They looked at one another with grave understanding. “I’ll covet your prayers,” said Father Tim.
As the two men sat by the fire and discussed the Newland wedding, Lottie Miller shyly drew up an armchair and joined them. She sat with her eyes lowered to the knitting in her lap.
“Miss Lottie,” said Father Tim, “that was as fine a meal as I’ve enjoyed in a very long time. I thank you for the beauty and the goodness of it.”
“Thank you for being here,” she said with obvious effort. “Absalom and I don’t have supper company often, and I’m proud for my brother to have an educated man to talk with. It’s a blessing to him.”
An educated man! thought Father Tim. It is Absalom Greer who is educating me!
“Take home a peck of our apples.” Lottie handed him a basket of what appeared to be Rome Beauties.
“If you like ’em,” said her brother, “we’ll give you a bushel when you come again!”
“I’m deeply obliged. We have quite an orchard in Mitford, as you may know. Miss Sadie Baxter is the grower of what we’ve come to call the Baxter apple.”
A strange look crossed Lottie Miller’s face.
“Miss Sadie Baxter,” Absalom said quietly. “I once made a proposal of marriage to that fine lady.”
At Home in Mitford, Ch. 14
A BREEZE STIRRED through the open windows of the bedroom, with its high ceiling and cool, hardwood floor. On Miss Sadie’s dressing table, Father Tim saw again the old photos in the silver frames. There was the face of the woman so eerily identical to Olivia Davenport. And the brooding, intense gaze of the young man named Willard Porter, whose grand house had been brought to ruin in full view of the whole village.
Miss Sadie took a deep breath.
“Father,” she said, “what I’m about to tell you has never been spoken to another soul. I trust you will carry it to your grave.”
“Consider it done,” he said, solemnly, sitting back in the slipcovered chair, and finding it exceedingly comfortable.
“I’ve thought many times about where to begin,” she said, folding her small hands and looking toward the open windows. “And while it doesn’t have much to do with the rest of the story, my mind keeps going back to when I was a little girl playing in these apple orchards.
“You’ll never know how I loved the orchards then, and the way the apples would fall on the grass and burst open in the sun. Then the bees would come, and butterflies by the hundreds, and the fragrance that rose from the orchard floor was one of the sweetest thrills of my life.”
She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes, smiling. “Do you mind if I ramble a bit?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“I used to carry my dolls out under the trees. If you walk down the back steps and go straight past the gate and the old washhouse and then turn right—that was my favorite place. Louella’s mother, China Mae, loved to go with me! Why, she played with dolls as if she were a little girl, herself. She was the most fun, so full of life. I was nine when we moved here from Wesley, into the new house Papa built, and China Mae was twenty. She was my very best friend on earth.
“She was so black, Father! I liked to turn her head in my hands to see the light play on her face, to see the blue in the black!
“She used to call me Little Toad. I have no idea why, I’d love to know. But I’ll just have to find that out when I see her in heaven.”
“I hope you’re not planning to find that out anytime soon.”
“Of course not! I’m going to live for ages and ages. I have things to do, you know.”
The clock ticked on the dresser.
“Back then, there was a big house in Mitford, right where the Baptist church stands today. It’s long gone, now, but it was named Boxwood, and oh, it was a pretty place. Miss Lureen Thompson owned that house, she was like me, an only child; her parents both died in a fall from a rock when they were out on a picnic. Their chauffeur was waiting in the car for them to come back, and they didn’t come and didn’t come, and when he went to look…” Miss Sadie shivered. “It was an awful thing, they say, Miss Lureen was so stricken. You know how she tried to get over it?”
He didn’t know.
“Parties! There was always something fine and big going on at Miss Lureen’s. And China Mae and I were always invited to come by and sample the sweets before a party. Her cook was as big as the stove, and her cream puffs were the best you ever tasted, not to mention her ambrosia. I have dreamed about that ambrosia several times. She used to make enough to fill a dishpan, because people took such a fit over it.
