Go in new life with Christ, he said silently, wondering at the strangely familiar thought.
Go, and be as the butterfly.
At Home in Mitford, Ch. 24
Puny Bradshaw’s Wedding
HE HAD NEVER before given away a bride.
That the bride was Puny Bradshaw supplied one of the great joys of his life.
He walked down the aisle of First Baptist Church as if on air and could not take his eyes off the lovely creature at his side. Every freckle sparkled, and under the little hat she wore, every curl of red hair seemed to glow.
As he stepped away from her at the altar, he briefly took her hand and felt the shocking roughness of it. This hand had mopped his floors, scrubbed his toilets, ironed his shirts, made his beds, cooked his meals, paired his socks, and fed his dog. He might have sunk to his knees on the spot and kissed it.
“Now we’re related!” Esther Cunningham said, loud enough to be heard to the monument.
“Mayor,” he said, “we’ve always been related. Philosophically.”
When Puny marched into the reception in her enchanting dress, he had to gulp down his emotions. She flew to where he was standing with the Baptist minister and hugged him warmly.
“Father!” she said.
Father! He heard the name in a way he’d never heard it before.
I may have missed the boat in that department, he thought, but not, thank God, altogether.
A Light in the Window, Ch. 20
Cynthia and Dooley Are Confirmed
HE FELT A great swelling in his heart as he watched them come toward the altar.
His thoughts flashed back to the first time he’d seen Dooley Barlowe—barefoot, unwashed, looking for a place to “take a dump.”
Today, he was seeing more than a boy wearing a new blazer and an uncontrollable grin. He was seeing a miracle.
Cynthia came behind Dooley, beaming, wearing the pearl and amethyst brooch. Cynthia! Another miracle in his life.
The candidates for confirmation were presented to the bishop by Hal and Marge Owen, who stood with them throughout the ceremony.
The sight of Stuart Cullen laying his hands on their heads, and praying the centuries-old prayer for God’s defense, spoke to him more deeply than he expected.
In fact, the only thing that kept him from bawling like a baby was the sudden realization that he’d forgotten to bring the platter for the ham.
A Light in the Window, Ch. 20
Olivia and Hoppy’s Wedding
AS OLIVIA DAVENPORT walked down the aisle on the arm of Dr. Leo Baldwin, the wedding guests gawked as shamelessly as tourists at a scenic overlook.
No one had ever seen anything like it in Mitford—a successful heart-transplant recipient who looked like a movie star, a famous heart surgeon from Boston, Massachusetts, and a wedding gown that would be the talk of the village for months, even years, to come.
This wedding, as someone rightly said, was “big doings.”
If the wedding of Dr. Walter Harper and Olivia Davenport was big doings, the doings that followed at Fernbank were bigger still.
People turned out merely to see the long procession of cars snaking along Main Street and up Old Church Lane.
“Is it a weddin’ or a funeral?” Hattie Cloer, who owned Cloer’s Market on the highway, was being taken for a Sunday afternoon drive by her son. Her Chihuahua, Darlene, sat on Hattie’s shoulder, with her head stuck out the window.
“Looks like a funeral,” said her son. “I seen a long, black deal parked in th’ church driveway.”
“Oh, law,” said Hattie, “I hope it’s not old Sadie Baxter who’s keeled over. This is her church, you know.”
“I hear she had a United States president at her house one time.”
“President Jackson, I think it was, or maybe Roosevelt,” said Hattie.
Entering Fernbank’s ballroom was like entering another world.
No one stepped across the threshold who didn’t gasp with amazement or joy or disbelief, so that the reception line was backed up on the porch and down the steps and across the circle drive. No one minded standing on the lawn, some with their heels sinking into the turf, for they’d heard that a marvelous spectacle awaited inside.
Quite a few had never been on the lawn at Fernbank and had only seen the rooftop over the trees. They’d heard for years the place was falling to ruin, but all they saw was some peeling paint here and there, hardly worse than what they had at home.
