Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Seemingly without concern for the S for September discount, the mayor had stepped up to the plate and bought Ina Garten’s latest and a big-ticket coffee table book by Bunny Williams, which, he said, would please his Italian wife, who was doing over their bedroom.

As for Hastings, the boy had forked out $13.95 plus tax for a paper edition of Eighty Days, as there was no Wordsworth to be found save in a pricey anthology.

All of which, when added to Scott’s hardcover and the teachers’ rather brisk business, amounted to . . .

‘Two hundred and eighty-four dollars and twenty-six cents,’ he reported in a call to Hope. ‘Is that good?’

‘That’s wonderfully good!’ she said.

‘And my wife gave us an order for a hundred and twenty dollars for items we don’t have in stock. Should I pass that list to Marcie?’

‘Yes, please. This is such good news, Father; I don’t know what to say. How can I ever thank you?’

‘Taking care of yourself is all the thanks I need. I’ll be over to see you soon, and I’ll be here tomorrow, same time. Tomorrow’s payday around town, we need to be open.’

Tears.

‘My dog enjoys coming in. Must get down to the bank now.’

‘You’re a saint.’

‘If you only knew,’ he said.

•   •   •

AFTER LOCKING UP, he gave the new postings a once-over.

There is no frigate like a book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry

–EMILY DICKINSON

Pray for Hope!

Push lawnmower for sale, good condition $45 or make offer -2895 ask for Lloyd

Esther was right, of course. Their community billboard would have to go. He set the backpack down and peeled the many contributions off the window and put them in his backpack.

A little white vinegar and the Times’ Style section and all would be well. He wondered if the Muse had ever run that as a helpful hint for glass-cleaning.

•   •   •

HIS MAMA WAS SETTIN’ on the side of the bed; he could tell she had dipped a little snuff.

‘Looky here,’ he said. He didn’t even stop to take off his jacket. ‘It’s my name in a book.’

‘What’re ye doin’, gittin’ y’r name ever’where all of a sudden?’

‘I ain’t doin’ nothin’, it’s jis’ in here. Th’ preacher says always was in here, always gon’ be in here.’

‘Is my name in there?’

‘It ain’t. What my name’s in here f’r is a duck. A coot is a kind of a duck I reckon you named me after.’

‘I never heard of such,’ she said. ‘Your gran’daddy on my side, they called ’im Coot, you was named after your gran’daddy. It wadn’t no duck you was named after, I can tell ye that.’

He liked being named after a duck, but he wouldn’t say a word about it, nossir, that would be his secret. He took the book and set it on the mantelpiece where he could see it from nearabout anywhere in the room.

•   •   •

AFTER RAW COLD, the air was mild and forgiving. He walked with Harley to the west side of the house and the bench beneath the maple.

‘My cue is missing. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Your cue?’ Then it dawned. ‘Lord help!’ Harley said.

‘He’s headed for trouble.’

‘I know it, I know it, Rev’ren’, I lay awake knowin’ it. They was a competition over at Bud’s ball hall in Wesley a few nights back, he prob’ly hated to go in there without a cue. I let ’im ride with Jupe from down at Lew Boyd’s. Jupe’s a good boy, he got Sammy back by eleven-thirty. He done real good in th’ competition.’

‘I’m going to try talking with him,’ he said. ‘No accusations, no guilt trip, no conflict of any kind. Just want to draw him out if I can, see if there’s something we can grab on to. Just talk.’

‘You’ll be blue in th’ face.’

Life with Sammy had been hairy at Meadowgate, but they’d worked at it and Sammy had settled down. And then came the trip to Holly Springs and Ireland, and what was gained now appeared lost.

Also lost was the chance to commandeer the Lord’s Chapel landscaping project and involve Sammy. That was his only regret in saying no to Jack Martin.

•   •   •

RESTLESS, he went to his bookshelves in the study and searched among the Wordsworth volumes. There were many, both by and about the good poet whom he’d loved since boyhood. The paperback bought while in seminary was worn but not wasted. He stuffed it into the backpack.

He wandered up the hall, Barnabas following, to the living room they’d never lived in. Then he peered into the Ball Hall, aka dining room, where they had seldom dined.

He switched on the lights, lonesome for the clattering of balls, the cries of triumph or lamentation. It was as dead in here as a funeral parlor.

The cue rack—it was full. All cue sticks were in place.

