Father Tim buttered the last of his toast. “Right!”
“Wednesday could be your lasagna day,” said J.C. “I’d pay good money for some lasagna in this town.”
There was a long, pondering silence, broken only by a belch. Everyone looked at Mule. “’Scuse me,” he said.
“Do y’all eat gizzards?” Percy inquired of the table.
“Not in this lifetime,” said J.C.
“No way,” said Mule.
“I pass,” said Father Tim. “I ate a gizzard in first grade, that was enough for me.”
Percy frowned. “I don’t get it. You’re some of my best reg’lars—why should I go to sellin’ somethin’ y’all won’t eat?”
“We’re a different demographic,” said J.C.
“Oh,” said Percy. “So how many gizzards would go in a servin,’ do you think?”
“How many chicken tenders d’you put in a serving?”
“Six,” said Percy. “Which is one too many for th’ price.”
“So, OK, as gizzards are way less meat than tenders, I’d offer fifteen, sixteen gizzards, minimum.”
J.C. sopped his egg yolk with a microwave biscuit. “Be sure you batter ’em good, fry ’em crisp, an’ serve with a side of dippin’ sauce.”
Percy looked sober for a moment, then suddenly brightened. “Fifteen gizzards, two bucks. What d’you think?”
“I think Velma’s going to D.C.,” said Father Tim.
A brief silence was filled with the sound of the dishwasher running full throttle behind the rear booth. Accustomed to its gyrations, the occupants of the booth no longer noticed that the wash cycle occasioned a rhythmic tremor in the floorboards.
“So how do you think your jewel thief will go over?” asked J.C.
“He’s not my jewel thief,” snapped Father Tim.
“It was your church attic he hid out in,” said Percy.
“I think he’ll go over just fine. He’s paid his debt to society in full, but better than that, he’s a redeemed man with a strong faith.”
Silence.
Chewing.
Slurping.
“I hope,” said Father Tim, “that you’ll extend the hand of fellowship to him.” There. That’s all he had to say about it.
Mule nodded. “No problem. It’s th’ right thing to do.”
More chewing.
“So how come you’re not goin’ to Rwanda or someplace like that?” asked Percy.
“Hoppy wouldn’t allow it.” Hoppy would never have considered such a thing. Father Tim knew his limitations and they were numerous.
“What about th’ kids in your own backyard? You ever thought of doin’ somethin’ for them?”
The fact that he’d supported the Children’s Hospital in Wesley for twenty years was his own business; he never talked about it. “Tennessee is our own backyard.” How he ever ended up with this bunch of turkeys was more than he could fathom.
“We’ll miss you,” said Mule, clapping him on the shoulder. “I won’t hardly know what to order around here.”
Father Tim laughed, suddenly forgiving. He thought he might miss them, too, though the possibility seemed a tad on the remote side.
“Here comes Hamp Floyd,” said J.C. “Hide your wallet.”
“What for?”
“Th’ town needs a new fire truck.”
“Seems like a good cause,” said Father Tim. He took out his bill-fold and removed a ten.
“Th’ town’s got th’ money for a standard truck, but Hamp wants a few bells an’ whistles.”
“Aha.”
“Plus, he won’t have anything to do with a red truck,” said J.C.
“Seems like a fire chief would like red. Besides, what other color is there?”
“Yellow. He’s holdin’ out for yellow.”
A yellow fire truck? Father Tim put the ten back in his billfold and pulled out a five.
In This Mountain, Ch. 3
Happy Endings Bookstore
HELEN HUFFMAN, PROPRIETOR
HOPE WINCHESTER, MANAGER
HOPE WINCHESTER CLIMBED the wooden stepladder and, poised on the third rung, cleaned the topmost interior of the bookstore display window with a solution of vinegar and water.
She had considered asking George Gaynor to do the job, since he was so much taller and wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe as she was doing. But she couldn’t ask a Ph.D. to perform a menial task like washing windows.
