Out to Canaan (187 page)

“I'll be home at one-thirty to help the husbands park cars.”

Help the husbands park cars? he thought as he sprinted toward the office. He was a
husband
! After all these months, the thought still occasionally slammed him in the solar plexus and took his breath away.

Nine elderly guests, including the Kavanaghs' friend Louella, arrived in the van from Hope House and were personally escorted up the steps of the rectory and into the hands of the Altar Guild.

Up and down Wisteria Lane, men with armbands stitched with primroses and a Jerusalem cross directed traffic, which quickly grew snarled. At one point, the rector leaped into a stalled Chevrolet and managed to roll it to the curb. Women came in car pools, husbands
dropped off spouses, daughters delivered mothers, and all in all, the narrow street was as congested as a carnival in Rio.

“This is th' biggest thing to hit Mitford since th' blizzard two years ago,” said Mule Skinner, who was a Baptist, but offered to help out, anyway.

The rector laughed. “That's one way to look at it.” Didn't anybody ever
walk
in this town?

“Look here!”

It was Mack Stroupe in that blasted pickup truck, carting his sign around in their tea traffic. Mack rolled by, chewing on a toothpick and looking straight ahead.

“You comin' to the Primrose Tea?” snapped Mule. “If not, get this vehicle out of here, we're tryin' to conduct a church function!”

Four choir members, consisting of a lyric soprano, a mezzo soprano, and two altos, arrived in a convertible, looking windblown and holding on to their hats.

“Hats is a big thing this year,” observed Uncle Billy Watson, who stood at the curb with Miss Rose and watched the proceedings. Uncle Billy was the only man who showed up at last year's tea, and now considered his presence at the event to be a tradition.

Uncle Billy walked out to the street with the help of his cane and tapped Father Tim on the shoulder. “Hit's like a Chiney puzzle, don't you know. If you 'uns'd move that'n off to th' side and git that'n to th' curb, hit'd be done with.”

“No more parking on Wisteria,” Ron Malcolm reported to the rector. “We'll direct the rest of the crowd to the church lot and shoot 'em back here in the Hope House van.”

A UPS driver, who had clearly made an unwise turn onto Wisteria, sat in his truck in front of the rectory, stunned by the sight of so much traffic on the usually uneventful Holding/Mitford/Wesley run.

“Hit's what you call a standstill,” Uncle Billy told J. C. Hogan, who showed up with his Nikon and six rolls of Tri-X.

As traffic started to flow again, the rector saw Mack Stroupe turn onto Wisteria Lane from Church Hill. Clearly, he was circling the block.

“I'd like to whop him upside th' head with a two-by-four,” said
Mule. He glared at Mack, who was reared back in the seat with both windows down, listening to a country music station. Mack waved to several women, who immediately turned their heads.

Mule snorted. “Th' dumb so-and-so! How would you like to have that peckerwood for mayor?”

The rector wiped his perspiring forehead. “Watch your blood pressure, buddyroe.”

“He says he's goin' to campaign straight through spring and summer, right up to election in November. Kind of like bein' tortured by a drippin' faucet.”

As the truck passed, Emma Newland stomped over. “I ought to climb in that truck and slap his jaws. What's he doin', anyway, trying to sway church people to his way of thinkin'?”

“Let him be,” Father Tim cautioned his secretary and on-line computer whiz. After all, give Mack enough rope and . . .

Cynthia was lying in bed, moaning, as he came out of the shower. He went into the bedroom, hastily drying off.

“Why are you moaning?” he asked, alarmed.

“Because it helps relieve exhaustion. I hope the windows are closed so the neighbors can't hear.”

“The only neighbor close enough to hear is no longer living in the little yellow house next door. She is, in fact, lying right here, doing the moaning.”

She moaned again. “Moaning is good,” she told him, her face mashed into the pillow. “You should try it.”

“I don't think so,” he said.

Warm as a steamed clam from the shower, he put on his pajamas and sat on the side of the bed. “I'm proud of you,” he said, rubbing her back. “That was a tea-and-a-half! The best! In fact, words fail. You'll have a time topping that one.”

“Don't tell me I'm supposed to
top
it!”

