Shepherds Abiding (2 page)

“Check this out,” said J. C. Hogan, editor of the
Mitford Muse
and longtime regular of the Main Street Grill. He thrust a copy of the
Muse,
hot from his pressroom above their heads, under Father Tim’s nose.

“Photo staff?” asked Father Tim.

EXPECT A SPECTACLE

As Mitford’s mayor, Andrew Gregory, doesn’t return until after press time from a buying trip to England, the Muse called on former mayor Esther Cunningham to make the Muse’s official annual prediction about our fall leaf display.

“Color out the kazoo!” stated Ms. Cunningham.

Meterologists across western North Carolina agree. They say that color this fall will be “the best in years,” due to a hot, dry mountain summer followed by heavy rains, which began September 7 and have continued with some frequency.

So load your cameras and wait for Mitford’s famed sugar maples, planted from First Baptist all the way to Little Mitford Creek, to strut their stuff. Color should be at its height October 10–15.

Use ASA 100 film and don’t shoot into the sun. Best morning photo op: from the steps of First Baptist, pointing south. Best afternoon op: from the sidewalk in front of the church, pointing east. This advice courtesy the Muse photo staff.

“You’re lookin’ at it,” said J.C.

“I thought you had spellcheck.”

“I do have spellcheck.”

“It’s not working.”

“Where? What?” J.C. grabbed the newspaper.

“
Meteorologist
is misspelled.” The former rector of the local Episcopal church had kept his mouth shut for years about the
Muse
editor’s rotten spelling, but since the newspaper had invested in spellcheck, he figured he could criticize without getting personal.

J.C. muttered a word not often used in the rear booth.

“You ought to have a photo contest,” said Father Tim, blowing on a mug of steaming coffee. “Autumn color, grand prize, second prize . . . like that.”

“Unless th’ rain lets up, there’ll be nothing worth enterin’ in a contest. Besides, I’d have to shell out a couple hundred bucks to make that deal work.”

“Where’s Mule?” asked Father Tim. The erstwhile town realtor had been meeting them in the rear booth for two decades, seldom missing their eight a.m. breakfast tryst.

“Down with th’ Mitford Crud. Prob’ly comes from that hot, dry spell changin’ into a cold, wet spell.”

Velma Mosely skidded up in a pair of silver Nikes.
“Looks like th’ Turkey Club’s missin’ a gobbler this mornin’. What’re y’all havin’?”

This was Percy and Velma Mosely’s final year as proprietors of the Grill. After forty years, they were hanging it up at the end of December, and not renewing the lease.

In the spring, they would take a bus to Washington and see the cherry blossoms. Then they planned to settle into retirement in Mitford, where Percy would put in a vegetable garden for the first time in years and Velma would adopt a shorthaired cat from the shelter.

Father Tim nodded to J.C. “You order first.”

“Three eggs scrambled, with grits, bacon, and a couple of biscuits! And give me plenty of butter with that!”

The Muse editor looked at Velma, expectant.

“Your wife said don’t let you have grits and bacon, much less biscuits an’ plenty of butter.” J.C.’s wife, Adele, was Mitford’s first and, so far, only policewoman.

“My
wife?”

“That’s right. Adele dropped in on her way to the station this mornin’. She said Doc Harper told you all that stuff is totally off-limits, startin’ today.”

“Since when is it th’ business of this place to meddle in what people order?”

“Take it or leave it,” said Velma. She was sick and tired of J. C. Hogan bossing her around and biting her head off for the last hundred years.

J.C.’s mouth dropped open.

“I’ll order while he’s rethinking,” said Father Tim. “Bring me the usual.”

Velma glared at the editor. “If you’d order like th’ Father here, you’d live longer.” She felt ten feet tall telling this grouchy so-and-so what was what, she should have done it years ago.

“I wouldn’t eat a poached egg if somebody paid me cash money. Give me three eggs, scrambled, with grits, bacon . . .” J.C. repeated his order loud and clear, as if Velma had suddenly gone deaf. “
 . . . an’ two dadgum biscuits.”

Father Tim thought his boothmate’s face was a read-out of his blood pressure rating—roughly 300 over 190.

“If you want to drop dead on th’ street, that’s your business,” said Velma, “but I won’t be party to it. Get you some yogurt and fresh fruit with a side of dry toast.”
“This is dadblame
illegal!
You can’t tell me what to order.”

“Suit yourself. I promised Adele, and I’m stickin’ to it.”

J.C. looked at Father Tim to confirm whether he was hearing right. Father Tim looked at Velma. Maybe this was a joke. . . .

But Velma was a brick wall, an Army tank. End of discussion.

J.C. drew himself up and played his trump card. “Do I need to remind you that
this
is a
democracy?
”

Velma glared at the editor over her half-glasses; heads turned in their direction. “Where’s Percy this mornin’?” demanded J.C. He would call in the troops and nip this nonsense in the bud once and for all.

“Down with th’ Mitford Crud!” snapped Velma.

The young man at the grill turned his back on the whole caboodle, lest he be drawn into the altercation.

There was a long moment of silence, the sort that Father Tim never enjoyed.

“Then I’ll just take my business down th’ street!”

