At Home in Mitford (42 page)

“There isn’t anything . . .” he began, and was aghast to find he was still croaking.

She gazed at him steadily, trying not to laugh. He felt his face redden.

“You’re so funny,” she said. “You’re like a boy, really.”

“Arrested development!” he exclaimed. There! His voice was back, thanks be to God.

A chill breeze moved her skirt against his legs.

“Wouldn’t you like to go inside?” he asked, feeling the moss under him like a sodden pew cushion.

“No, let’s just sit out here and freeze together.” The junco flew in and out among the branches, singing. “Let’s see,” she said, closing her eyes, “you’re mad at me because you had to go up on the roof and fetch Violet.”

“Not at all. It gave me a different perspective.”

“Then you’re furious because when I made fish stew last week, you could smell it cooking and I didn’t offer you any.”

“I had a cold,” he said, sniffing, “and could not possibly have smelled a thing.”

Cynthia laughed uproariously. He hadn’t thought it a bit amusing. Would this visit never end?

“Timothy,” she said, “I have inquired discreetly and was told it’s no form of disrespect for a friend to call a priest by his first name.”

“That is absolutely correct.”

“Only one thing remains to be decided, then.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, knowing full well that the dampness from the moss had seeped into the seat of his pants.

“Are we friends?”

He thought she looked surprisingly anxious.

“Of course, we’re friends. Would I have hauled that ox cart ladder of yours up from anyone else’s basement? Or climbed to the roof, reeling with vertigo, if we weren’t friends?”

“Oh, Timothy, it’s so hard to know how to do in this life. Why, I was terrified to come to your door and demand to know why you were mad at me.”

“Why were you terrified?”

“Because I thought you might tell me, you see! But of course, it’s obvious that you’re not going to tell me anything. Which is fine. Because now it feels better. It feels like it was before.”

“Then why don’t we have a cup of tea?” he inquired.

“Perfect!” she exclaimed. “I just love having a cup of tea.”

“Andrew!” he said, seeing the antique dealer unlocking the door to the Oxford.

“Father, good morning! You’re looking well.” Andrew greeted him with a vigorous handshake. “And thin, I must say.”

“Fit is what I’d like to be, but for now, thin will do nicely, thank you. How are you, my friend?”

“Couldn’t be better, actually. Trying to get away for a quick trip to Florida before the spring deluge.”

Andrew swung open one of the heavy double doors to his shop, and the fragrance of old wood and lemon oil wafted out like incense.

“Come in and have coffee with me. It’s been months since we’ve talked, there’s catching up to do! And God knows, I’d like to hear every detail about the man in the attic.”

“Not today, I’m afraid. Too many duties call. But soon,” he said.

“I’ll consider that a promise,” said Andrew, dropping the keys into the pocket of his jacket.

“Getting away for a bit of golf?” asked the rector.

“Yes, I think I’ll keep the shop open and let one of the Cunningham daughters look after things. Just three or four days, meeting one of my children down there, and taking part in a tournament. Hoping to get your neighbor to go along with me for company; my son and his wife would be taking us in.”

"Aha!”

The phone rang in Andrew’s office at the rear of the shop.

“Soon, then,” said the proprietor, waving good-bye and stepping quickly inside.

When he dropped into the Oxford on Thursday to look at an old book on roses that had been dedicated to Queen Victoria, he found Marcie Guthrie in charge.

That she looked like a carbon copy of her mother from behind was no surprise. It was when she turned around that the surprise came, for the mayor’s eldest daughter was astonishingly beautiful. And though she, like the mayor, wore a size twenty dress, she swept along in it with admirable grace.

“Mama says you’re goin’ to make a speech at the festival.”

“I am, that, God willing, but what I’m going to say is quite another matter. Do you think they’d sit still for a warmed-over sermon on sloth?”

“Nope,” she laughed, showing her dazzling teeth.

“Well, then, what about plain laziness, the very worst enemy of the rose gardener?”

“I thought Japanese beetles were,” said Marcie, wrinkling her brow.

“Is your proprietor off to the links?”

“Left yesterday.”

“Drove down with a friend, I hope. It’s quite a distance.”

“Oh, no. No, he went by himself. And just as well. He was in a stew about something. I’d never seen him like that! Fussy, you might say, like a baby with colic.”

The rector felt suddenly joyful. “Speaking of babies, aren’t you a grandmother again?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” said a radiant Marcie, who whipped out an accordion-fold photo album that displayed all seven of her grandchildren. “Now, if we could just find someone for Joe Joe,” she said wistfully. “He’s the only single one I’ve got left.”

Father Tim sat down at a walnut tea table and with earnest delight looked carefully at every smiling face.

While Dooley was getting his homework done on Thursday night, the rector walked out to the back stoop and sat on the railing. Surely, there would be freezing nights to come, and the balm of these last few evenings was to be savored.

He saw lights in Cynthia’s house. He wondered what she did with her time in the evenings when she was not going out to the country club. He, too, might have had a membership at the club; the vestry offered him one upon arrival. But no, he wasn’t a golfer, he wasn’t a swimmer, and when he entertained, he liked very much to do it at home. So, he’d requested that the funds available for club membership be given instead to a children’s hunger fund that he knew to be stable in its financial ethics. He had never once regretted doing this, nor had anyone been piqued with him for doing it.

He heard his neighbor’s back door slam.

“Violet!” Cynthia hissed. “Violet, you miserable, witless creature, come back here this minute!”

The rector then heard a deafening cacophony of sound, which he recognized as an all-out, three-alarm catfight.

“Violet!” shouted her mistress, “I will positively murder you for this!”

