And what would their teeming household think about such a thing? Oh, well.
“I can handle that,” he said, drawing her close.
“Ron, was there ever any discussion with Miami Development about Fernbank’s apple orchard? There are a hundred and sixty-two trees up there, and all are still bearing.”
“She mentioned the orchard the first time she was here. They’d tear it out. That’s where most of the cottages will be built.”
A small point, but it stung him. Those trees had dropped their fruit into any hand that passed, for years. They had filled Mitford’s freezers with pies and cobblers, and crowded endless pantry shelves with sauce and jelly.
An even smaller point, perhaps, but he noticed that Ron had said “will be built.”
A new day-care program was getting under way at Lord’s Chapel as Buck Leeper’s crew began their invasion of the attic.
Given that the only access to the attic was through the trapdoor over the pulpit, merely getting into the attic was a project.
Under Buck’s supervision, the crew removed stones from the east wall, cut through studs, sheeting, and insulation, installed a new header and a sill, and created a double-door entrance. Until the outside steps could be built, ladders and scaffolding permitted the crew to haul up endless feet of lumber for classroom partitions and a restroom.
It was all going forward exactly as he expected: his very hair, what was left of it, was filled with a fine dust, as were the pews and all that lay below. Kneelers got their share, so that when parishioners wearing black arose from prayer, the fronts of skirts and trousers displayed a clear mark of piety.
Anybody else, he thought, would have retired and left the attic project to the next poor fellow, but he had celebrated and preached beneath the vast, empty loft for sixteen years, dreaming of the day they could fill it with children.
Yes, there’d be the patter of little feet above the heads of the congregation, though measures would be taken to muffle the sound considerably. In any case, it was a sound he’d be glad to hear.
Puny met him at the front door with Sissy on one hip and Sassy on the other.
“Father, I jis’ don’t think I can keep bringin’ th’ girls to work with me, even though I know how much it means to you to have ’em here.” She looked unusually distressed.
He took Sissy and walked down the hall behind his house help.
“Ba!” said the happy twin, bashing him on the head with a plastic frying pan. “Ba!”
“That’s what she calls you, did you know that?”
“Really?”
“That’s your name. When I show her your wedding picture at home, she always says Ba!”
He felt honored. Ba! He’d never had another name before, except Father.
He sat down at the kitchen table and took a twin on either knee, which he immediately geared to the jiggling mode. “I know it’s hard for you trying to work with two little ones . . . .”
“I cain’t hardly get my work done anymore, but I hated to put ’em out to day care, they’ll only be babies once, and I didn’t want . . .” Puny looked close to tears. “I didn’t want to miss that!”
“Of course not! I know it’s a strain for you, but we’ll work with you on it. We’re pleased with all you do, Puny. You’re the best, and always have been.”
Her face brightened. He loved the look of the red-haired, freckle-faced Puny Guthrie, who was like blood kin, the closest thing to a daughter he’d ever have. Besides, who else would clean the mildew off his shoes, wipe behind the picture frames, mend his shirts, bake cornbread deserving of a blue ribbon, and keep the clothes closets looking like racks at a department store? What she was able to do, even with two toddlers in tow, was more than anyone else would do, he was sure of it.
“The church day care will be open next week. Hang on, and if you’d like to put them in for a day or two to see how it goes, well . . .”
“Thank you, Father! You’re a wonderful granpaw. Would you mind holdin’ ’em a minute while I run up and bring th’ laundry down?”
“Mama, Mama!” yelled Sassy.
“Ba!” sighed Sissy, snuggling against him.
He nuzzled the two heads of tousled hair and thought that, all things considered, he was a very fortunate man. He needed challenges in his life . . . But wait a minute, did he need that warm, wet feeling spreading over his left knee?
He had showered, she had bathed in a tubful of scented bubbles; she had laid out his clean robe, he had plumped up the pillows behind her head; they had devoured their chicken with almonds, shrimp with lobster sauce, and two spring rolls.
“What’s your fortune?” she asked, looking discontented with her own.
“I will uncover a surprise and receive great recognition.”
“Poop, darling, you’re always receiving great recognition. Everyone loves you, it’s like being married to the Pope. Here’s mine. ‘Prepare for victory ahead!’ Who writes this stuff?”
“Now,” he urged.
“OK!”
“Close your eyes.”
“I love this part,” she said, putting her hands over her eyes. “Don’t you want me to guess?”
“Absolutely not. We’re going straight to the punch line.”
He trotted to the closet, retrieved the box which Marcie had wrapped in the signature brown paper of Oxford Antiques, and thumped it on the bed next to his wife.
“OK. You can look.”
“A box! I love boxes!”
“Heave to, Kavanagh.”
She tore the raffia bow off, and the paper, and pulled back the tape on top of the box.
He helped remove the writing desk and set it on her lap.
“Timothy!” she whispered, unbelieving.
“Happy birthday, my love.”
No two ways about it, he had hit a home run.