Had he and Puny been mistaken? But he’d seen the empty slot with his own eyes and now he was seeing this. He walked to the rack and removed his cue and examined it with some absorption. No marks or damage of any kind.

He replaced the cue and hurried to the study and called next door, expecting Harley to answer.

‘Yeah?’

‘Sammy?’

‘Yeah.’

He couldn’t summon whatever it took to ask for Harley.

‘Just wanted to say . . . we miss seeing you.’ That had flown out, unexpected and true.

Silence.

He didn’t know where to go with this.

‘Well. See you soon.’

‘Yeah,’ said Sammy.

•   •   •

ABSALOM GREER HAD BEEN a mighty encouragement. The eightysomething country evangelist had never pulled punches with the town priest. They had been two respectful equals serving from the common ground of one-God-made-known-through-Jesus-Christ, and having a pretty good time of it.

The old man often spoke of the God of the Second Chance. To roughly reassemble Kafka’s metaphor, God had sure used his axe to break the frozen sea inside Tim Kavanagh, who, as a priest in his forties, had not yet come to a living faith.

He’d been given the grace of the Second Chance over and over again. More than anything, he wanted Sammy to break the bread of grace.

He sat at his computer and brought up the search engine and typed in his search. A lot of sites. He clicked on a link, it opened on exactly what he was looking for. Yes, yes, and yes.

Holy smoke.

In roughly ten minutes, he hit Add to Cart.

•   •   •

WHEN HE RETURNED Friday morning from walking Barnabas to the monument, Puny was jubilant.

‘I have good news!’

‘Last time you had good news, you also had bad news.’

‘Same this time. But th’ good news is, your cue stick’s back! Jis’ like it never left!’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘You mean you found it and put it back?’

‘I just walked in the room and there it was.’

‘Oh,’ she said, knowing. ‘You want to hear th’ bad news?’

‘Not really.’

‘I really don’t want to tell you, either.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’

‘You’ll be mad.’

‘Puny. You’ve known me for ten years. How often have you seen me mad?’

‘Well.’

‘See there? So what’s the bad news?’

‘I had to run up to your room to get your laundry, and because Timmy was cryin’, I jis’ slung ’im on my hip an’ took ’im with me, you know how I do. An’ I laid him down a minute on your pillow, I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘You would be right.’

‘And so . . .’ Puny looked at her feet.

He waited.

‘And so he threw up all over your favorite pillow-w-w!’ A small wail and then tears—a Puny trademark. ‘I know you have trouble sleepin’ and how you looked for years for that one pillow, and now . . .’

‘Now?’

‘Now it’s really stinky.’

He flashed back to his days as a bachelor. So routine, so undisturbed by dissonance, one might have heard a pin drop in his life. Then a dog as big as a Buick started following him home, and then Dooley showed up, and then Puny came to work, and then Cynthia moved in next door, and then Puny started having twins, and that’s how he ended up with a real life. And even though he loved it and wouldn’t trade it for anything, he had no idea how he’d find another pillow as beloved as the one just gone south with upchuck on it.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘This is very bad news. On the other hand, if we consider the really bad news in the world, this news is actually pretty good.’ He was suddenly laughing and didn’t want to stop.

‘I thought you’d be mad,’ she said, looking startled.

‘I’m furious,’ he said, wiping his eyes.

•   •   •

HE STUCK THE VINEGAR in the yellow backpack. Nine-thirty. He had to get out of here. But while he was thinking of it, he went to the basement and checked the windows. They were small, but not too small. And one was unlatched.

•   •   •

LIGHTS, MUSIC, COFFEE.

The high-ceilinged room was originally a drugstore built and operated by the object of Miss Sadie’s unrequited love, Willard Porter. For some reason, the space had a calming effect on him. Add the smell of old wood, the companionable creak of heart pine floorboards, the light through the display windows . . .

He flipped the sign around: OPEN.

He would run tomorrow and again on Monday and Wednesday. As for the Thursday/Friday bookstore schedule, he would see how things progressed.

Chapter Eleven

While his first letter had sprouted on a dry stalk, now came the bush, ablaze with truth and ardor.

If he’d gone back to Lord’s Chapel, Cynthia would have let him off the letter-writing hook. As things stood, two days at the bookstore bought no acquittal. As it happened, the idea for the second letter had struck him quite forcibly; it was the lightbulb above the head of the cartoon character.

Zealous to capture every drop from this underground aquifer, he had written like the wind and now lacked only the ending.