“Yes, well, not to worry. Next year, we can have Omer Cunningham and his pilot buddies do a flyover. That'll give the ladies something to talk about.” He'd certainly given all of Mitford something to
talk about last May when he flew to Virginia with Omer in his ragwing taildragger. Four hours in Omer's little plane had gained him more credibility than thirty-six years in the pulpit.

“A little farther down,” his wife implored. “Ugh. My lower back is killing me from all the standing and baking.”

“I got the reviews as your guests left.”

“Only tell me the good ones. I don't want to hear about the cheese straws, which were as limp as linguine.”

“ ‘Perfect' was a word they bandied around quite a bit, and the lemon squares, of course, got their usual share of raves. Some wanted me to know how charming they think you are, and others made lavish remarks about your youth and beauty.”

He leaned down and kissed her shoulder, inhaling the faintest scent of wisteria. “You are beautiful, Kavanagh.”

“Thanks.”

“I don't suppose there are any special thanks you'd like to offer the poor rube who helped unsnarl four thousand three hundred and seventy-nine cars, trucks, and vans?”

She rolled over and looked at him, smiling. Then she held her head to one side in that way he couldn't resist, and pulled him to her and kissed him tenderly.

“Now you're talking,” he said.

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

Dooley!
“Hey, yourself, buddy.”

“Is Cynthia sending me a box of stuff she made for that tea? I can't talk long.”

“Two boxes. Went off today.”

“Man! Thanks!”

“You're welcome. How's school?”

“Great.”

Great? Dooley Barlowe was not one to use superlatives. “No kidding?”

“You're going to like my grades.”

Was this the little guy he'd struggled to raise for nearly three years?
The Dooley who always shot himself in the foot? The self-assured sound of the boy's voice made his hair fairly stand on end.

“We're going to like you coming home, even better. In just six or seven weeks, you'll be here . . . .”

Silence. Was Dooley dreading to tell him he wanted to spend the summer at Meadowgate Farm? The boy's decision to do that last year had nearly broken his heart, not to mention Cynthia's. They had, of course, gotten over it, as they watched the boy doing what he loved best—learning more about veterinary medicine at the country practice of Hal Owen.

“Of course,” said the rector, pushing on, “we want you to go out to Meadowgate, if that's what you'd like to do.” He swallowed. This year, he was stronger, he could let go.

“OK,” said Dooley, “that's what I'd like to do.”

“Fine. No problem. I'll call you tomorrow for our usual phone visit. We love you.”

“I love you back.”

“Here's Cynthia.”

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, yourself.” It was their family greeting.

“So, you big galoot, we sent a box for you and one to share with your friends.”

“What's in it?”

“Lemon squares.”

“I like lemon squares.”

“Plus raspberry tarts, pecan truffles, and brownies made by the preacher.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes.”

“No kidding?”

“Yep.”

“Good!” said Cynthia. “Lace Turner asked about you the other day.”

“That dumb girl that dresses like a guy?”

“She doesn't dress like a guy anymore. Oh, and your friend Jenny was asking about you, too.”

“How's Tommy?”

“Missing you. Just as we do. So hurry home, even if you are going to spend the summer at Meadowgate, you big creep.”

Dooley cackled.

“We love you.”

“I love you back.”

Cynthia placed the receiver on the hook, smiling happily.

“Now, you poor rube,” she said, “where were we?”

He sat on the study sofa and took the rubber band off the
Mitford Muse.

Good grief! There he was on the front page, standing bewildered in front of the UPS truck with his nose looking, as usual, like a turnip or a tulip bulb. Why did J. C. Hogan run this odious picture, when he might have photographed his hardworking, good-looking, and thoroughly deserving wife?

 

Primrose Tee Draws
Stand-Out Crowd

 

Clearly, Hessie had not written this story, which on first glance appeared to be about golf, but had given her notes to J.C., who forged ahead without checking his spelling.

Good time had by all . . . same time next year . . . a hundred and thirty guests . . . nine gallons of tea, ten dozen lemon squares, eight dozen raspberry tarts . . . traffic jam . . .

The phone gave a sharp blast.

“Hello?”

“Timothy . . .”

“Hal! I've just been thinking of you and Marge.”

“Good. And we of you. I've got some . . . hard news, and wanted you to know.”

Hal and Marge Owen were two of his closest, most valued friends. He was afraid to know.

“I've just hired a full-time assistant.”

“That's the bad news? It sounds good to me, you work like a Trojan.”