Not a soul was untouched by the enchantment of it, and the skirted tables on the lawn, and the young, attractive strangers in black bow ties who smiled and poured champagne and served lime-green punch and made them feel like royalty.
Enormous baskets of tuberoses and stephanotis and country roses and stock flanked the porch steps, pouring out their fragrance. And through the open windows, strains of music—Mozart, someone said—declared itself, sweetening the air all the way to the orchards.
Uncle Billy Watson stood near the end of the line and straightened his tie. “Lord have mercy!” he said, deeply moved by the occasion. He gave Miss Rose a final check and discovered he’d missed the label that was turned out of her collar. He turned it in.
Absalom Greer felt an odd beating of his heart. Where had more than sixty years gone since his feet came down those steps and he drove away with Sadie Baxter in her father’s town car, believing with all his heart that she would be his bride?
Hessie Mayhew did not wait in line. She marched up the steps and across the porch and slipped in and found a chair and claimed her territory by dumping her pocketbook in it.
Then she took out her notepad and pen. After all, she was not here to have a good time; she was here to work. She had finally talked J. C. Hogan into letting her do something besides the gardening column.
The reception line alone had been an emotional experience for the rector. When he met her, Olivia Davenport had been dying, and he had, with his own eyes, witnessed her agonizing brush with death. Now, to see her beauty and to feel her joy…it was another miracle in a string of miracles.
Hoppy Harper clasped his hand and held it for a long moment. Working as a team, they had pitched in and prayed for Olivia, and it would bind them together for life.
But perhaps what he was feeling most deeply of all was this strange, new sense of family as he moved through the line with Cynthia and Dooley. He felt a connection that was beyond his understanding, as if the three of them were bound together like the links of a chain.
It was a new feeling, and he was intoxicated by it even before he got to the champagne.
Esther Bolick had made the wedding cake, which was displayed on a round table, skirted to the floor with ivory tulle and ornamented with calla lilies.
“A masterpiece!” he said, meaning it.
Esther was literally wringing her hands, looking at it. “I declare, I’ve never done anything this complicated. I was up ’til all hours. Three different cakes, three layers each—it looks like the Empire State Buildin’ on that stand the caterers brought.”
“What do you think of the other masterpiece in the room?”
“Law, I haven’t had a minute to look around. Where?”
“Up there.”
Esther looked up and gasped. “Who painted that?”
“Leonardo and Michelangelo.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“I do mean it!” he said.
Once again, he went to the windows that faced the circle drive and looked out. Planes were always late, weren’t they?
And then he saw the taxi coming up the drive, and he went out quickly and hurried down the steps and was there to greet the tall, dark, gentle man who was Leonardo Francesca’s grandson.
Sadie Baxter came off the dance floor in her emerald-green dress, on the arm of Leo Baldwin. Leo retrieved her cane and gave it to her as she turned and saw the man walking into the ballroom.
There was an astonished look on her face, and the rector went to her at
once, wondering if the shock might…
But Miss Sadie regained her composure and held out her hand to the young man and said, wonderingly, “Leonardo?”
Roberto took her hand and kissed it. “I am Roberto, Leonardo’s grandson. My grandfather salutes your beauty and grace and deeply regrets that he could not come himself. He has made me the emissary of a very special message to his childhood friend.”
The rector was enthralled with the look on her face, as she waited eagerly to hear the message that had come thousands of miles, across nearly eighty years.
“My grandfather has asked me to say—Tempo è denaro!”
Roberto smiled and bowed.
No one had ever seen Sadie Baxter laugh like this; it was a regular fit of laughter. People drew round, feeling yet another pulse of excitement in a day of wondrous excitements.
“Does he,” she said, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief, “still like garden peas?”
“Immensely!” said Roberto.
Miss Sadie reached again for Roberto’s hand. “Let’s sit down before we fall down. I want to hear everything!”