How convenient it would be to trust the inspiration of Duff Cooper, a crackerjack writer of the love letter, but Cooper had stolen unashamedly from Jefferson. All’s fair in love, he knew that much, he could not speak for war.

He laid the pen aside and took a break, considering the many sermons he’d composed at this very hour during years of Saturdays. There had been more than a few, of course, that refused to compose—he’d gone into the pulpit on a wing and a prayer, as surprised as the congregation with what the Holy Spirit gave forth.

He was cooking tonight, and needed a few items from town, but first he would finish the letter—and seal it, so he couldn’t meddle with it later.

He picked up the pen. It wasn’t exactly Beethoven’s address to his Immortal Beloved, but with just the right touch at the end, this would be his finest hour. He couldn’t possibly top this.

•   •   •

FIRST HE SMELLED IT, then he saw it.

Next to the fireplace, the Old Gentleman had thrown up a fairly unrecognizable portion of . . . maybe a chipmunk.

Whatever he said caused his dog to crawl beneath the coffee table.

The miserable deed had been done, of course, when he walked Barnabas to a tried-and-true spot beyond the tulip bed. While his dog nosed around at the end of the leash, the parson had been oblivious—his mind on the afternoon light, on the chiaroscuro of the mountains, on Henry Talbot . . .

•   •   •

SAMMY WAS AVOIDING HIM, of course. But avoiding Sammy would lead nowhere.

Before he ran out to the Local, he popped through the hedge, crunched across the gravel, and knocked on the rectory’s basement door.

‘Hey, Father Tim! Come in, an’ ’scuse th’ mess.’

Kenny was tall and muscular, a bigger fellow than Dooley and Sammy, with a wide smile and the blue-green Barlowe eyes. Hearty, this one, without Sammy’s angst or Dooley’s steel resolve.

He embraced the boy. ‘How’s my timing?’

‘Good! It’s just me an’ Miss Pringle’s cat. Harley an’ Sam’s gone to Wesley for pizza.’

Kenny muted the sports channel. The place felt good, like home.

‘You can sit right there,’ said Kenny. ‘It’s th’ only chair in th’ house not upholstered with cat hair.’

Barbizon gave him a cool eye. Maybe a few too many pizza crusts for Miss Pringle’s cat, who was one hefty feline.

‘Thought I might catch Sammy,’ he said.

Kenny sat on the sofa, a relic from the glory days of the rectory. ‘He stole your cue, Harley said.’

‘But he put it back. I wanted Harley to know.’

‘Sammy had it th’ worst of any of us. Some people think our mother swappin’ me for a gallon of whisky was a tragic thing. Well, it was, but God worked it out to be a good thing.’ Barbizon climbed into Kenny’s lap.

‘Ed Sikes did me a favor droppin’ me off on his grandparents. Mom and Pop saved my life. Sammy didn’t have anybody to save his life. Our old man’s a goon, it’s a wonder Sammy made it out of there as good as he did.’

‘I agree.’

‘You can’t knock Dooley down, he’s th’ iron man, but you can knock Sammy down with a feather. It killed him when he busted that stick you gave him. He never said it, but he grieved that stick. He feels a lot of shame over what he did.’

‘Your brother and I need to talk. When do you think would be a good time?’

‘In the evenings, right after supper. Harley gets him up pretty early an’ they’re out of here by seven-thirty. Sam goes nuts in th’ morning, he don’t like to get up. I have to work on ’im, too, before I leave for th’ restaurant in Wesley. He’s stubborn. Man, is he stubborn.

‘An’ their work’s dryin’ up; Harley’s tryin’ to get him an’ Sammy a few handyman jobs for winter—like shovelin’ snow.’ Kenny grinned. ‘We’re prayin’ for snow around here.’

‘Never too early to pray for snow.’

‘Course, Sammy’s not prayin’ for anything. He don’t know th’ truth. I wouldn’t know it, either, if it wasn’t for my grandparents. I told you I think of them as my grandparents.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll go back to Oregon,’ said Kenny. ‘I’ll go back. Mom and Pop are old, they need me.’

In October, there would be Dinner One at a table across the driveway, with Dooley and Pooh and Jessie and their mother, Pauline—with Buck, of course. A painful piece of business, but he should mention it, at least. ‘You know Dooley’s coming home soon. There’ll be a couple of get-togethers at our place. All are welcome.’

‘Our mother’s comin’?’

‘To the first one, yes.’

