“He sure does a lot of runnin’ up hill an’ down dale. Seems like he takes notice of every little thing, keeps his eyes an’ ears peeled. . . .”
“Just like Louis L’Amour!”
“I wouldn’t have thought of that,” said Ernie, looking pleased.
He hauled the thing from the box.
“A VCR!” His wife was beaming.
He fetched something from a bag. “Not to mention . . .”
“Peter Pan!” she whooped. “Thanks be to God!”
He fetched something else from the bag.
“Babe! I’ve always wanted to see that.”
“Now I’ve made two people happy,” he said, feeling like a hero.
Jonathan flew ahead of them, running at sandpipers, shouting at gulls, squatting to examine a shell.
The sun had looked out an hour ago, and they agreed they should take advantage of it. Barefoot and holding hands on the wide sweep of rain-soaked beach, he knew that what he’d told Marion and Walter was true—they were happy in Whitecap.
He stooped and picked up an old Frisbee and threw it for Barnabas, who loped along the sand in pursuit. Watching the boy and Barnabas tumble for the Frisbee, something came swimming back to him across time. He was nine years old in Pass Christian, Mississippi, and in love with a dog. He’d completely forgotten, and the sudden memory of that summer took his breath away.
“I can feel your wheels turning,” declared his wife.
“Pass Christian,” he said, as if in a dream. “We drove all the way from Holly Springs to the beach at Pass Christian, it’s on the gulf near Gulfport and Biloxi. A wonderful place.”
“Tell me everything!” she implored.
“It was the year my father decided I should invite a friend on our summer trek; he thought I was too studious, too much a loner. I wanted to take Tommy Noles, but . . .”
“But the Great Ogre refused.”
“Oh, yes. He picked the friend I should take.”
“Who was it?”
“Drew Merritt, the son of my father’s colleague at his law office.”
His wife never liked stories about his father. He should probably keep his mouth shut, but he wanted to talk, he wanted to let go of the constraints he felt he was eternally placing on his memories, on his feelings. If he couldn’t talk freely here by the ocean, which lay perfectly open to the sun and the sky . . .
“Drew wasn’t someone I wanted to spend two weeks with. He was selfish, short-tempered, demanding. I remember we took a jigsaw puzzle of the nation’s Capitol . . . he insisted I do the cherry blossoms and he’d work on the Capitol building. Instead of piece by piece, we worked on it section by section. I didn’t want to do cherry blossoms.”
“But you did them,” she said, “because you’re nice.”
“Nice has its advantages,” he said.
She squeezed his hand. “I love you.”
“I love you back.”
“Finally, after we’d been there a few days, Drew found a crowd to hang with, and I started wandering off on my own. It was a safe place, of course, plenty of kids came and went, reporting in to parents during the course of an afternoon. We stayed at an old hotel, I wish I could remember the name. Anyway, one day I went down to the beach and met . . . a dog.”
She smiled, loving even the simplest of his stories.
“It was a red setter, and he didn’t seem to belong to anyone, though he was certainly no maverick. I remember his coat was long and silky, it shone when it blew in the wind. He was like something from heaven, we connected instantly. Click—just like that, he was mine and I was his.”
“I wouldn’t let Barnabas hear you talking this way.”
He put his arm around her shoulder, laughing.
“No, Jonathan, don’t touch it!” Cynthia cried. The heavy rain had helped the sea disgorge flotsam of great variety.
“We started meeting in the afternoons, I never saw him in the morning. I took a little red ball with me every day and threw it to him. He always brought it back.” He was able to recall his sense of freedom, and the unutterable joy of having, at last, the dog that had long been forbidden at home.
“I named him . . . Mick,” he said, suddenly uneasy with the confession of a time he’d never mentioned to anyone.
“Mick!” she said. “I love that name!”
“I remember the morning we left to go back to Holly Springs.” More than five decades later, his heart could recall the grief of that morning.