They lay in bed, holding each other, the room warmed by the glow of her bedside lamp.
“You’re wonderful,” he said, meaning it.
She smiled. “But I’m old!”
“Old? You? Never!”
“Just look at these crow’s feet . . . .”
“I don’t see any crow’s feet,” he said, kissing her crow’s feet.
“Father, this is Lottie Greer.”
Lottie Greer—the spinster sister of Absalom Greer, the elderly revival preacher who had loved Sadie Baxter . . .
“It’s Absalom.” He heard the fear in her voice.
“What is it?”
“It’s pneumonia. He wants you to pray.”
“I will, Miss Lottie, and others with me. Shall I come?”
“He said to just pray. There’s fluid in his lungs.”
He told her he was available anytime, that she should let him know what he could do. Then he called Cynthia and the all-church prayer chain.
He had come to love Absalom Greer. The eloquent, unschooled preacher had been a force in his life and those of countless others, including Pauline and Lace. He was among the last of the old warriors who fearlessly confronted the issue of sin, preached repentence and salvation, and pulled no punches when it came to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
Bottom line, the old man was his brother. He would go out on Sunday.
What was he waiting for?
The question was unspoken, but every time he ran into a member of the vestry, he felt the weight of it. Thirty days? For what? Ingrid Swenson didn’t look like somebody who could be bluffed into coughing up two ninety-five after she offered one ninety-eight. But the point was, the property was fully worth two ninety-five, and in his opinion, Miami Development was trying to steal it. To be bluffed themselves was a humiliation not to be suffered lightly.
The answer was, he didn’t know what he was waiting for. He only knew that selling Fernbank to Miami Development was something that didn’t feel right. Maybe it would feel right later—then again, later could be too late.
He hated this, he hated it.
He tried to act nonchalant by pu
ttering in the side garden as they backed out of the driveway. Dooley was lit up like downtown Holding at Christmas, and Harley was generating a few kilowatts himself.
He looked up and waved, and they waved back.
Four-thirty. Dooley had left work a half hour early, and they had promised to be back at the rectory around six.
He looked through the hedge to the little yellow house. A window box needed fixing, the bolt had come loose and the box was hanging whomper-jawed under the studio window.
Too bad that little house didn’t get more use. But one day . . .
He’d better get cracking and have Buck look it over, tell them what to do, help them get started with the additions and renovations. If there was ever a perfect opportunity to get top-drawer input, Buck Leeper was providing it.
He turned to go inside, then stopped and looked at the yellow house again.
By jing!
“But he’ll never be there when you’re there, because when you’re working, he’ll be working.”
“That great big man in work boots and chinos stomping around and picking his teeth? In my house? Goodness, Timothy . . .”
“His company will pay the rent.”
“Do you really think it would be all right?”
“Of course it would be all right. With Buck living there, he’d get to know exactly what we need and how to pull it off, and we wouldn’t have to hire an architect, he can draw it up—and hire the crew.”
She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know . . . .”
“It’s a great opportunity.”
“Consider it done, then,” she said, quoting her priest.
At a quarter ’til six, he was standing at the front door, searching the street. Then he walked out and sat on the top step of the front porch.
“Come out with me,” he called to Cynthia.
She came and sat with him and took his hand.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“Uh-oh.”
“I want to play in that softball game.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I can hit a ball. I can run. I can—”
“You can whistle.”
She put her fingers to her mouth and blew out the windows.
“You’re good, Kavanagh.”
“So hire me.”
“You’re the only female.”
“So far,” she said. “I hear Adele Hogan wants to play.”
“The police officer? J.C.’s wife?”
“She’s the baddest softball player you ever want to see. At least, that’s what she said.”
“J.C. didn’t mention that.”
“He probably thought it was a guy’s game.”
“Well,” he said, “it was . . . .”
At seven o’clock, he was ready to make a search of Farmer, which he and Harley had judged a perfect location for the driving lesson.
But maybe he should call the hospital first. He went to the study to find his cordless.
Cynthia wasn’t worried at all. “Give them another fifteen minutes. It’s a beautiful summer evening . . . .”
“Yes, but Harley knew the curfew, he wouldn’t do this. I’m calling the police.”
Barnabas let out a loud series of barks. As the rector raced up the front hall, he saw Harley standing on the porch. He looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a grizzly.
“Now, Rev’rend, I wouldn’t want you t’ worry . . . .”
He pushed open the screen door. “Where’s Dooley? What happened?”
“Th’ last thing I’d want t’ do is cause you an’ th’ missus t’ worry . . . .”
“Tell me, Harley.”
“No, sir, worry’s not what I’d ever want to’ bring in y’r house . . . .”
“Dadgum it, Harley, I am worried, and will be ’til you tell me what the dickens went on.”
“Well, sir, y’r boy’s fine.”
“Thank God.”
“We crashed m’ truck.”
“No!”
“We did.”
“Who did?”