She was careful not to splash any of the smelly solution onto the display below, which featured stacks of Foggy Mountain Breakdown by Sharyn McCrumb, and other books set in the southern highlands. So far, the third annual Mountain Month at Happy Endings had enjoyed only mild success, even in view of the ten percent discount for every book containing the word mountain in its title. People could get ten percent off anything, anywhere, she concluded. She proposed that next year they offer fifteen percent. In her opinion, fifteen percent was when people started to pay attention.
She raised the squirt bottle with her right hand and fired the solution toward the window, then turned slightly to wipe it down with the paper towel in her left hand.
It seemed as if she were falling in slow motion, like a feather, or perhaps some great hand held her gently, guiding her down and breaking her fall to the floor of the display window, where she landed on an arrangement of Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain in paperback.
“I declare!” said the Woolen Shop’s Minnie Lomax, who was on her way to the post office. “That is the most interesting window display. Very modern. A mannequin lying on books.” She knew Hope Winchester liked to try different things; she had once put a fake cat on a footstool, which caused half the population to stand in front of the window waiting for the cat to move. Though impressively lifelike, it never did, of course, which made some people feel foolish.
Adjusting her bifocals and walking on, Minnie deemed the current display “too New York for this town!”—a criticism she proclaimed aloud, albeit to herself, as she waited for the light to change.
In This Mountain, Ch. 17
AT SIX-THIRTY, Hope Winchester dashed along Main Street under a red umbrella. Rain gurgled from the downspouts of the buildings she fled past and flowed along the curb in a bold and lively stream.
To the driver of a station wagon heading down the mountain, the figure hurrying past the Main Street Grill was but a splash of red on the canvas of a sullen, gray morning. Nonetheless, it was a splash that momentarily cheered the driver.
Hope dodged a billow of water from the wheels of the station wagon and clutched even tighter the pocketbook containing three envelopes whose contents could change her life forever. She would line them up on her desk in the back room of the bookstore and prayerfully examine each of these wonders again and again. Then she would put them in her purse at the end of the day and take them home and line them up on her kitchen table so she might do the same thing once more.
UPS had come hours late yesterday with the books to be used in this month’s promotion, which meant she’d lost precious time finishing the front window and must get at it this morning before the bookstore opened at ten. It was, after all, October first—time for a whole new window display, and the annual Big O sale.
All titles beginning with the letter O would be twenty percent off, which would get Wesley’s students and faculty hopping! Indeed, September’s Big S sale had increased their bottom line by twelve percent over last year, and all because she, the usually reticent Hope Winchester, had urged the owner to give a percentage off that really “counted for something.” It was a Books-A-Million, B&N, Sam’s Club kind of world, Hope insisted, and a five percent dribble here and there wouldn’t work anymore, not even in Mitford, which wasn’t as sleepy and innocuous as some people liked to think.
She dashed under the awning, set her streaming umbrella down, and jiggled the key in the door of Willard Porter’s old pharmacy, now known as Happy Endings Books.
The lock had the cunning possessed only by a
lock manufactured in 1927. Helen, the owner, had refused to replace it, insisting that a burglar couldn’t possibly outwit its boundless vagaries.
Jiggling diligently, Hope realized her feet were cold and soaking wet. She supposed that’s what she deserved by wearing sandals past Labor Day, something her mother had often scolded her for doing.
Once inside, and against the heartfelt wishes of Helen, who lived in Florida and preferred to delay heating the shop until the first snow, Hope squished to the thermostat and looked at the temperature: fifty degrees. Who would read a book, much less buy one, at fifty degrees? As Margaret Ann, the bookstore cat, wound around her ankles, Hope turned the dial to “on.”
The worn hardwood floor trembled slightly, and she heard at once the great boiler in the basement give its thunderous annual greeting to autumn in Mitford.
Shepherds Abiding, Ch. 1
Joe’s Barber Shop
JOE IVEY, PROPRIETOR
JOE IVEY WHIPPED open a folded cape, draped it over Father Tim’s front section, and tied it at the back of his neck.
“I hear you got a convict comin’.”
“He won’t be a convict when he gets here; he’ll be a free man, repentant and eager to join society.”
“That don’t always work.”
“What don’t, ah, doesn’t?”
“That repentance business.”
“It worked for you. How long have you been dry?”
“Four years goin’ on five.”
“See there?”
