the protected feeling he had in the mountains. There, summer was one long green embrace. Here, it was one long shining, and the sense of endless freedom.
Barnabas suddenly growled, then barked.
Father Tim glanced around for a stray dog or someone walking by. Nothing.
He quickly snipped two more blooms and put the small bouquet in his shirt pocket.
Trotting through the gate and into the narrow lane, he had the strange sense that someone was watching him. He turned to see if Cynthia might be standing on the porch, but she was not.
His parishioners had given him an earful about the uncaring, self-centered, musically gifted choir director who had abandoned his wife and children for St. John’s married organist. Speaking of Jeffrey Tolson, a parishioner had quoted John Ruskin: “When a man’s wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package.”
He had frequently prayed for Jeffrey Tolson, but was unable to dismiss the hardness of heart he often felt when doing it. And, though he’d never laid eyes on St. John’s former choir director, he knew precisely who it was when the tall, blond Scandanavian walked into the church office from the side door.
“Jeffrey Tolson,” said his caller. He stood by the desk, arms crossed.
He couldn’t help but notice that his caller wore leather clogs, and a full-sleeved white shirt in the manner of eighteenth-century poets.
“Jeffrey.” Lord, give me the words, the wisdom, the heart for this, Your will be done. . . .
“I won’t take much of your time.”
He wanted to say, My time is yours, but could not. It was what he always liked to say to parishioners, no matter what the time constraints.
Jeffrey Tolson removed his billfold from a rear pocket. “I’m back in Whitecap for a few days. I wanted Janette to have this.” He withdrew a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Father Tim.
“You can’t give it to her yourself?”
“She’s in no mood to deal with me.”
He looked at the money and had a fleeting vision of punching Jeffrey Tolson in the nose—squarely, no holds barred. Gone eight months and this was the only offering?
“I’ll see that she gets it.”
“I know you think hard of me, most people do. But Janette was no angel to live with. Moody, depressed, demanding. I’m a sensitive man, Father. It was like living with a wet blanket.”
“How was it living with those children of yours?”
Jeffrey Tolson’s face was suddenly hard. “Don’t preach to me.”
“Far from it, Mr. Tolson.”
His heart was pounding, his mouth dry as he stood facing the man who had brought hurt and anger into the m
idst of St. John’s.
Jeffrey Tolson turned and stomped from the office. He jerked open the door to the outside steps, then slammed it behind him.
He awoke to find Barnabas standing by the bed, his black nose barely an inch from his face.
“Don’t let him kid you, Timothy, I’ve already taken him out to the garden.”
He rolled over and put his arm around his wife.
A day off! He’d have to swallow down the guilt before he could get up and enjoy it.
“Timothy . . .” He knew that tone of voice; she could read him like a book.
“Umm?”
“I hear your wheels turning already, clickety-clack! You’re going over all the things you should be doing today at church.”
“Right. You see, we’re working with Marion and her staff to organize and catalog St. John’s library, which means—”
“I’m hoping you’ll rent a bike and go riding with me today.”
Barnabas licked him on the ear and wagged his tail, urgent. His dog was never completely satisfied with Cynthia’s idea of a morning constitutional.
“But first,” she said, “I think you should walk down to Ernie’s after morning prayer and look over his books. You’ve been wanting to do it ever since we came.”
“Ernie’s . . . I don’t know.”
“It’s six-thirty. You could have breakfast at Mona’s and maybe read the paper like you used to do at the Grill . . .”
He had missed that sort of thing.
“. . . then, meet me back here at nine and we’ll go to Mike’s Bikes and—”
“I thought I’d make your breakfast,” he said.
“You’re always looking for something to do for someone.” She stroked his cheek. “It might be good if you spent a little time doing . . . whatever it is that men do.”
What did men do? He’d never figured it out.
He yawned. “The next thing I know, you’ll be packing me off for a day of deep-sea fishing.”
She looked at him and burst into laughter. “How did you guess? I can’t believe it! I just bought you a ticket on Captain Willie’s charter boat!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Little Night Music
At seven a.m., the day was already sultry; forecasts were for ninety-nine degrees by noon.