At Home in Mitford (10 page)

She sat quietly for a moment, as if she had to summon the memory from a very long distance. “I was sixteen years old when Mama and Papa allowed me to study in Paris,” she began.

“Oh, they didn’t want me to, not a bit. But Uncle Haywood talked them into it, saying Mitford was just a jumping-off place, that I’d never learn anything worthwhile in Mitford. Wasn’t that dreadful of him?

“So off I went with Mama, who was going to take me and spend a month or two near the academy before she came back home. I remember to this day what I was wearing when we left. It was a cream-colored lawn with a georgette bodice worked with seed pearls. And the waist was tied with satin ribbons. Oh, it was lovely!

“Papa took us down to Charleston to catch the boat. Mama and Papa and I all cried the whole way. We just held on to each other and bawled, because my papa was never afraid to shed a tear, he had the tenderest heart, and he was trying so hard to do what was right.

“And so we got on that old boat, and I had the worst sinking feeling. Why, we never even left the dock ’til we were so overcome with homesickness that we nearly threw ourselves overboard.”

“Oh, law!” said Uncle Billy, deeply moved.

“But there were such interesting people on that boat! My, what a collection, and they just took on over me, calling me sweet names and inviting us to eat at their table.

“So by the time I reached Paris, I had quit crying, and I just marched into that academy, and started talking the worst old Southern drawl French you ever heard, why, they nearly fell down laughing at me.

“There was one other girl from home, from Virginia, and I stuck to her like bark on a tree. Mama had to live in this house nearby and could only see me on weekends and every Wednesday. She was so lonesome, and she could only say,
‘Oui, oui’
and she’d never spent a single night away from Papa.

“Well, I started learning to watercolor, and recite poetry, and play the pianoforte, and do needlework, and study ancient history, and I don’t know what all. They just wanted to make me so fancy! And you know, all I dearly wanted to do was be plain.

“Can you imagine a girl with every privilege in the world, just wanting to be plain? I knew it would be a disappointment to Papa, and to Mama, too, and the heck with Uncle Haywood! I wanted to be back in Mitford, picking up walnuts, and playing in my dollhouse at Fernbank, and sewing doll clothes, and helping China Mae in the kitchen, and going barefooted under the apple trees with Louella.

“The very first Wednesday, Mama and I were so glad to have our freedom that we both just went skipping down the lane that led to the pastry shop.

“And while we were in there, Mama let me drink real coffee. Oh, it was the thickest, strongest, blackest stuff you ever could imagine! I just loved it! I thought, if Paris, France, was a taste instead of a city, this would be it!”

Miss Sadie’s bright eyes appeared to be looking far away. Marge thought this was like opening an old book and reading a fairy tale with faded watercolor illustrations.

“While we were sitting there, we heard this voice. And we looked up, and there was this . . . this handsome young American man, buying a pastry and a cup of coffee.

“ ‘Listen to him talk!’ said Mama. ‘Why, he sounds like he could be from Mitford!’

“He was with another young man, oh, they were so handsome and young and carefree, and they were laughing, and it was just music to our ears.

“Mama never met a stranger in her life, although most people thought she was dignified. She just held out her pretty hand to him and said, ‘Young man, where are you from?’

“And he said, ‘Mitford, North Carolina, ma’am, United States of America.’ ”

Miss Sadie’s audience murmured with amazement.

“I’ll never forget how proudly he said that, just like it was the best place on earth. Which, of course, it is,” she said, beaming.

“Amen!” Emma fairly thundered.

“He had just moved to Mitford with his family and baby sister from Tennessee, and he was in Paris to show some of his pharmaceutical inventions. Well, I could go on and on, but he invited Mama and me to have dinner with him that very evening, and he gave us his card and all, and Mama felt sure he was a gentleman.

“Every Wednesday after that, he met us for pastry and coffee, and sent flowers to Mama and me, to her rooms in the little pension.”

Miss Rose ate a piece of cubed ham and some Havarti from her pocket. Barnabas had gone to sleep, and the doctor, worn from months of unrelieved strain in his growing practice, snored quietly in the wing chair.

“One day, I said, ‘Mama, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I just hate this place and everything about it. When I watercolor a dog, it looks exactly like an owl, I am still playing “Three Blind Mice” on the pianoforte, and my French is atrocious. I just want to go home and be plain Sadie.’

“Do you know what my mama said? She said,
‘Oui, oui!’

“When the young man learned we were leaving, he sent a dozen yellow roses to Mama and a dozen red roses to me. There was a note attached to mine, which said: ‘Someday when I have made my fortune, I would like to ask you to marry me.’

“So we went home, and Papa met us, and I never spoke another word of French in my life. And to this day,” she paused and looked around, “I’ve never forgotten that handsome young man from Mitford.”

Marge leaned forward. “For heaven’s sake, Miss Sadie, who was he, anyway?”

Miss Sadie looked straight at Miss Rose Watson, whose cocktail hat had tipped forward at a rakish angle.

“That young man,” Miss Sadie said, “was Miss Rose’s brother, Willard Porter.”

Hal, Marge, and Miss Sadie lingered after the others had gone, eating Belgian chocolates. “I’ve been very, very good all week in order to do this,” Marge explained, looking only slightly sheepish as she took another piece off the tray.

The rector had regained his wing chair and put his feet up. “Miss Sadie, in the years I’ve known you, you’ve always been a very private person. Why did you tell us that wonderful version of your Paris story tonight?”

Miss Sadie reflected on this. “When I brought you that painting, it started something. I started thinking about things I’d never thought about before. And I decided I was tired of holding on . . . holding on to my orchard, holding on to my possessions, holding on to my memories.