“Miss Lureen liked to say, ‘The firefly only shines when on the wing. So it is with us—when we stop, we darken.’ I never forgot that.
“Oh, we all loved Boxwood! It had so many servants hurrying about, and they all seemed so happy in their work. Miss Lureen was good to her people. Why, when her Packard wore out, do you know who she gave it to? Her chauffeur! He fixed it up good as new and drove it back to Charleston when she died.
“His name was Soot Tobin. Black as soot, they said. He was a big, strapping man with a stutter so bad he scarcely ever spoke, but when he did, people listened, colored and white, for his voice was as deep as the bass on a church organ. He made China Mae fairly giddy. ’Most everything he’d say, she’d just giggle and go on, to beat the band. You know, China Mae was not all…well, she never grew up, exactly, which is one reason I loved her so. She was just like me!
“One day I came home from school and I could not believe my eyes what had happened.
“China Mae would never have to play with my baby dolls again, for she had one of her own, just her color. It was lying asleep in the bed with her, and had on a little white gown. My mama was standing by the bed looking at that baby, with tears just streaming down her face.
“‘Sadie,’ she said to me, ‘this is Louella. God has sent her to live with us.’”
Miss Sadie shook her head and smiled at the rector. “Isn’t that a surprise? To come home from school one day, and there’s your second-best friend of life, sent down from heaven?”
He laughed happily. If there was anything more amazing and wonderful than almost anyone’s life story, he couldn’t think what it was.
“Well, I took after that baby somethin’ awful. I rocked her, I bathed her, I pulled her around in a little wagon, I sewed dresses for her, I was as happy as anything to have her to play with and love, and Mama was, too.
“When she got weaned, I started taking her to town. I’d dress her up myself, and they’d say, ‘Here comes Sadie Baxter with that little nigger.’
“I never did like to hear that, even as a child. I wanted Louella to be my sister, I played like she was my sister, and then when I’d go to town, they’d say that. So, I stopped going.
“We stayed home and played and I never did miss going to town. Mama hired a tutor for me, anyway. Mr. Kingsley. I declare, he had the worst bad breath in the world, but he taught the prettiest cursive you ever saw, and was real good at history. Mama ordered off for all my clothes and shoes, and China Mae cut my hair, and we went to the doctor and dentist at Papa’s lumberyard down in the valley. Or, sometimes, the doctors would drive up the mountain to give us our checkups, and Mama would put on a big spread like the president was coming.
“We called it ‘Doctor Day,’ and I didn’t take to it one bit. I would grab Louella and we would run off and hide in the orchard.”
Miss Sadie laughed to herself, with her eyes closed. Father Tim could see that she was watching a movie in which she was both the star and the director. He closed his eyes, too, and quietly slipped his feet out of his loafers.
“When Louella was about three, Mama said she was tired of going off and leaving her and China Mae at home when we marched off to Lord’s Chapel. There were only a dozen or so colored people in Mitford, not enough for a church, I suppose. So, Mama said that from now on, we were all going together, that was what God gave us churches for.
/> “Papa didn’t like this one bit, but Mama would not let up on him. She got down the Bible and the prayer book and without a shadow of a doubt, she showed him what was what.
“So, China Mae and Louella and Papa and Mama and me would walk down the road to the old Lord’s Chapel that stood on the hill. And we would all sit in the same pew.
“If anybody ever once said ‘nigger,’ I don’t know who it was, for they were scared of Papa. I mean, they respected him, not to mention that he gave a lot of money.
“In a little while, it seemed like nobody noticed anymore, it was just the most natural thing on earth. What they said outside the lych-gates, I don’t know, but if China Mae missed a Sunday from being sick, lots of ladies would ask about her.
“Life was better in those days, Father, it really was. When China Mae did the wash in the washhouse, and we put the fire under that big iron pot, why, it was an exciting event. China Mae had joy over making the clothes come clean, while people today would think it was drudgery. We kind of celebrated on wash day. Mama would make a pineapple upside-down cake, and Louella and I would make stickies out of biscuit dough and cinnamon and sugar, and after that big load of work was done, we all sat down and had a tea party.”