‘Nossir, I’m not ready for that an’ Sammy’s definitely not ready for that. I know what Jesus says about forgiveness, but . . . no way. You did us a favor when you took Dooley in. What you did for Dooley has touched us all, an’ will keep on touchin’ us. You’ve done a lot for Sammy, too. I thank you.’

He had no words, only the certainty that he hadn’t done enough.

‘So you and Sammy and Harley are invited for the second night, okay?’

‘Yessir. Thanks.’

I believe we’ll see the day, he wanted to say, when we’ll all move back and forth through the hedge . . . like family. But he said nothing.

On the screen, figures racing toward the goal line.

‘You like the restaurant business?’

‘I try to give it my best an’ I’m savin’ everything I can. I guess if somebody asked me what I’d like to do, I’d have to say build bridges. That’s it for sure. But mostly, I just want to go to school. I want to learn, I want to know.’ Kenny’s voice was thick with feeling. ‘I want to fly.’

•   •   •

AVIS HAD BEEN PLEASED with the parson’s dinner menu.

Pan-seared scallops with roast potatoes and carrots. Endive in a light dressing of avocado oil and lemon juice with sea salt. A crusty bread from Sweet Stuff, and the Local’s most highly recommended chardonnay, listing to the oaky side. As always, Avis expected as full a report as the customer was willing to render.

But the letter. When he went to fetch it, he couldn’t find it. He sat at the desk and tried to remember any unusual movement he’d made or action he’d deployed.

It had simply vanished.

Where was his mind? What had happened? He remembered sealing the envelope, and yes, he’d been distracted by the chipmunk business—what a cleanup!—but how distracted could he have been? He searched all drawers and pawed through the wastebasket, experiencing a feeling akin to slipping off an ocean shelf into the fullness of the sea.

The letter had been his magnum opus. And while certain parts of it had come easily, other parts had been dredged from the deep, requiring the might of prayer and patience. He had been Michelangelo at the marble of David, if he did say so himself.

As for her letter, he read it by the flame of three candles burning on the kitchen island. He was scarcely able to see his dinner, much less her small, eccentric scribbling. But she loved him, he knew that; he had known it all along and would always know it, and wasn’t that the point?

‘Can we quit?’ he said later, drying the skillet she had washed. ‘Writing letters, I mean.’

‘Sure. Okay.’

‘That was easy.’

She laughed. ‘I just wanted to see if we were paying attention.’

He put the skillet in the drawer. ‘And are we?’

‘We are. I loved learning that you’ll always think of me as the girl next door.’

‘In this letter, I was able to say other ways I think of you.’

She looked at him, happy. ‘But don’t tell me the ways,’ she said, scrubbing the roast pan. ‘I’ll wait for the letter.’

‘If we find it,’ he said. ‘A fresh pair of eyes. Sometimes that works.’

She dried her hands and made a beeline for the study.

‘I love this,’ she said, tearing into his bookshelves.

‘I wouldn’t have put it there.’

‘But if we look only where you would have put it, which you’ve already done, how will we ever find it?’

‘Go for it,’ he said.

•   •   •

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, he walked with Barnabas along the drowsing street, headed for the monument.

This time next Sunday, things would be different in Mitford. Henry Talbot would have spoken his piece, and perhaps, one hoped, made his peace. One chapter would end, another would begin—Father Brad would bring something of the young Colorado mountains to these ancient hills and life would flow on. He was dreading next Sunday, though he had no real responsibility. All he had to do was show up.

He buttoned his old flannel jacket. A few days ago it had felt like winter, then a bit like spring. Today, a genuine autumn was in the air and he savored it. The leaves would be turning soon, the maples doing their chorus line of scarlet and gold along Lilac Road . . .

He wanted to see Sammy this evening, but Harley had called to say the boy was down with a case of flu. ‘You don’t reckon ol’ Barbizon could carry th’ germs upstairs to Miss Pringle, do ye?’

‘No, no, I don’t reckon so at all,’ he said, putting a shine on things.

As he crossed Lilac at Town Hall, the air was stirred by a sweet drone. He braked his dog and looked up to a cloudless blue sky and felt a smile have its way with his face.

Omer Cunningham was out and about in his yellow ragwing.

Chapter Twelve

Make me a blessing . . .

He jiggled the key in the lock. Nothing.

More jiggling. More nothing.

‘I hear you don’t cuss,’ said Abe, obviously enjoying himself.

