Out to Canaan (159 page)

“That old cloth is worn as thin as a moth's wing. Hardly suitable,” he said, feeling distinctly grumpy.

“I love old tablecloths!” she exclaimed.

He sighed. “What don't you love?”

“Grits without butter. Dust balls on ceiling fans. Grumpy husbands.”

“Aha,” he said, going down on his hands and knees to put a matchbook under a table leg.

At breakfast the next morning, he found the much-larger table with the worn cloth looking wonderful in the light that streamed through the open windows. She had filled a basket with roses from the side garden and wrapped the basket with tendrils of ivy. Her cranberry-colored glasses, already set out for the evening meal, caught the light and poured ribbons of warm color across the damask.

Lovely! he mused, careful not to say it aloud.

Finding Jessie had been uncannily simple, he thought, walking to the office with Barnabas on his red leash. He had given thanks for this miracle over and over again. The chase, after all, might have led anywhere—or nowhere. But they'd gone straight to the door and knocked, and she had answered.

He would thank Emma Newland from his very heart, he would do something special for her, but what? Emma loved earrings, the bigger, the better. He would buy her a pair of earrings to end all earrings! No fit compensation for what she had done, but a token, nonetheless, of their appreciation for her inspired and creative thinking.

He pushed open the office door as Snickers rushed past him, snarled hideously into his own dog's face, barked at an octave that could puncture eardrums, and peed on the front step—seemingly all at once.

Barnabas dug in and barked back, grievously insulted and totally astounded. From her desk, Emma shouted over the uproar, “I wouldn't bring him in here if I were you!”

The rector saw that urging his dog over the threshold would result in a savage engagement with this desperately overwrought creature, an engagement in which someone, possibly even himself, could be injured.

Furious, he turned on his heel and stomped toward the Grill, dragging his even more furious dog behind.

He blew past the windows of the Irish Shop, as Minnie Lomax finished dressing a mannequin whose arms, years earlier, had been mistakenly carted off with the trash.

“Can't even get in my own office!” he snorted. “Earrings, indeed!”

“Not again,” sighed Minnie, watching him disappear up the street.

Passing the Collar Button, he was hailed by one of his parishioners, one who hadn't been even remotely amused by the announcement that he was going out to Canaan—or anywhere else.

“Father! You're looking well!”

Things were on an even keel again, thanks be to God. After all that uproar, most people seemed to have forgotten he was retiring, and it was business as usual.

He saw Dooley wheel out of the alley across the street and stop, looking both ways. As he glanced toward the monument, Jenny ran down the library steps, carrying a backpack. She saw Dooley and waved, and he pedaled toward her.

He didn't mean to stand there and watch, but he couldn't seem to turn away. Although Dooley's back was to him, he could see Jenny's face very clearly.

She was looking at The Local's summer help as if he had hung the moon.

“It's big doin's,” Mule was saying to J.C. as the rector slid into the booth.

“What is?” he asked.

“Th' real estate market in this town. There's Lord's Chapel with that fancy outfit tryin' to hook Fernbank, Edith Mallory's Shoe Barn just went on the block, and I hear major money's lookin' at Sweet Stuff.”

“Whose major money?”

“I don't know, Winnie's trying to sell it herself to save the
commission, so I don't have a clue who th' prospect is. Meantime, some realtor from Lord knows where is handlin' th' Shoe Barn, Ron Malcolm's brokerin' for Lord's Chapel, and as for yours truly, I can't get a lead, much less a listin'.”

“Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink,” said J.C., hammering down on a vegetable plate with a side of country-style steak.

“Speakin' of th' Shoe Barn, what ever became of that witch on a broom?” asked Mule.

The rector's stomach churned at the mention of Edith Mallory, who owned the large Shoe Barn property. Her focused, unrelenting pursuit of him before he married Cynthia was something he'd finally managed to put out of his mind.

“You're ruinin' his appetite,” said Percy, pulling up a stool. Percy had fought his own battle with the woman, who also owned the roof under which they were sitting—she'd tried to jack up the rent and blow him off before his lease expired. That's when the rector discovered that the floor beams of the Grill were rotten and nearly ready to bring the whole building down. Bottom line, Percy walked off with a new lease—on his terms, not hers.

Percy grinned at the rector. “Boys howdy, you fixed her good, you put her high-and-mighty butt through th'
grinder.
”

“Watch your language,” said Velma, passing with a tray of ham sandwiches.

“And she ain't been back, neither! No, sirree bob! Hadn't had th' guts to show her face in this town since th' night you whittled her down to size.”

J.C. used his favorite epithet for Percy's lessor.

“So when are you closing the deal on Fernbank?” asked Mule.

“I don't know. We'll consider their offer for thirty days.”

Mule gave him an astounded look. “You want to sit around for thirty days with that white elephant eatin' out of your pocket?”

He felt suddenly angry, impelled to get up and leave. Chill, he told himself, using advice learned from Dooley Barlowe.

“Do you play softball?” he asked the
Muse
editor, who was busy chewing a mouthful.

“Prezure fum dinnity monce.”

“Right. So how about you?” he asked Mule. “Scott Murphy wants to get up a game for the residents at Hope House. August tenth. We need players.”

“I ain't too bad a catcher.”

“You're on,” he said. “Percy, I wouldn't mind having a cheeseburger all the way. With fries!”

Percy scratched his head. “Man! In sixteen years, you prob'ly ordered a cheeseburger twice. And never all the way.”

“Life is short,” he said, still feeling ticked. “And put a strip of bacon on it.”

“How's it coming, buddy?”

“I got Tommy and his dad and Avis. Ol' Avis says he can hit a ball off th' field and clean over our house.”

“No kidding? What do you think about Harley? Think he could do it?”

“Harley, don't . . . doesn't have any teeth.”

“What do teeth have to do with playing softball?”

Dooley grinned. “We could see if he wants to.”

They were setting the table as Cynthia busied herself at the stove. He was leaving in five minutes to pick up Pauline and the kids, and run up the hill for Louella.

He liked setting the table with Dooley. Bit by bit, little by little, Dooley was coming into his own, something was easier in his spirit. Pauline had been part of it, and Poo, and now Jessie. Each brought with them a portion of the healing that was making Dooley whole. He watched the boy place the knife on the left side of the plate, look at it for a moment, then remove it and place it on the right. Good fellow! He saw, too, the smile playing at the corners of Dooley's mouth, as if he were thinking of something that pleased him.

Dooley looked up and caught the rector's gaze. “What are you staring at?”

“You. I'm looking at how you've grown, and taking into account the fine job you're doing for Avis—and feeling how good it is to have you home.”

Dooley colored slightly. He thought for a moment, then said, “So let me drive your car this weekend.”

Blast if it didn't fly out of his mouth. “Consider it done!”