“My father decided we should leave a day early, and I . . . hadn’t said goodbye. I took a napkin full of biscuits down to the old house where we usually met, but of course he wasn’t there, it was too early in the day, so I left the biscuits under the steps.”
“I love that you did that.”
“Ah, Kavanagh, what don’t you love?”
“Husbands who can’t talk about their feelings, sand in the bed, and maps that won’t refold properly.”
“Let’s go fold into a rocker on our porch,” he said.
“Yes, let’s!” She turned and gazed at him, then put her hand to his cheek.
“I’d like to remember you just this way . . . every line of your dear face at this moment.”
To his amazement, tears stood in her eyes, and she put her arms around him and kissed him with an odd tenderness.
Jonathan tugged at Cynthia’s shorts.
“I got to poo-poo!” said the boy, looking urgent.
The tropical depression moved north from the Caribbean, hung a left toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina, migrated across Whitecap, and dumped six inches of rain inland to Smithfield. Not a hurricane, thanks be to God, but with severe high winds. On Friday morning, it seemed to relish pausing directly over Dove Cottage and unleashing itself for a full two hours.
He padded around the house in his robe the entire morning, working on his sermon, looking over the music for Sunday, scribbling in his quote notebook, reading whatever came to hand. As thunder rolled and wind howled, Barnabas and Violet hid themselves at various points under chairs and beds. Miraculously, Jonathan slept through much of it, while his wife worked at the end of the hall on her new book.
Oh, the ineffable peace of a house darkened by a storm, and the sound of rain at its windows. Though quite unknown to his Irish genealogy, he thought he must have a wide streak of Scot in him somewhere.
So what if his plans for the evening were dashed? Didn’t all the world lie before them with, God willing, time to celebrate on the beach even without a special occasion?
He sat in his chair in the study and listened to the rain and wind and the beating of his heart.
Bottom line, wasn’t life itself a special occasion?
When the storm abated around six-thirty, they had their anniversary dinner in the kitchen.
Then the entire troop piled onto their bed, Barnabas and Violet at the foot, and Jonathan next to Cynthia, who was propped like a czarina against down pillows.
“And now,” he announced, “a movie . . . in a box!”
He held the video box aloft for all to see.
“Peter Pan!” exulted Jonathan, clapping his hands.
He gave Cynthia a profound look. “You’ll never know what you missed tonight.”
“It’s OK, darling,” murmured his contented wife. “I love Peter Pan!”
They blew through Peter Pan and plugged in Babe, adrenaline up and pumping.
“I’m crazy about this movie!” crowed his wife. “But ugh, I despise that cat.”
“Bad cat!” said Jonathan.
Actually, the cat reminded him of someone. Who was it?
Of course. That cat reminded him of Edith Mallory.
He awoke at two in the morning and listened for the rain. Silence. The storm had passed over, and the room was close and humid.
He went to the window and cranked it open.
The music came in with the sweet, cool breeze that whispered against his bare skin.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Over the Wall
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Answering the loud knock, he looked through the screen door and saw Otis Bragg.
Otis was carrying what appeared to be a half bushel of shrimp in a lined basket. “Cain’t have a party without shrimp!” Otis said, grinning. His unlit cigar appeared to be fresh for the occasion.
“Otis! What a surprise!” Surprise, indeed. His wife would not take kindly to cooking shrimp fifteen minutes before her big tea, and he wasn’t excited about it, either.
“Already cooked, ready to trot. A man over on th’ Sound does these for me, all we do is peel and eat. Where you want ’em set?”
“Thanks, Otis. This is mighty generous of you.” He hastily cleared one end of the table they’d brought out to the porch and draped with a blue cloth.
“Marlene’ll be comin’ along in a minute or two with somethin’ to dip ’em in.” Otis wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Maybe I could get a little shooter at th’ bar?”
“The bar? Oh, the bar! We don’t have a bar. But there’s tea!”
“Tea.” Otis chewed the cigar reflectively.
“Or sherry.”
“Sherry,” said Otis with a blank stare.