J.C. grabbed his briefcase and blew out of the rear booth like a cannon shot. Father Tim’s coffee sloshed in its mug.

Roaring past the counter, the
Muse
editor peppered the air with language not fit to print and, arriving at the front door, yanked it open, turned around, and shouted, “
Which,
you may be happy to know, is where I intend to
keep
it!”

The cold rain blew in, the door slammed, the bell jangled.

“Good riddance!” said Velma, meaning it.

At the counter, Coot Hendrick dumped sugar into his coffee and stirred. “I didn’t know there was anyplace down th’ street to take ’is business
to.
”

“I suppose he meant the tea shop,” said Luke Taylor, who hadn’t looked up from his newspaper.

Guffaws. Hoots. General hilarity among the regulars. In Mitford, the Chelsea Tea Shop was definitely the province, indeed the stronghold, of the fair sex. Hardly a male had ever set foot in the place, except for a few unsuspecting tourists.

Father Tim cleared his throat. “I do think it’s illegal,” he said to Velma, “to refuse to . . . you know . . .”

Velma adjusted her glasses and glared at him from on high. “Since when is it illegal to save somebody’s life?”

Clearly, Velma Mosely was ready for retirement.

It was one of those rare days when he sensed that all the world lay before him, that it was indeed his oyster.

Upon leaving the Grill, he stood beneath the green awning, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Though the chilling rain continued to fall and the uproar between Velma and J.C. had definitely been unpleasant, he felt light; his feet barely touched the ground. How could someone his age feel so expectant and complete? How indeed? It was the grace of God.

“Lord, make me a blessing to someone today!”

He uttered aloud his grandmother’s prayer, raised his umbrella, and, beneath the sound of rain thudding onto black nylon, turned left and headed to Lord’s Chapel to borrow a volume of Jonathan Edwards from the church library.

“Father!”

Andrew Gregory’s head poked from the door of the Oxford Antique Shop. “Stop in for a hot cocoa.”

Hot cocoa!

He hadn’t tasted the delights of hot cocoa since the
Boer War. In truth, the phrase was seldom heard on anyone’s lips—the going thing today was an oversweet and synthetic chocolate powder having nothing to do with the real thing.

“Bless my soul!” said Father Tim. He always felt a tad more eighteenth century when he visited the Oxford. He shunted his umbrella into an iron stand that stood ready at the door and strode into one of his favorite places in all of Mitford.

“Excuse the disarray,” said Andrew, who, though possibly suffering some jet lag, never looked in disarray himself. In truth, Andrew’s signature cashmere jacket appeared freshly pressed if not altogether brand-new.

“The shipment from my previous trip arrived yesterday, on the heels of my own arrival. It all looks like a jumble sale at the moment, but we’ll put it right, won’t we, Fred?”

Fred Addison looked up from his examination of a walnut chest and grinned. “Yessir, we always do. Good mornin’, Father. Wet enough for you?”

“I don’t mind the rain, but my roses do. This year, we exchanged Japanese beetles for powdery mildew. How was your garden this year?” Fred Addison’s annual vegetable garden was legendary for its large size
and admirable tomatoes; Father Tim had feasted from that fertile patch on several occasions.

“Had to plow it under,” said Fred, looking mournful.

“Let’s look for a better go of things next year.”

“Yessir, that’s th’ ticket.”

Andrew led the way to the back room, where the Oxford hot plate and coffeepot resided with such amenities as the occasional parcel of fresh scones fetched from London.

“Careful where you step,” said Andrew. “I’m just unpacking a crèche I found in Stow-on-the-Wold; a bit on the derelict side. Some really odious painting of the figures and some knocking about of the plaster here and there . . .”

Father Tim peered at a motley assortment of sheep spilling from a box, an angel with a mere stub for a wing, an orange camel, and, lying in a manger of bubble wrap, a lorn Babe . . .

“Twenty-odd pieces, all in plaster, and possibly French. Someone assembled the scene from at least two, maybe three different crèches.”

“Aha.”

Andrew poured hot milk from a pot into a mug. “Not the sort of thing I’d usually ship across the pond, yet it spoke to me somehow.”

“Yes, well . . . it has a certain charm.”

“I thought someone might be willing to have a go at bringing it ’round.” Andrew handed him the mug. “There you are! Made with scalded milk and guaranteed to carry you forth with good cheer and optimism.”

Coffee and cocoa, all within the span of a couple of hours. Father Tim reckoned that his caffeinated adrenaline would be pumping ’til Christmas; he felt as reckless as a sailor on leave.

Mitford’s capable mayor, restaurateur, and antiques dealer beamed one of his much-lauded smiles. “Come, Father, I’ll show you a few of the new arrivals—and perhaps you’ll catch me up on the latest scandals in Mitford?”

“That shouldn’t take long,” said Father Tim.

He felt the warmth of the mug in his hands and saw the rain slanting in sheets against the display windows. Everywhere in this large room that smelled of lemon oil and beeswax was something to be admired—the
patina of old walnut and mahogany, a tapestry side chair bathed in the glow of lamplight, and, over there, a stack of leather-bound books just uncrated.