A bird called outside the open windows, and a breeze filled the fragile marquisette curtains. Father Tim caught himself nodding off and sat upright with a start.
At Home in Mitford, Ch. 19
HE SPIED THE THING on his counter at once. It was Edith Mallory’s signature blue casserole dish. He was afraid of that.
Emma had written to Sligo to say that Pat Mallory had died soon after he left for Ireland. Heart attack. No warning. Pat, she said, had felt a wrenching chest pain, had sat down on the top step outside his bedroom, and after dropping dead sitting up, had toppled to the foot of the stairs, where the Mallorys’ maid of thirty years had found him just before dinner.
“Oh, Mr. Mallory,” she was reported to have said, “you shouldn’t have gone and done that. We’re havin’ lasagna.”
Sitting there on the farmhouse window seat, reading Emma’s five-page letter, he had known that Edith Mallory would not waste any time when he returned.
Long before Pat’s death, he’d been profoundly unsteadied when she had slipped her hand into his or let her fingers run along his arm. At one point, she began winking at him during sermons, which distracted him to such a degree that he resumed his old habit of preaching over the heads of the congregation, literally.
So far, he had escaped her random snares but had once dreamed he was locked with her in the parish-hall coat closet, pounding desperately on the door and pleading with the sexton to let him out.
Now Pat, good soul, was cold in the grave, and Edith’s casserole was hot on his counter.
Casseroles! Their seduction had long been used on men of the cloth, often with rewarding results for the cook.
Casseroles, after all, were a gesture that on the surface could not be mistaken for anything other than righteous goodwill. And, once one had consumed and exclaimed over the initial offering, along would come another on its very heels, until the bachelor curate ended up a married curate or the divorced deacon a fellow so skillfully ensnared that he never knew what hit him.
In the language of food, there were casseroles, and there were casseroles. Most were used to comfort the sick or inspire the down-hearted. But certain others, in his long experience, were so filled with allure and innuendo that they ceased to be Broccoli Cheese Delight intended for the stomach and became arrows aimed straight for the heart.
In any case, there was always the problem of what to do with the dish. Decent people returned it full of something else. Which meant that the person to whom you returned it would be required, at some point, to give you another food item, all of which produced a cycle that was unimaginably tedious.
Clergy, of course, were never required to fill the dish before returning it, but either way, it had to be returned. And there, clearly, was the rub.
He approached the unwelcome surprise as if a snake might have been coiled inside. His note of thanks, which he would send over tomorrow by Puny, would be short and to the point:
Dear Edith: Suffice it to say that you remain one of the finest cooks in the county. That was no lie; it was undeniably true.
Your way with (blank, blank) is exceeded only by your graciousness. A thousand thanks. In His peace, Fr Tim.
There.
He lifted the lid. Instantly, his mouth began to water, and his heart gave a small leap of joy.
Crab cobbler! One of his favorites. He stared with wonder at the dozen flaky homemade biscuits poised on the bed of fresh crabmeat and fragrant sauce.
Perhaps, he thought with sudden abandon, he should give Edith Mallory a ring this very moment and express his thanks.
As he reached for the phone, he realized what he was doing—he was placing his foot squarely in a bear trap.
He hastily clamped the lid on the steaming dish. “You see?” he muttered darkly. “That’s the way it happens.”
Where casseroles were concerned, one must constantly be on guard.
A Light in the Window, Ch. 1
THE FIRE WAS fairly crackling, and he closed his mind to the fact that its cheer would be short-lived.
“This is neat.”
“Bologna to die for,” he said, picking two thick, browned slices out of the skillet with a fork and putting them on Dooley’s toast. “Eat up, my friend, and don’t hold back on the mustard.” As for himself, he hadn’t tasted such bacon since he was a Scout. He looked at their camp mess spread around the hearth. Not a bad way to live, after all.