“Good label. Spain, I think.” He recalled that Otis had sent him a bottle of something expensive, but couldn’t remember where it was. . . .
“Oh, well, what th’ hey, I pass. Father Morgan always set out a little bourbon, gin, scotch . . . you know.”
“Aha.”
Otis squinted at him. “You raised Baptist?”
“I was, actually.”
“Me, too,” said Otis. “But I got over it.”
“Let me get you a glass of tea. Wait ’til you taste it. You’ll like it, you have my word.” He certainly wouldn’t mention where the recipe came from.
The soprano, no worse for wear from her brief career in Sunday School, shook hands vigorously. “Gorgeous day, Father!
“Glorious!” said Sam Fieldwalker. “Good gracious alive, what a day!”
“The best all summer!” crowed Marion, exchanging a hug with her priest.
Also receiving rave reviews were the flowers, the table, the refreshments, the hostess, and even the straggling garden in which he’d labored the livelong morning.
His dog’s great size garnered a good share of cautious interest, and Jonathan, dressed in a new sailor suit, was busy eluding all prospects of being dandled on knees or pressed to bosoms.
Father Tim had to admit there was a magical air about Dove Cottage this afternoon; he felt as expansive as a country squire. His wife floated around in something lavender, leaving the scent of wisteria on the breeze and making the whole shebang look totally effortless. The truth was, she’d been up since five a.m., cutting flowers and baking final batches of lemon squares while he installed new lace panels in the living room.
“Lace belongs there,” she told him. “It filters the morning light and makes patterns on the floor.” He had nothing but respect for the miracles wrought via UPS.
Cynthia’s workroom was of great interest to the parish children who showed up; eager tour groups processed through the minuscule space, once a large closet, pointing at walls adorned with drawings, book jackets, and—a particular favorite—rough sketches of Violet beneath a beach umbrella. The real Violet positioned herself atop the refrigerator, glowering at anyone who sought her celebrity.
Ella Bridgewater arrived, dressed entirely in black, and looking, he thought, even more like a crane adorning an Oriental screen. She was what his mother would have called “a sight for sore eyes,” coming through the cottage gate with a bright rouge spot on either cheek.
Cynthia trotted their new organist around to various groups convened in the garden. “Penny, I don’t believe you’ve met Ella Bridgewater. Ella, meet Penny Duncan. You’ll have to see the lovely ice mold she made with fresh peppermint.”
“Penny used to be a hippie!” said Jean Ballenger. She proclaimed this as if announcing a former background in brokerage services or marketing. “She grows all their vegetables, raises chickens, and makes goat cheese!”
“Heavenly days!” Ella wagged her head in disbelief. “The cleverest thing I ever made was a cranberry rope for the Christmas tree!”
“Penny once made her own shoes,” Jean continued, causing everyone to look at Penny’s feet, which were shod in pumps for the occasion. “And,” said Jean, ending on a triumphal note, “all her children say yes, ma’am!”
He moved away to join Leonard and Marjorie, who had thumped into two of Marion’s folding chairs by the crepe myrtle and were busily shucking shrimp and tossing shells into the bushes.
If Violet knew what was going on out here . . .
“Seen anything of your neighbor?” asked Leonard.
“I’ve seen precisely nothing of my neighbor! But I certainly hear a good deal of him.”
“We hope he doesn’t make too much racket,” said Marjorie.
“Racket! We enjoy it, actually. He’s an outstanding musician.” Leonard dunked a shrimp into the sauce that appeared to be setting his lemon square afloat. “Some say he could have been a concert organist. I believe he was schooled at Juilliard. But he never liked the spotlight, as you can imagine. He’s a real hermit. I haven’t laid eyes on him in years.”
“His grandaddy once got in Walter Winchell’s column!” said Marjorie. “You remember Walter Winchell?”
“Oh, yes,” said Father Tim, feeling suddenly antiquated. “What did he get in there for?”
“Going out with chorus girls in New York City!”
“Aha.”
