These High, Green Hills (42 page)

“What do you think of him, Father?”

He was tempted to say he thought Scott Murphy uniquely suited to the job. But, no. Something held him back.

“Qualified. Good fellow,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Call me when you can.”

If this didn’t work, he didn’t even want to guess the outcome. Bottom line, he would be retired long before his time.

Two hours passed, then three, when the phone rang.

“Father?” said Miss Sadie. “I think Scott Murphy is the one for the job. Hire him!”

“Consider it done,” he said.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

FOXGLOVES HAD TO BE staked earlier than usual, and the hosta, growing in lush groves throughout the village, produced rows of tight; urgent buds along erect stems.

Cream-colored bank roses bloomed along Old Church Lane, forming billowy clouds over the emerald grass. Pink and fuchsia climbers massed themselves on trellises, and in one yard, a vast stand of old shrub roses cast their rich, heady perfume on the air.

The scoop on June was captured by Winnie Ivey, who was never much on words:

“It’s a dazzler!” she was quoted as saying in Hessie Mayhew’s column.

He could scarcely appreciate the dazzle, given the fact that another computer session awaited him at the office.

He could, of course, fail to show up and let Emma take the heat. He could call in sick with the flu. He could fall in a ditch while jogging—heaven knows he had once done that very thing, and banged up his leg pretty badly.

He knew Stuart Cullen wasn’t sitting over there at diocesan headquarters pushing a mouse around. No indeed, Stuart could dish it out, but ...

Dave was waiting in front of the church office.

“Hey, big guy! How’s it going?”

“I’m over toolbars,” replied the rector, unlocking the door. “What’s the agenda for today?”

“Typing and Revising, Finding and Replacing,” said Dave, obviously excited, “with a smidgen of Editing and Proofing.”

If he were anything other than the responsible stick-in-the-mud that everyone knew him to be, he would get in his car and head for the county line.

He had loaded a font, he had formatted a paragraph, he had bulleted a list, he had selected a font, he had embedded a graph, he had kerned a headline, he had set margins, and he was exhausted.

He went home early, and did something he hadn’t done since he was a boy.

With a cool spring rain drumming on the roof, he got between the covers without removing his clothes, where he slept until Cynthia arrived, looking pale from hours of labor over a drawing board.

“Good idea,” she said, crawling in beside him and falling sound asleep.

A fine pair they made, and newlywed into the bargain.

They were getting dressed for Miss Sadie’s party, and Dooley was presenting himself to them in blue jeans, a starched shirt, and his navy school blazer.

“Stunning!” said Cynthia. “Where’s the camera?”

“Top shelf in the closet,” said the rector.

“We’ll get someone to shoot us at church,” she said, taking it off the shelf and putting it in her handbag.

“Can I take my TV to the farm?” asked Dooley.

Were the boy’s loafers newly shined, or was he imagining things? “Well, sure.”

“Thanks,” said Dooley, leaving the room.

“He told me he’s helping Hal with a sick calf tonight,” said Cynthia. “He is compassionate, Timothy.”

“Compassion for animals does not make up for being indifferent to humans.”

She was silent for a moment. “This is a pressing day for you, dearest—two services, adult Sunday School, a major party, and Evensong—I’m making dinner at my house tonight and giving us a retreat.”

He smiled at his wife, who was putting on something the color of his favorite clematis. “Terrific. When I retire, I hope we’ll have many retreats. ”

“When you ... what?”

“When I ... retire.” He had said it; it had slipped forth without his knowing.

Cynthia’s eyes shone. “Well, I’ll be et for a tater!”

“We’ll ... talk about it sometime,” he said, coloring.

“Good! I love to talk about the future.”

“Cynthia, Cynthia,” he said, putting on a fresh tab collar, “what don’t you love?”

“Daytime TV, pickled onions, and cheap ballpoint pens.”

He laughed easily. A retreat at the little yellow house. It might have been the south of France for the odd pleasure he took in thinking of it.

Sadie Baxter had been a member of Lord’s Chapel for eighty years. Hardly anyone ever did anything, he mused, for eighty years. This was a blessing not to be taken lightly.

The children lined up and stationed themselves behind Ray Cunningham, who stood at the open door of the parish hall with a video camera on his shoulder.

The rector gazed at the eager faces of thirteen children, ranging in ages from four and a half to twelve years, all with their own excitement over the event.

In today’s world, how many children got to mix with the elderly? How did one ever “learn” what it meant to grow old?

In his time, all that had been in place, there were models for aging everywhere—up and down the street, talking on porches, working in the yard, sitting on benches—visible, out there.

“Here she comes!” shouted Ray.

Esther Bolick banged on a dishpan with a wooden spoon. “Quiet, get ready, here she comes!” Esther threw down the dishpan and took her place at the piano.

“I hope I don’t break your camera!” said Miss Sadie, arriving with Louella and Ron Malcolm, and her best silver-tipped cane.

“Hit it!” shouted Esther.

“Happy Birthday, Miss Sadie!” chorused the children, holding up posters they had made for the occasion.

The entire room burst into hoots, cheers, and applause as he offered his arm and led the guest of honor to a chair in front of the fireplace.

“I’d better sit down before I fall down!” she warbled.

Laughter all around.

“Please come and pay your respects to our precious friend on the occasion of her ninetieth birthday,” said the rector. “Help yourself to the refreshments, and save room for cake and ice cream after the mayor’s speech. But first, let’s pray!”

Much shuffling around and grabbing of loose toddlers.

“Our Father, we thank You profoundly for this day, that we might gather to celebrate ninety years of a life well-lived, of time well-spent in your service.

“We thank You for the roof on this house which was given by Your child, Sadie Baxter, and for all the gifts she freely shares from what You graciously provide.

“We thank You for her good health, her strong spirits, her bright hope, and her laughter. We thank You for Louella, who brings the zestful seasoning of love into our lives. And we thank You, Lord, for the food You’ve bestowed on this celebration, and regard with thanksgiving how blessed we are in all things. Continue to go with Sadie, we pray, and keep her as the apple of Your eye. We ask this in Jesus’ name.

“Amen!” chorused the assembly, who either broke into a stampede to the food table or queued up to deliver felicitations to the honored guest.

He saw Buck Leeper, the job superintendent of Hope House, bow awkwardly in front of Miss Sadie and move quickly toward the door.

He was enthralled to see the children approach her one by one, each with a small, wrapped box—all of which contained, he was told on good authority, peanut butter candy.

Mostly, he loved the sight of Absalom Greer, who, to pay his earnest respects, and regardless of advanced arthritis, knelt by Miss Sadie’s chair on one knee.

And many more! he thought, smiling. And many more, indeed.

They walked home from church, Cynthia carrying a wrapped parcel of the peanut butter and jelly birthday cake, which had been a dubious hit.

“Dooley,” she said, “you sang so beautifully, the top of my head tingled.”

The rector put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “And I got cold chills.”

“Miz Bolick hammered down on that piano pretty good. You ought to get it tuned.”

“We’ll see to it,” promised the rector. “Run in and finish getting your things together. Marge and Hal will be along in a few minutes.”

“I want to take that cage Jack used to stay in, in case I find a rabbit or anything hurt.”

“Take it.”

Dooley dashed into the rectory ahead of them, and they paused on the stoop.

“How are you?” asked Cynthia.

“Struggling.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Nobody knew it. The party was a huge success! Miss Sadie wept when Dooley sang, and everyone loved your poem.”

“Ummm.”

“Do you think we’d have celebrated Miss Sadie like that if she hadn’t put the roof on and given the nursing home?”