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘When I messed with that lock last summer, I personally could not help it. The air turned blue all the way to the bypass.’

Jiggle to the left, jiggle to the right, as per instructions.

‘Easy does it. You’re trying too hard. You have to be gentle with it.’

He felt blood thrumming between his ears.

‘Hey,’ said Coot, coming up at a trot.

‘Hey, yourself,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair.’

Coot thumped onto the Happy Endings bench, glad to find a little action on the street.

‘Good morning, Father!’ J.C.’s wife, Adele, was in full MPD gear and looking taller, somehow. ‘I see you’re keepin’ your hand in where criminal activity’s concerned.’

Abe and Coot had a laugh.

‘Ha, ha,’ he said, dry as a husk. Barnabas stuffed himself beneath the bench.

‘Want some help?’ asked Adele. ‘I’ve worked with that lock a couple of times.’

‘It takes a village,’ he said, jiggling.

‘Is that the right key?’

Of course it’s the right key. Why couldn’t a man have a little bloody privacy trying to enter his bloody workplace? Thank heaven for the Irish, who saved the day when it came to cussing.

‘How does Hope put up with this?’ he said to no one in particular.

‘It works fine for her. Most of the time, anyway.’ Abe crossed his arms, lounged against the display window. ‘Lieutenant Hogan here could use her piece on it. One shot and you’re open for business.’

Adele tapped the silver badge on her jacket. ‘Make that Captain Hogan, if you don’t mind.’

He wiped his sweaty palms on his khakis, shook her hand. ‘Congratulations, Captain. Well deserved.’

‘I’ve got to open up here pretty soon,’ said Abe. ‘So can th’ captain shoot th’ lock or not?’

More laughter. More additions to the crowd of onlookers. Coot passed around an open bag of Cheetos.

‘Why, hey, Father! Marie Sanders, remember me? I gave that armoire to th’ Bane and Blessin’ a few years back.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember your armoire.’ He had helped move it off the Sanderses’ truck. It weighed a ton. He had intensely disliked armoires, including his own, ever since.

‘It made a dandy entertainment center for the Bolicks,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am, I remember.’

‘We didn’t have a place for it anymore.’

It seemed the key wanted to veer right, into an inner sanctum unknown, perhaps, even to the lock-maker of yore.

‘Sometimes I miss it, it was very roomy. We kept th’ cat litter in there an’ th’ dog food, then th’ mice started comin’ in through a hole in the back.’

One more time and he was done, the whole town could have a go. He removed the key, waited a moment, and inserted it again, as if rebooting a computer.

‘It wasn’t a real big hole or anything,’ said Marie Sanders. ‘We patched it before we put it in th’ sale.’

‘Hold it right there! Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, Father, okay? Great! Super! Yay-y-y! What’s goin’ on?’

Vanita Bentley had arrived with her iPhone.

Click. The key found the sweet spot. A little short on breath, he escaped with his dog into the silent realm of ink and paper, and closed the door behind him.

Books! Man’s best friend.

Next to the dog, of course.

•   •   •

SANDWICH. APPLE. RAISINS. ALMONDS. Bottled water. Toilet tissue. Kibble. Winnie’s peanut-butter dog biscuits. Journal. Fountain pen. Pushpins. Flyer for the front door.

He stashed the empty backpack under the sales counter and moved on to the fun part.

Lights. Beethoven. Coffee.

Since retiring, he hadn’t been able to find the groove worn by all those years of priesting. Getting up at five had remained routine, as had Morning Prayer, but from there, routine staggered off the cliff around seven-thirty a.m. and perished on the rocks below. He had missed being in a groove, a fact he discovered by realizing he’d found one at Happy Endings.

Two days of routine and five of the wildly random. Most people would give anything for a plan like that.

He read Marcie’s note.

Fr Tim, Here’s our O for Oct. sale!!!! feels like we just had it yesterday—I could not do window on Wed. with O banner which we keep under stairway. Pls put banner on display window floor with stack of books on chair with O titles. U r an angel. Call if u need me. Use stuffed cat that looks like M Ann, also under stair.

PS Big box books arriving today U unpack I shelve OK?

He pinned his quote to the corkboard.

Tolle, lege: take up and read. —Augustine of Hippo

He carried the flyer to the front door and taped it to the glass. If Esther Cunningham came after him for this, he would go to the mat for the right to use the front door as a declamatory venue. He would bend but he would not break.