Father Tim was dead sure he heard Fancy Skinner’s high-heel shoes pecking on the floor above their heads, but he wouldn’t introduce that sore subject for all the tea in China.
Joe picked up his scissors and comb.
“Just take a little off the sides,” said Father Tim.
“It’s fannin’ out over your collar, I’m gettin’ rid of this mess on your neck first.”
“Cynthia said don’t scalp me.”
“If I had a’ Indian-head nickel for every time a woman sent me that message, I’d be rich as cream an’ livin’ in Los Angelees.”
“Why on earth would you want to live there?”
“I wouldn’t, it’s just th’ first big town that popped to mind.”
“Aha.” Father Tim saw a veritable bale of hair falling to the floor.
“Where’s he goin’ to work at?”
“I don’t know. We have a couple of possibilities.”
“You wouldn’t want him to be out of work.”
“Of course not.”
“That’d be too big a temptation.”
“You’re going to like this man. Remember, he made a public confession and turned himself in; he was willing to admit his mistake and spend eight years paying for it. Give him a chance.”
“I don’t know…”
“Ours is the God of the second chance, Joe.”
Joe stood back and squinted at his handiwork, then handed Father Tim a mirror. “Well, there they are.”
“There what are?”
“Your ears. How long has it been since you seen ’em?”
In This Mountain, Ch. 4
The Hair House
FANCY SKINNER, PROPRIETOR
“LORD!” SAID FANCY, who had worked him in between her eleven-thirty trim and twelve o’clock perm. “Look at this mess, it’s cut in three different lengths. I hate to say it, but I hear Joe Ivey gets in th’ brandy, and if your hair’s any proof, his liver’s not long for this world.
“How’s your wife? I’m glad you married her, she’s cute as anything and really young. How much younger is she than you, anyway? Lord, I know I shouldn’t ask that, but ten years is my guess.
“So, what are you givin’ Cynthia for Christmas? Mule’s givin’ me a fur coat, I have always wanted a fur coat, I said, ‘Honey, if you buy me a fur coat at a yard sale, do not come home, you can sleep at your office ’til kingdom come.’ I know it’s not right to wear fur, think of the animals and how they feel about it, but it gets so dern cold up here in th’ winter. Of course, it’s not been cold this winter, they say th’ fleas will be killer this summer.
“D’you want some gum, have some gum, it’s sugarless.
“Speakin’ of sugar, I hear you’re diabetic, how does that affect you? I hear it makes some people’s legs swell or is it their feet? Lord, your scalp is tight as a drum, as usual—you ought to be more relaxed now that you’re married, but of course, some people get more uptight when they tie th’ knot. I bet married people come bawlin’ to you all th’ time, I don’t know how you have a minute to yourself, bein’ clergy.
“My great-uncle is clergy, they handle snakes at his church. Mule says for God’s sake, Fancy, don’t tell that your uncle handles snakes, so don’t say I mentioned it. Have you seen anybody handle snakes, it’s in th’ Bible about handlin’ snakes, but if you have to do that to prove you love th’ Lord, I’m goin’ to hell in a handbasket.
“Oops, I like to poked a hole in you with that fingernail, it’s acrylic.
“How’s Dooley, I hope he don’t get th’ big head in that fancy school. I’ve never been to Virginia, I hear seven presidents were born in that state, I think we had one president from our state, maybe two, but I can’t remember who it was, maybe Hoover, do you think he had anything to do with th’ vacuum cleaner, I’ve always wondered that. Speakin’ of school, they asked me to come to Mitford School and talk about bein’ a hairdresser for Occupation Day, I think I’ll do a make-over, wouldn’t that be somethin’? I’d like to make over th’ principal, that is the meanest school principal in the world! I’d dye her hair blue in a heartbeat, then swing her around in this chair and say, ‘Look at that, Miss Hayes, honey, don’t you just love it, it’s you!’
“See there? Aren’t you some kind of handsome with all that glop cut from over your ears? You looked like you were wearing earmuffs. Oooh, yes! Cute! I’ll just swivel you around so you can look at the back, your wife’ll eat you with a spoon…”
He paid Fancy and reeled out of her shop, his ears ringing. By dodging the Skinners’ driveway and taking the footpath, he was able to avoid the next customer, who merely glimpsed his back as he fled the premises.