The wind had cast torrents of snow against the study windows, where it froze solid, shutting out the light. They might have been swaddled in a cocoon, filled with an eerie glow.
He took a swallow of the coffee that he’d brewed over the fire in a saucepan. “Whose name did you draw at school? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“I drawed ol’ Buster’s name, but I didn’t git ’im nothin’.”
“Why not?”
“I traded for somebody else’s name.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Jenny’s.”
“Aha.”
“Had t’ give ol’ Peehead Wilson a dollar and a half to swap.”
“Not a bad deal, considering.”
“I got ’er a book.”
“A book! Terrific. Best gift out there, if you ask me.”
“About horses.”
“She likes horses?”
“She hates horses.”
“I see.”
“So I got ’er this book so she can git t’ know ’em and like ’em.”
“Good thinking, pal.”
They drew closer to the brightness of the fire.
“You like ol’ Cynthia?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“You love ’er?”
“I…don’t know. I think so.”
“How come you don’t know?”
He really did dislike feeling that he had to have all the answers. “I don’t know why I don’t know! Do you love Jenny?”
Dooley looked forlorn. “I don’t know.”
“One thing’s for sure,” said the rector, “this is the dumbest conversation I’ve heard since the vestry made its new ruling on toilet paper.”
A Light in the Window, Ch. 6
HE WENT UP the hill at Miss Sadie’s request, for an impromptu lunch of collards, navy beans, hot rolls, and fried chicken. “Miss Sadie,” Louella had said over their early breakfast, “we’ve crackered and san’wiched that poor preacher half to death. Let’s give ’im somethin’ can stick to ’is ribs.”
Miss Sadie sniffed. “Fried chicken in the daytime is too heavy if you’ve got work to do. Why not chicken salad?”
“Too much trouble—skinnin’, stewin’, cuttin’ off th’ bone. Besides, I feel a cookin’ spell comin’ on.”
“Oh, dear.” Miss Sadie drew a deep breath. If Louella was
too long discouraged from what she called “real” cooking, she would suddenly take a fit of meal preparation that cost a fortune, the results of which they couldn’t possibly eat at one or two sittings. This meant all the leftovers had to be frozen in a veritable stack of containers. She knew for a fact that loading up the freezer made the refrigerator motor work harder, which reflected on the electric bill.
She tried, however, to be reasonable. She didn’t mind losing a battle or two if, in the larger issues, she might win the war.
A Light in the Window, Ch. 8
* * *
A Partial List of Covered Dishes Brought to the Annual All-Church Thanksgiving Feast
Presbyterians…three turkeys (“whoppers”)
Esther Bolick…two towering orange marmalade cakes
Ray Cunningham…ham (smoked with hickory chips)
Esther Cunningham…bag of Winesaps
Cynthia Kavanagh…two pumpkin chiffon pies
Dooley Barlowe…tray of yeast rolls (still hot from the oven)
Father Tim…pan of sausage dressing and a bowl of cranberry salad
Sophia and Liza…platter of cinnamon stickies
Evie Adams…gallon jar of green beans
Mule and Fancy Skinner…sheet cake from Sweet Stuff Bakery
Dora Pugh…pot of stewed apples (from her own tree)
Plus a spinach casserole somebody forgot to set out
These High, Green Hills, Ch. 3
* * *
“LEG OF LAMB!” exclaimed Cynthia.
“Man!” Sometimes there was nothing else to do but quote Dooley Barlowe.
“And glazed carrots, and roasted potatoes with rosemary.”
“The very gates of heaven.”
“Dearest,” she said, putting her arms around his neck, “there’s something different about you….”
“What? Exhaustion, maybe, from only four hours of sleep.”
She kissed his chin. “No. Something deeper. I don’t know what it is.”
“Something good, I fondly hope.”
“Yes. Very good. I can’t put my finger on it, exactly. Oh. I forgot—and a salad with oranges and scallions, and your favorite dressing.”