“Miss Sadie,” said the rector, “before you go…what does tempo è denaro mean, anyway?”
“Didn’t I tell you? It means ‘time is money’!”
“Is this heaven?” asked Cynthia as they danced.
“Heaven’s gates, at the very least.”
“Everyone loves you so.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes,” she whispered against his cheek. “Everyone.”
“That’s a tough act to follow,” he said, his heart hammering.
“You were the one who brought Roberto here.”
“Yes. I didn’t say anything to you because I wanted to…I wasn’t sure we could pull it off. I called Florence for his grandfather, who answered but had forgotten all his English. He handed the phone to his son, who knew a bit of English—and then Roberto, whose English is flawless, called me back.
“I said, ‘Please, if you could do it, it would give great joy.’ And Roberto said, ‘My grandfather’s life has been spent in giving joy. I will come.’
“I had tickets waiting at the airline counter in Florence, and here, thanks be to God, is Roberto.”
“It’s the loveliest gift imaginable.”
“Miss Sadie is so often on the giving end…”
“How long will he be with us?”
“Only a few days. We’ll have Andrew step in for a glass of sherry while he’s here. They can rattle away in Italian, and we’ll do something special for Miss Sadie and Louella. Roberto will occupy my popular guest room. Of course, there’s no Puny to give a hand, but we’ll manage.”
“I’ll help you,” she said.
He pressed her hand in his. “You always help me.”
As the eight-piece orchestra played on, he saw the room revolve around them in a glorious panorama, bathed with afternoon light.
He saw Absalom Greer laughing with Roberto and Miss Sadie.
He saw Andrew Gregory raise a toast to the newlyweds, and Miss Rose standing stiffly with a smiling Uncle Billy, wearing her black suit and a cocktail hat and proper shoes.
He saw Buck Leeper standing awkwardly in the doorway, holding a glass of champagne in his rough hand, and Ron and Wilma Malcolm trying to lure him into the room.
There was Emma wearing a hat, and Harold looking shy, and Esther Bolick sitting down and fanning herself with relief, and Dooley Barlowe walking toward Miss Sadie, who was beaming in his direction.
He saw Winnie Ivey taking something fancy off a passing tray, her cheeks pink with excitement, while J. C. Hogan conferred with Hessie Mayhew next to a potted palm.
And there was Louella, in a handsome dress that brought out the warmth of her coffee-colored skin, dancing with Hal Owen.
The faces of the people in the sun-bathed panorama were suddenly more beautiful to him than heavenly faces on a ceiling could ever be. Let the hosts swarm overhead, shouting hosannas. He wanted to be planted exactly where he was, enveloped in this mist of wisteria.
“Man,” said Dooley, as they came toward him off the dance floor, “you were sure dancin’ close.”
“Not nearly close enough,” said Cynthia, looking mischievous.
“Dooley, why don’t you dance with Cynthia?” Dooley, who was unable to imagine such a thing, paused blankly. Seizing the moment, Cynthia grabbed Dooley and dragged him at once into the happy maelstrom on the dance floor.
He who hesitates is lost! thought the rector, grinning.
“Mrs. Walter Harper?”
“The very same!”
“May I kiss the bride?”
“I’ll be crushed if you don’t.”
He kissed her on both cheeks and stood holding her hands, fairly smitten with the light in her violet eyes. “You’re a great beauty, Mrs. Harper. But there’s even greater beauty inside. I won’t say that Hoppy is a lucky man, for I don’t believe in luck, but grace. May God bless you both with the deepest happiness, always.”
“Thank you. May I kiss my priest and friend?”
“I’ll be crushed if you don’t.”
She kissed him on both cheeks, and they laughed. “I’ve never been so blessed and happy in all my life. A wonderful husband, a loving and doting aunt…and this glorious room that I know was done just for us. How can one bear such happiness?”
“Drink deeply. It’s richly deserved.”
“I hope you’ll soon be doing this yourself, Father.”