“Joan Crawford came to Whitecap to visit the Loves,” Marjorie told him. “And Betty Grable, too, or let’s see . . . maybe it was Irene Dunne!”
“It was Celeste Holm!” Jean Ballenger, who enjoyed moving from group to group, plunked into a chair.
“I never much cared for Celeste Holm, Father, did you?” asked Marjorie.
“I don’t believe I remember Celeste Holm.”
“You see,” said Jean, “I told you Father Tim was younger than we thought.”
He sucked in his stomach. “What age had you thought . . . exactly?”
“Marjorie said going on seventy.”
Seventy!
“Why, Jean Ballenger! I said no such thing! I said with all your wonderful background and experience, Father, you could be going on seventy, but in the end, I guessed you to be sixty!”
“Thank you!” he said.
“Who else used to come down here and visit Redmon Love?” wondered Leonard.
Jean smoothed her bangs, which were going haywire in the humidity. “Somebody said Winston Churchill, but I never believed it for a minute. Mr. Churchill certainly had no time to be lollygagging around Whitecap, what with winning Nobel Prizes and putting out wars all over the place.”
Leonard licked his thumb. “Well, anyway, we heard the family hid Morris whenever the bigwigs came around. They say Morris spent a lot of time in the attic as a boy. Redmon built him a room up there and put an organ in it, a small version of the big one downstairs. Morris was never allowed to play his music when guests were in the house. I guess they didn’t want anybody to know he existed.”
“The terrible meanness of people!” said Jean, pursing her lips. “They ought to have been horsewhipped. But, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ ”
“Did his grandparents raise him, then?” asked Father Tim.
“Pretty much. His parents stayed in Europe most of the time. I went to school with Morris in the fifth or sixth grade, but the kids made it so tough on him, he never lasted to junior high. I’m sure they must have gotten him a tutor.”
“What exactly . . . is his problem?”
“You mean you don’t know?” asked Leonard.
“Not at all.”
“Well, you see—”
“Father!” exclaimed Ella Bridgewater, joining the group. “As I’ve just said to your wife—your party is delightful, and this tea is heavenly. ” She clinked the ice in her glass, look
ing appreciative.
“Well, thank you! As for the tea, I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Marjorie squinted up at the new arrival. “Miss Bridgewater—”
“Call me Ella!”
“Ella, we hear you live on Dorchester Island.” Marion, like the natives, pronounced it Dorster. “Lovely over there, quite remote.”
“Remote isn’t the word for it! I drive ten miles from my little coop by the sea, go over the causeway, come down Highway 20 for fifteen miles, take the bridge to Whitecap, and drive to St. John’s at the north end. It’s a trek and a half.”
“And we thank you for doing it!” said Marjorie. “You nearly took the roof off Sunday. It’s been ages since we heard our old organ give forth such a noise!”
“A joyful noise,” said their priest, wanting no misunderstanding.
“Do come to Dorchester, Father, and bring Cynthia. I’d like nothing better than to behold your faces at my door!”
For the first time, he noticed Ella’s gold brooch—it was in the shape of a hot-air balloon.
“We’d like that. We haven’t seen much of the area since we came.”
“I know how busy your schedule must be with the summer people to shoehorn in, so just pop up whenever—except, of course, Wednesday, that’s when I get my hair washed down at Edna’s. Louise and I would love seeing you.”
“Louise?”
“Louise is my canary. You should hear her sing, Father, you won’t believe your ears!”
“I’m sure!”
“Louise is full of years, as they say in the Old Testament. But the older she gets, the sweeter her voice.”
“Aha.”
“I’ll show you around little Dorchester, it’s like going back in time. You’ll see the oldest live oak on any of these islands, it’s right by my house, and we’ll visit Christ Chapel, it’s hardly big enough to hold the three of us, it has the most glorious rose window above the altar! Then we’ll walk over to the graveyard where Mother is resting. Did I tell you how we buried Mother?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Holding the 1928 prayer book clasped to her heart.”