“Now, I don’t want you t’ worry . . . .”
“Harley . . .”
“Y’r boy did.”
“Good Lord!”
“But hit ’us my fault.”
“You’re sure he wasn’t hurt? Where is he?”
“No, sir, he won’t hurt, but m’ truck was.”
“How bad?”
“Tore up th’ front an’ all.”
“Any damage to your engine?”
“Good as new.”
“How’d you get home?”
“You mean after we hauled it out’n th’ ditch?”
“Yes.”
“You mean after we hauled it out’n th’ ditch an’ had t’ help th’ farmer chase ’is cow back to th’ pasture?”
“What about a cow?”
“That’s what come high-tailin’ ’cross th’ road an’ made th’ boy hit ’is brakes an’ land in th’ ditch.”
“I see.”
The rector glanced toward the driveway and saw Dooley peering at him around a bush.
“I’d sure hate f’r you t’ worry . . . .”
Ha. Worry had just become his middle name—at least until Dooley Barlowe went back to school where somebody else could do the worrying.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Fields Are White
He unlocked the office and went in, feeling an odd foreboding as he raised the windows and turned on the fan. Today’s temperature was nearly what they’d had in Florida.
He heard the bathroom door creak on its hinges and wheeled around. Edith Mallory was standing there in something like a bathrobe.
“Edith . . .”
She smiled and moved toward him, smelling of the dark cigarettes she smoked, untying the sash . . . .
“Timothy!”
He opened his eyes and looked into the face of his anxious wife. “Thank God!” he said, sitting up.
“These dreams you’ve been having . . . it’s scary. What was it this time?”
“I can’t remember,” he lied. Bathed with perspiration, he reached to the bedside table and turned the fan on high.
“That’s better,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Sorry I woke you.”
“Don’t be. I remember the times I used to wake in the night with bad dreams and there was no one to turn to.”
She switched off her bedside lamp and rolled over to him and held his hand.
Soon she was sleeping again, but he was not.
This wasn’t the first dream he’d had of Edith Mallory. He distinctly remembered the one in which he was locked with her in the parish hall coat closet, pounding on the door for help.
While he was in Ireland a couple of years ago, her husband, Pat, had died of a heart attack. When the rector returned home, she had tried every strategy imaginable to seduce and dominate him. Always seeking to entice, always looking at him in a way that made him want to run for the hills, once detaining him overnight at Clear Day, her house on the highest ridge above Mitford.
He recalled the visit to Children’s Hospital, where she gave $15,000 as imperiously as if it were a quarter million, and afterward being trapped in the backseat of her car while she stroked his leg. He had demanded that Ed Coffey, her chauffeur, stop the car, and had jumped from the Lincoln while it was still rolling.
After the miserable wrestling match over the Grill, which she had thumpingly lost, she had gone to Spain and, as far as he knew, hadn’t returned—nor had she sent her annual contribution to Lord’s Chapel. Fine. So be it. It was money he didn’t want, though the finance chairman was certainly anxious about it.
He’d been able to put her out of his mind until someone at the Grill had brought up her name.
Suddenly he was feeling the old contamination he’d felt for years as her eyes roved over him in the pulpit . . . .
Blast.
He rolled on his side and tried to imagine the breeze from the fan was an i
sland trade wind somewhere in the Indian Ocean.
“My wife’s house is nonsmoking. Will that be a problem?” Buck Leeper was known for sucking down two packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day.
“No problem. I’ve cut back, anyhow.”
They walked into Cynthia’s kitchen, where a faint breeze stirred through the open windows.
“The house is small, but—”
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” said the superintendent.
There was a brief silence while Buck looked at his work boots, then directly at Father Tim.
“I appreciate what you did for me.”
The rector nodded, silent.
“I could have killed you, slingin’ th’ furniture around like that.”
He remembered Buck’s drunken violence at Tanner Cottage during the construction of Hope House. Unable to flee, he had sat, praying, as Buck’s torrential anger poured forth for hours.
“Sorry,” Buck said, hoarse with feeling.
“Don’t even think about it.” He hadn’t expected an apology for that long-ago night, but it felt better to have it, somehow. He knew instinctively that Buck didn’t want to say anything more.
“Well . . . you can see how cramped the house is. Built for one, really.”
“What are you lookin’ to do?”
“We’d like to knock out this rear wall and add a large studio with a bank of windows, maybe French doors leading to a patio, perhaps connecting with a two-car garage and extra storage. I know you can help us figure it out.
“Also, we thought it would be good to have a fireplace at that end, possibly of native stone, with bookshelves on either side. Oh, and hardwood floors, of course, with another bathroom adjoining the studio. The only bathroom is upstairs, which reminds me . . .”
This was exciting. His blood was up for it.
“ . . . we’re thinking of widening the stairway, if possible, and building storage closets on the landing, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Since we’re in the kitchen, what would you think about a cooking island, and bay windows looking out to the hedge?”