“This?”
“Getting married, sharing your life.”
“I don’t know if I could…”
She looked at him, smiling but serious. “Don’t you remember? Philippians four-thirteen, for Pete’s sake!”
A Light in the Window, Ch. 20
The Annual All-Church Feast (Thanksgiving, Lord’s Chapel)
THE ANNUAL ALL- CHURCH FEAST, convening this Thanksgiving Day at Lord’s Chapel, was drawing its largest crowd in years. Villagers trooped across the churchyard hooting and laughing, as if to a long-awaited family reunion.
It was one of his favorite times of the year, hands down.
People he saw only at the post office or The Local were, on this day, eager to give him the details of their gallbladder operation, inquire how he liked married life, boast of their grandchildren, and debate the virtues of pan dressing over stuffing.
This year, the Presbyterians were kicking in the turkeys, which were, by one account, “three whoppers.”
Esther Bolick had made two towering orange marmalade cakes, to the vast relief of all who had heard she’d given up baking and was crocheting afghans.
“Afghans?” said Esther with disgust. “I don’t know who started such a tale as that. I crocheted some pot holders for Christmas, but that’s a far cry from afghans.”
Miss Rose Watson marched into the parish hall and marked her place at a table by plunking her pocketbook in a chair. She then placed a half dozen large Ziploc plastic containers on the table, which announced her intent to do doggie bags again this year.
Ray Cunningham came in with a ham that he had personally smoked with hickory chips, and the mayor, who had renounced cooking years ago, contributed a sack of Winesaps.
Every table in the Lord’s Chapel storage closets had been set up, and the Presbyterians had trucked in four dozen extra chairs. The only way to walk through the room, everyone discovered, was sideways.
Cynthia Kavanagh appeared with two pumpkin chiffon pies in a carrier, Dooley Barlowe followed with a tray of yeast rolls still hot from the oven, and the rector brought up the rear with a pan of sausage dressing and a bowl of cranberry relish.
Sophia and Liza arrived with a dish of cinnamon stickies that Liza had baked on her own. Handing them off to her mother, she ran to catch Rebecca Jane Owen, who had grown three new teeth and was toddling headlong toward the back door, which was propped open with a broom handle.
Evie Adams helped her mother, Miss Pattie, up the parish hall steps
, while lugging a gallon jar of green beans in the other arm.
Mule and Fancy Skinner, part of the Baptist contingent, came in with a sheet cake from the Sweet Stuff Bakery.
And Dora Pugh, of Pugh’s Hardware, brought a pot of stewed apples, picked in August from her own tree. “Get a blast of that,” she said, lifting the lid. The aroma of cinnamon and allspice permeated the air like so much incense from a thurible.
In the commotion, George Hollifield’s grandchildren raced from table to table, plunking nuts and apples in the center of each, as Wanda Hollifield came behind with orange candles in glass holders.
In his long memory of Mitford’s All-Church Feasts, the rector thought he’d never seen such bounty. He thought he’d never seen so many beaming faces, either—or was that merely the flush from the village ovens that had been cranked on 350 since daybreak?
The face he was keeping his eye on, however, was Dooley Barlowe’s.
Following the regimental trooping to the dessert table, someone rattled a spoon against a water glass. No one paid the slightest attention.
Somebody shouted “Quiet, please!” but the plea was lost in the din of voices.
Esther Bolick stepped to the parish hall piano, sat down, and played the opening bars of a ragtime favorite at an intense volume.
A hush settled over the assembly, except for the kitchen crew, which was lamenting a spinach casserole somebody forgot to set out.
“Hymn two-ninety!” announced the rector, as the youth group finished passing out song sheets. “And let me hear those calories burn!”
Esther gave a mighty intro, and everyone stood and sang lustily.
Come, ye thankful people, come
Raise the song of harvest home
All is safely gathered in
Ere the winter storms begin
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied
Come to God’s own temple, come
Raise the song of harvest home.