“I have decided,” she said firmly, “to start letting go. And that’s one reason I’d like to see you next Thursday for lunch at noon, if you can come, Father.”

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Swanson’s chicken pie?”

“My favorite!” declared her weary, but enthusiastic host.

At one o’clock in the morning, having refused all offers of help, he put away the last dish and went upstairs, thankful that tomorrow was Saturday.

He felt certain there was more to Miss Sadie’s story about Willard Porter, but he was even more certain of something else: Considering this party from beginning to end, from the initial idea to the last dried dish, it had occupied exactly six weeks of his life. And while he’d had a wonderful evening, and so had everyone else, he was certain that he didn’t want to do this again for a very long time.

He picked up his open prayer book from the night table.

“ ‘The Lord grants his loving-kindness in the daytime,’ ” he read from Psalm 42, “ ‘In the night season his song is with me.’ ”

CHAPTER FIVE

When the appraiser came the following week, the fog rolled in even heavier than it had on his first visit, which did nothing to improve his temperament.

“Is it always like this in June?” he asked with some sarcasm.

“Not always,” Father Tim replied, mildly.

According to the rector’s wishes, the vestry was to have only one representative this morning, and it was Harry Nelson. Out of respect, Father Tim had invited Miss Sadie, and he and Emma completed the group who would at last hear the news.

If it is a Vermeer, he reasoned, we’ll be in the newspapers, and on TV, and the phone will ring off the hook. He had done a bit of studying on the subject himself and read that a small Vermeer had recently sold at auction for over twenty million dollars.

How the church decided to use the money would, of course, be a topic for the most serious discussion and examination. And, he realized with some regret, at least two of his vestry members would be in deep disagreement over almost any decision.

The little office was fairly bristling with tension and expectation. And, as before, the appraiser did nothing to relieve it.

“Coffee,” he said curtly to Emma, removing his jacket and hanging it on a peg.

Just open up your shirt collar, thought Emma, and I’ll pour in a whole cupful.

“No cream unless it’s the real thing.”

Or, she thought, maybe you’d like it in your left ear.

When coffee had been poured all around, the appraiser removed the canvas from its Bubble Wrap, stacked five books on Anglican church history on the rector’s desk, and propped the painting against them.

“This painting has been the subject of grave discussion among the finest Vermeer scholars in America.

“In fact, a paper will be published soon that finely details the depth and distinction of the research it has undergone.”

The rector heard himself sigh. Although he’d read that sighing was common to Southern women, he knew for a fact that this unfortunate habit extended also to men.

The appraiser went on for some time, extolling the virtues of the scholarship. Miss Sadie toyed with the diamond cross at her neck. Emma was furious. Harry Nelson could stand it no longer. “Just give us the bottom line!” he blurted.

The appraiser turned to him with a frosty look. “The bottom line?” he asked imperiously.

“That’s right,” Harry snapped.

“The bottom line is that this painting is not by Vermeer.”

“Hallelujah!” shouted Emma.

“Hooray!” said Miss Sadie, clapping her hands.

Father Tim crossed himself, joyfully.

Harry Nelson, however, was devastated. Leaning against the bookcases by the visitor’s bench, he brought out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Then he sat down, shaking his head. This was a blow. “So who did it and what is it worth?”

“We don’t know who did it, but we can safely assume it was done during the time of Vermeer or shortly after his death. It is not one of the famous Vermeer forgeries of the last century.

“As to its market value, we can comfortably expect it to fetch around seven or eight thousand dollars, if properly offered.”

“And how much do we owe you for finding this out?” Harry asked, hoarsely.

The appraiser dipped into his jacket pocket and brought forth a crisp envelope, which he handed to the senior warden.

Harry opened it, unfolded the sheet of paper, and read aloud:

“For services of appraisal, as outlined below, four thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.”

“That includes my travel expenses,” the appraiser said, adjusting his glasses.

“Thanks be to God!” he exclaimed over and over, as he walked to the Grill the next morning.

He had just come from the hospital, where he had put his arms around a very ill patient, doing for someone else what God had so often done for him. While some priests, he knew, dreaded their hospital visits, he looked forward to his. It was one of the divine mysteries that he came away feeling stronger, and refreshed in spirit. “My hospital visits,” he’d been known to say, “are good medicine.”

He was surprised, frankly, that he could fit so much into a morning these days. He was dutifully jogging three times a week and now vowed to increase his schedule to four. Would wonders never cease?

Today, he’d even followed his impulses and worn his new sport coat.

“Got you a new neighbor comin’ in next door,” Mule Skinner said at breakfast. “Be in there in th’ fall sometime.”

“Terrific.”

“Pretty nice lookin’.”

“What does he do?”

“It’s a she.”

“Aha.”

“You remember ol’ Joe Whatsisname lived there, that was her uncle, the ol’ Scrooge.”

“Percy’s outdone himself on these poached eggs.”

"Blonde, blue eyes,” said Mule, looking at the rector. “Real nice legs.”

“Who? Percy?”

“Your new neighbor.”

He had nearly forgotten about the small house next to him, shielded as it was by the rhododendron hedge. Maybe there would be children in the family, he thought. It would be nice to hear the laughter of children.

Later, as he approached his office, he did hear laughter. It sounded like Emma.

He looked at his watch. Too early for Emma, he thought, opening the door and going in.

There, wearing his mailbag and leaning over her desk, was Harold Newland, the postman. And there, too, was Emma, quite frozen with surprise at the sight of her rector, whom she believed to be in a meeting at town hall.