If only Barnabas were here, he chuckled to himself, those cats would have an instant parting of the ways.

He walked to the hedge. “Cynthia!” he called. “Do you need help?”

Cynthia flew to her side of the hedge in a robe and slippers, her head bristling with the familiar pink rollers.

“Timothy! Violet got out and two toms are killing each other! I’ve got to get her back inside. She’s in heat!”

Good grief, thought the rector, who grabbed the rake propped against the porch and stumbled through the dark hedge.

“You were wonderful,” said a wide-eyed Cynthia, sitting in her workroom on what appeared to be a doll-size love seat. “Just wonderful. First, you ran off those marauding toms, and then you crawled down the coal shaft to rescue Violet. You will never, ever know how I appreciate this. No, never!” she said, fiercely.

She had poured two glasses of the stunning sherry she appeared to keep just for him.

“You should see yourself!” she said, marveling at the coal dust that covered him from head to foot.

Ha, she should see
herself!
he thought, in those odd slippers and that old robe and curlers sticking up like chimney pots this way and that.

He laughed. “We’re a pair, I’m sure. And here I thought you might be . . . traveling this weekend.”

“Traveling?” she asked, looking at him intently. “Oh.” A pause. “Traveling. Well,” she said, obviously flustered, “as you can see, I am not traveling, I am right here at home, where I am perfectly, perfectly happy.”

“Aha.”

He looked around her small studio. Every inch of wall space was covered with some cheerful drawing or watercolor, or picture cut from a magazine. She had lettered a scripture from the sixteenth chapter of Proverbs that was pushpinned over her drawing table: “Commit thy works unto the Lord and thy thoughts shall be established.”

“That,” he said, “is a commendable way to do it.”

“For me, it’s the only way. I don’t work at all without committing it to God first. I’ve done it the other way, and giving it to Him makes all the difference.”

Period! The rector smiled. He liked Cynthia’s practical relationship with God. It had none of the boldness of Olivia Davenport’s glorious faith. It was simple and easy. Cynthia, it appeared, was definitely down to earth about heavenly things.

“Well, then,” he said, setting his empty glass on a shelf brimming with children’s books, “I must go to my young scholar. He’s studying for a test tomorrow, and I’ll give him a hand if he needs it.”

She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “You’re lovely,” she said.

“And so are you,” he heard himself reply.

“What are you grinnin’ all over yourself about?” Dooley asked, his eyes bleary with approaching sleep.

“I am not grinning all over myself.” He sat on the side of the bed. “Did your studying go well? Did you need me to help?”

“Naw, I got ’at ol’ mess figgered out.”

“I’ll be praying for you tomorrow at one o’clock when your test begins.”

“Prayin’ ain’t goin’ t’ knock ’at ol’ test in th’ head.”

“You’re right about that, my friend. However, praying will help
you
knock it in the head.”

Dooley yawned and turned over. “’night,” he said.

“ ’night,” said the rector, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Father, he prayed silently, thank you for sending this boy into my life. Thank you for the joy and the sorrow he brings. Be with him always, to surround him with right influences, and when tests of any kind must come, give him wisdom and strength to act according to your will. Look over his mother, also, and the other children, wherever they are. Feed and clothe them, keep them from harm, and bring them one day into a full relationship with your Son.

He sat for a long time with his hand on the sleeping boy’s shoulder, feeling his heart moved with tenderness.

Then he went downstairs and picked up the phone. “Cynthia, I just remembered something.”

“What’s that?” she asked brightly.

“I’d like you to come for dinner tomorrow evening . . . if you don’t have other plans.”

“Why, no,” she said. “I’d love to come!”

As he went to the refrigerator, he was surprised to find that his forehead had broken out in a light sweat.

He opened the freezer door and removed the duckling.

When he came home for lunch on Friday, Puny had steamed up the kitchen windows with her cooking projects.

“I’m leavin’ you a stewed hen and some p’tato salad for the weekend.”

“A million thanks.”

He sat down at the counter and peered beneath the top slice of bread on his sandwich. Tofu!

“I never thought to see the day I’d touch that stuff,” said Puny, who was watching him out of the corner of her eye, “but I read where it’s good for people like you, so eat hearty! You wouldn’t believe how it feels when you slice it. Ooooh.” She shuddered with disgust.

“I would infinitely prefer a cake of your fried cornbread.”

“You can infinitely all you want to, I’m not makin’ you any more cornbread for a whole month. I marked th’ calendar.”

He ate his sandwich with some alarm, but said nothing.

“I seen your dinin’ table, it looks like Charles and Diana are comin’. Who’re you havin’?”

With some difficulty, the rector swallowed the last of his sandwich and wiped his mouth. “That, Miss Bradshaw,” he said with unconcealed delight, “is for me to know and you to find out.”

After settling Dooley into his room with a model airplane, he went to the refrigerator. The timing would be perfect for dinner at seven.

To say that he was astounded at what he discovered would be an understatement. Puny Bradshaw had mistaken his prize duckling for a chicken, and stewed it.

“Only if it’s decaf,” said Cynthia. “Otherwise, I’d be awake till Thanksgiving!”

“We wouldn’t want that,” said her host, who summarily brought in a silver tray with a pot of coffee, cups, and two dishes of poached pears.

“Oh! I just love pears.”

“Cynthia,” he inquired, “what
don’t
you love?”

She thought for a moment as he poured a fragrant cup of coffee.

“Ummm. People who are never on time. It’s so thoughtless, the way they rob us of the hours we spend waiting.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Let’s see what else. Garden slugs!”