Out to Canaan (216 page)

Three bites, max, and that sausage biscuit was out of here. But who was he to preach or pontificate? Hadn't he wolfed down a slab of cheesecake last night, looking over his shoulder like a chicken poacher lest his wife catch him in the act?

Oh, well, die young and make a good-looking corpse, his friend Tommy Noles always said.

“If Mack Stroupe's getting money under the table,” he said, “isn't there some way—”

“What do you mean
if
? He
is
gettin' money under the table. I checked what it would cost to put up those billboards and—get this—four thousand bucks. I called th' barbecue place in Wesley that helps him commit his little Saturday afternoon crimes—six hundred smackers to run over here and set up and cook from eleven to three. Pitch in a new truck at twenty-five thousand, considering it's got a CD player and leather seats, and what do
you
think's goin' on?”

“Isn't he supposed to fill out a form that tells where his contributions come from? Somebody said that even the media can take a look at that form.”

She wadded up the biscuit wrapper and lobbed it into the wastebasket. “You know what I always tell Ray? Preachers are the most innocent critters I've ever known! Do you think th' triflin' scum is goin' to
report
the money he's gettin' under th' table?”

“Maybe he's actually getting enough thousand-dollar contributions legally to pull all this together. It wouldn't hurt to ask.”

She scratched a splotch on her neck and leaned toward him. “Who's going to ask?”

“Not me,” he said, meaning it.

The screen door of the Grill slapped behind him. “What's going on?” the rector asked Percy.

“All I lack of bein' dead is th' news gettin' out.”

“What's the trouble?”

“Velma.”

“Aha.”

“Wants to drag me off on another cruise. I said we done been on a cruise, and if you've seen one, you've seen 'em all—drink somethin' with a little umbrella in it, dance th' hula, make a fool of yourself, and come home. I ain't goin' again. But she's nagged me 'til I'm blue in th' face.”

“ 'Til she's blue in the face.”

“Whatever.”

Velma, who had heard everything, walked over, looking disgusted.

“I hope you've told th' Father that th' cruise you took me on was paid for by our children, and I hope you mentioned that it's the only vacation I've had since I married you forty-three years ago, except for that run over to Wilkes County in th' car durin' which I threw up the entire time, bein' pregnant.”

Velma took a deep breath and launched another volley. “And did you tell him about th' varicose veins I've got from stompin' around in this Grill since Teddy Roosevelt was president? Now you take the Father here, I'm sure he's carried
his
wife on
several
nice trips since
he
got married.”

Velma tossed her order pad on the counter, stomped off to the toilet, and slammed the door.

Percy looked pained.

The rector looked pained.

If Velma only knew.

She would be let down, he thought, maybe even ticked off—and for good reason. After all, she had worked hard to plan something special.

“Listen to me, please,” he said. “I can't go on our retreat.”

She gazed at him, unwavering, knowing that he meant it.

“I've got to go and look for Jessie Barlowe.”

“I'll go with you,” she said.

He sat heavily on the side of the bed where she was propped against the pillows with a book. “It's in Florida, a long drive, and I
don't know what we'll run into. I also need Pauline to come along. Since she's the birth mother and no papers were signed for Jessie to live with Rhody Davis, Pauline has custody. She can take Jessie legally.”

“Would you need . . . police to go in with you? A social worker?”

“It's not required. Only if it looks like a bad situation.”

“Does it look bad?”

“I don't know. There's no way to know.”

“Do you think you should investigate further, I mean . . .”

“I feel we need to act on this now.”

“Will we be back for our dinner next Thursday?”

“Yes,” he said.

She leaned against him, and they sat together, silent for a time. “We need to pray the prayer that never fails.”

“Yes,” he said again.

He pled Pauline's case with Lida Willis, who gave her dining room manager two days off.

“She'll make it up over Thanksgiving,” said Lida. That was when families of Hope House residents would pour into Mitford, straining the reserves of the dining room.

He was vague with Dooley about what was going on and said nothing at all to Emma. He didn't want anyone getting their hopes up. As far as everyone was concerned, he was taking his wife on a small excursion, and Pauline was riding with them to South Carolina and visiting a great aunt. He regretted saying anything to anybody about Florida.

“Florida in July?” asked his secretary, aghast.

“Lord at th' salt they got down there!” said Harley. “Hit'll rust y'r fenders plumb off. Let me git m' stuff together and I'll give you a good wax job.”

“You don't have to do that, Harley. Besides, we're leaving early in the morning.”

“I'll git to it right now, Rev'rend, don't you worry 'bout a thing. And I'll sweep you out good, too.”

It was all coming together so fast, it made his head swim.

“Look after Dooley,” he told his resident mechanic as they loaded the car, “and hide your truck keys. Dooley will walk and feed Barnabas, Puny will be in tomorrow, help yourself to the pasta salad in the refrigerator, the car looks terrific, a thousand thanks, we'll bring you something.”

Harley grinned. “Somethin' with Mickey on it, Rev'rend! I'd be much obliged.”

Hot. He didn't remember being so hot in years, not since his parish by the sea.

And the colors in this part of the world—so vivid, so bright, so . . . different. In the mountains, in his high, green hills, he felt embraced, protected—consoled, somehow.

Here, it was all openness and blue sky and flat land and palm trees. He never ceased to be astonished by the palm tree, which was a staple of the biblical landscape. How did the same One who designed the mighty oak and the gentle mimosa come up with the totally fantastic concept of a palm tree? Extraordinary!

He chuckled.

“Why are you laughing, dearest?”

“I'm laughing at palm trees.”

There went that puckered brow and concerned look again. Soon, he really would have to go on a retreat with his wife and act relaxed, so she'd stop looking at him like this.

“You're flying,” announced Cynthia, craning her neck to see the speedometer.

Good Lord! Ninety! They'd be arriving in Lakeland in half the anticipated time.

He could feel the toll of the 670-mile one-way trip already grinding on him as they zoomed past Daytona and looped onto the Orlando exit.

The engine might be working in spades, and the wax job glittering like something off the showroom floor, but the air-conditioning performed only slightly better than a church fan at a tent meeting.
He hadn't noticed it at home where the elevation was a lofty five thousand feet, but here, where the sun blazed unhindered, they were all feeling the dismally weak effort of the a/c.

He peered into the rearview mirror, checking on Pauline. She had ridden for hours looking out the window.

He would let Cynthia drive when they got to the rest station in Providence, and once in Lakeland, they'd take a motel and rest before looking for Rhody Davis on Palm Court Way. In order to get Pauline back in time to keep Lida Willis satisfied, they would have only a few short hours to look for Jessie before they hauled back to Mitford on another ten-hour drive.

Maybe he'd been a fool to risk so much on this one grueling trip.

But if not now, when?