These High, Green Hills, Ch. 6
AS FANCY DRAPED him with the pink shawl, he sighed resignedly and closed his eyes.
“Prayin’, are you? You ought to know by now I won’t cut your ear off. Law, I’ve had too much coffee this mornin’, you know I can’t drink but two cups or I’m over the moon, how about you, can you still drink caffeine, or are you too old? Course, your wife is young, she probably can do it, I used to drink five or six cups a day…and smoke, oh, law, I smoked like a stack! But not anymore, did you know it makes you wrinkle faster? I hate those little lines around my mouth worse than anything, but that wadn’t coffee, that was sun, honey, I used to lay out and bake like a chicken.
“Look at this trim! Who did this? I thought Joe Ivey was workin’ at Graceland. Mama, come and look at this, this is what I have to put up with. Father, this is Mama, Mama, he’s a friend of Mule’s, he got married a while back for the first time.
“He preaches at that rock church down the street where they use incense, I declare, Mule and I passed by your church one Sunday, you could smell it comin’ out of th’ chimney! Lord, my allergies flare up somethin’ awful when I smell that stuff, I thought incense was Catholic, anyway, do y’all talk Latin? I had a girlfriend one time, I went to church with her, I couldn’t understand a word they said.
“Your hair’s growin’ like a weed. I hear if you eat a lot of grease, it’ll make your hair grow, you shouldn’t eat grease, anyway, you’ve got diabetes.
“Mama! Did you know th’ Father has diabetes? My daddy had diabetes. Is that what killed him, Mama, or was it smokin’? Maybe both.
“Look at that! Whoever trimmed your hair, you tell ’em to leave your hair alone. You can call me anytime, I’ll work you in. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you—when was it?—I think your pope was here, I gue
ss he don’t always stay at the Vatican, have you ever been to the Vatican? Law, I haven’t even been to Israel, everybody’s been to Israel, our preacher is takin’ a whole group next year, but I’d rather go on a cruise, do you think that’s sacrilegious?”
Out to Canaan, Ch. 7
Mitford Blossoms
JENNA IVEY, PROPRIETOR
AT MITFORD BLOSSOMS, he asked Jenna Ivey for a dozen roses; long-stemmed, without wires, ferns, or gypsophila, please, in a box lined with green paper and tied with a pink satin ribbon.
“Oh, I remember how she likes her roses!” Jenna looked him in the eye, smiling. “And it’s been ages since you’ve done this.”
He blushed. He was still smarting from the dark recognition that he desperately feared being separated from his wife. It had made him feel suddenly weak and frail, like a child. All those years alone, a bachelor who seldom yearned for the hearthstone of a wife’s love, and now…he was a man beset with a dreadful mixture of anxiety and humiliation over the depth of his attachment.
“Make that…” The words lodged in his throat. “Make that two dozen!”
Jenna blinked, unbelieving. She had never known but one other man in Mitford to buy two dozen roses at a whack, and that was Andrew Gregory, the mayor. Every time he and his Italian wife had an anniversary, Mr. Gregory hotfooted it to Mitford Blossoms and laid out cash money, no matter what the going rate.
“Why, Father! Cynthia will think…she’ll think you’ve gone ’round the bend!”
He forced a grin. “And she would be right,” he said.
In This Mountain, Ch. 2
Sweet Stuff Bakery
WINNIE IVEY, PROPRIETOR
HE INHALED DEEPLY as he went in. The very gates of heaven! “Winnie!” he bellowed.
She came through the curtains. Or was that Winnie?
“Winnie?” he said, taking off his glasses. He fogged them and wiped them with his handkerchief. “Is that you?”
“Course it’s me!” she said. Winnie was looking ten years younger, maybe twenty, and tanned to the gills.
“Velma said you brought something back.”
“Come on,” she said, laughing. “I’ll show you.”
He passed through the curtains and there, standing beside the ovens, was a tall, very large fellow with full, dark hair and twinkling eyes, wearing an apron dusted with flour.