Light From Heaven (7 page)

“Timothy!” said his wife, reading his mind.

“Right!” he said, reading hers.

He turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

He’d been thinking.... What, after all, was so wrong with hanging loose, as he’d done these last few weeks? Wasn’t it the first time in his life, for Pete’s sake, that he’d ever
hung
loose? Why couldn’t he take one year after having served nearly forty? Why did he feel like a heel for not rising at five o’clock sharp as he’d done for decades and setting forth on his mount to joust among the rest of the common horde?

Hadn’t he dreamed for years of doing this very thing? Hadn’t he hankered for time to loll around, gabbing with his best friend and soul mate, reading whatever came to hand, walking in the frozen woods, watching
60 Minutes
and even an occasional Turner Classic movie? And so what if he flipped over to the cooking channel once in a while, what was wrong with that?
Nothing!

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Indeed, if such a sum were stashed in Miss Sadie’s ’58 Plymouth, he’d have to keep mum about it or the news would spread through Mitford like a virus.

He dialed the restaurant at Fernbank, looking for Andrew.

Andrew’s Italian brother-in-law and Lucera chef, Tony, answered.

“Andrew is buying for Oxford Antique in England, and be gone for three weeks.”

“Well, then. I’ll call in three weeks. Just wondering. Tony—is Miss Sadie’s old Plymouth still in the garage?”

“On blocks. Andrew had work on it, something here, something there. He says to use it in the Fourth of July parade.”

“Wonderful idea! It’ll bring back fond memories to see that great tank on the street again. So how is business at the high country’s finest restaurant?”

“Slammed! I hope you and Cynthia will come see us soon.You always be our guest. Andrew says Fernbank would not be ... belonging to us without the help from you.”

“We’ll drive in one evening and paint the town red! Give our warm regards to your lovely sister, I’ll speak with Andrew when he returns. Ciao!”

So the car was still there. But what about the nine thousand dollars?

Not a word from on high.

If Absalom Greer were alive today, he’d be hunkered over the wheel of his old Ford sedan, faithfully burning up the back roads to his little handfuls, as he’d called the small churches scattered through the coves. And what was he, Timothy Kavanagh, hunkered over? A volume of English poets.

He stuck the bookmark between the pages and got up and paced to the window seat and gazed out to the snow melting off the smokehouse roof.

He turned and paced to the kitchen door, pulled back the curtain, and looked toward the barn without seeing.

And now Cynthia had this terrific new project to get behind, and what did he have to get behind?

Four dogs and an armload of firewood.

“Three,” said Willie Mullis.

Willie stood at the kitchen door, bareheaded and mournful, holding forth a battered fedora containing the day’s egg inventory.

“Three’s all we need,” said Father Tim, reaching into the hat. “We thank you. Think the laying will pick up come spring?”

“Yessir.”

“Good! Think we’ll be having any more snow?”

“Nossir.”

“Your arthritis coming along a little better?”

“Yessir.”

“Looks like a nice, warm day. The temperature could soar into the high sixties, don’t you think?”

“Yessir.”

“Need any help at the barn?”

“Nossir.”

“If you do, just give me a call.”

“Yessir.”

He put the brown eggs into a bowl on the table, observing them with satisfaction. With a little grated cheese, a tot of cream, a smidgen of onion ...

“Was that Willie?” asked his wife, coming into the kitchen.

“Three eggs,” he said, pointing. “The laying will, of course, pick up come spring; we won’t be having any more snow; the temperature will probably be in the high sixties today; and his arthritis is improving.”

“My goodness,” she said, “I never get that sort of information from Willlie. He’s a perfect chatterbox with you.”

March 19. He turned the page on the Owens’ desk calendar.

Dooley was spending a couple of nights in town with his blood family and taking Lace to a movie in Wesley. Then he and Dooley would hie down the mountain to Holding where truck prices, according to Lew Boyd, were competitive. While in Holding, they’d try to hook up with Sammy.

In the meantime, he was plenty disgusted with his bishop and even more disgusted with himself. He had determined to go forth and do something, even if it was wrong.

First, he would call on his old friend and back-country soup-kitchen boss, Homeless Hobbes, who had moved to this neck of the woods when the Creek was developed into a mall. Maybe he could give Homeless a hand with his soup ministry.

Then he’d drop in on Lottie Greer, Absalom’s elderly sister, who lived up the road in the rear of a country store Absalom built in his youth. Dooley wouldn’t mind if he took Miss Lottie a piece of his chocolate pie....

“Bloom where you’re planted!” he muttered to himself, quoting a bumper sticker. Ah, but Wordsworth had had a far better way of putting it.

“If thou,
indeed,
Timothy, derive thy
light
from
Heaven...”
He walked to the coat pegs and took down his jacket.

“‘Then,’”
he bawled in a voice designed to reach the uttermost pew, “ ’... to the
measure
of that heaven-born light ...’ ” He pulled on his jacket, shoved his stocking feet into his outdoor boots, and rummaged for his gloves....

“‘Shine, Preacher! In thy place
, and be
content!”’

“What on earth are you
doing
?” asked Cynthia, coming in from the hall.

He felt his cheeks grow warm. “Preaching myself a sermon!”

“You were rattling the windows.”

“Yes, well ...”

“It’s the snow,” she said, commiserating. “Three months of snow, certain to be followed by two weeks of slush.”

“Listen to this, it’s coming back and I can’t waste it. He’s talking of stars here.

“Untended watch-fire,” she mused. “Twinkling winter lamps. Nice!”

He heaved a sigh and thumped onto the stool by the door.

“I need a ob,” he said.

“And I need you to have one, dearest. Oh, brother, do I ever.”

He was backing the farm truck onto the drive when Cynthia ran from the kitchen and waved him to a stop.

He rolled the window down.

“It’s Stuart!” she called.

He trotted up the walk, his heart pumping.

“Timothy, Stuart here, with unending apologies for the long delay. I could go on and on, but—to make a long story short ...

“How would you like to be a vicar?”

He found Cynthia in the laundry room.

“I’m so happy for you!” She planted a glad kiss on his cheek.

“And I’m happy for you,” he said. “After all, this gets me out of your hair.”

She laughed. “But I love having you in my hair. Speaking of hair ...”

“Let’s don’t.”

“So tell me, darling—what is a vicar? I come from the Presbyterian side, you know.” She stuffed their jeans and denim shirts into the washing machine.