Open Wednesday,

Thursday & Friday

10 until 4:45

Come in &

Add A Literary Quote

To Our Billboard

He made the sign of the cross and turned the CLOSED sign around.

OPEN.

Yes.

•   •   •

‘MY DELIVERY TRUCK’S RUNNIN’ LATE,’ said J.C. ‘Here you go, hand-delivered.’ J.C. spread today’s edition of the Muse on the sales counter, tapped a story on the front page. ‘You can read that out loud in your preaching voice.’

He skipped the headline beneath a two-column-wide color photo, and read:

Adele Hogan has been named Captain of the Mitford Police Department, filling the former position of our new Chief, Joe Joe Guthrie.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you feature our new chief on the front page? I mean . . .’

‘He’s inside front page,’ said J.C. ‘Not official ’til November. Read on.’

“I will be honored,” Hogan said when the news was announced internally, “to serve the citizens of Mitford as ably and justly as I possibly can.”

‘Nice, huh?’ said J.C.

“She’s the one for the job,” said former Chief Rodney Underwood, who moves to Wesley as Chief of the WPD. “I was impressed when she interviewed several years ago. Some people when they interview, you can tell they just want to carry a gun and drive fast.”

‘Adele is truly different,’ said J.C. ‘She wants to carry a gun, drive fast, and be of real service to the community.’

‘Noble,’ he said.

•   •   •

‘DARLING! ANY BUSINESS UP THERE?’

‘A couple of tourists from Alabama, one from Statesville. Pretty steady.’

‘Have you read the Muse?’

‘About Adele, yes, but haven’t read about Joe Joe.’

‘You have sixty-five votes.’

‘Sixty-five!’ He felt the heat in his face.

‘It’s looking very promising. And Coot got another vote, he has three now. Here’s what the article says:

“Every little town needs a town fixture. I cast my vote for Coot Hendrik who once helped my elderly mother cross the street plus he ran after somebody’s grocery cart last week when it rolled down the hill behind the Local. Little things mean a lot, people! It doesn’t have to be all sparkle and shine. Sincerely, Anonymous.”

‘Him again. Did you find the letter?’

‘No, but Puny can have a go tomorrow. I thought you’d like what Anonymous said.’

‘That it can’t all be glitter and gleam? Amen to that.’

‘Sparkle and shine, I think he said. You can’t get this sort of thing in the Times, sweetheart.’

He wanted a five-hundred-dollar day today, he really did, plus he had to find a bunch of O titles and get the window done.

‘Any news from next door?’ he asked his wife.

‘I called this morning,’ she said. ‘Sammy’s some better, but now Harley’s down with it. So far, Kenny is unscathed.’

‘Okay, gotta go, Kav’na. See you around five-fifteen.’

‘By the way, did you order something? UPS dropped off a long box this morning. It’s in the garage.’

His scalp prickled. ‘I’ll tell you everything when I get home.’

The God of the Second Cue had delivered.

•   •   •

‘YOU DIDN’T TELL ME you were workin’ at th’ bookstore.’

He was astounded to see Emma Newland with a tan. They were clearly giving free samples at A Cut Above.

‘I didn’t know I was expected to report such matters.’

‘Which days are you workin’?’

‘Thursday and Friday.’

‘I still have Tuesday open,’ she said.

And he still had Tuesday closed. ‘I’ll remember that.’

‘I voted for you; I emailed it to Vanita last week. But I think this should be a democratic election, so next week, I’m voting for Winnie.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘she deserves it.’

‘I guess a person can have more than one vote.’

‘Probably so. I don’t recall seeing any rules. How about buying a book?’

‘I don’t have time to read.’

‘For your granddaughter,’ he said. ‘Grandchildren have time to read.’

Emma adjusted her half-glasses, peered around the store. ‘What do they read?’

He didn’t actually know, he needed to discuss the whole issue of children’s books with Hope. ‘Eric Carle.’ He’d heard Cynthia mention Eric Carle. ‘Or—let’s see, starts with an S—Sendak! Maurice. Yes, he was quite the revolutionary.’

‘Nothing political,’ said Emma.

He was still conflicted about whether to promote Cynthia’s books, which were perennially displayed throughout the store. He headed for the Children’s section, tailed by Emma.

‘So what did th’ bishop want?’

‘He wanted to talk something over.’

‘What was so grave that he couldn’t mention it in his letter?’

‘It was so grave that I can’t mention it in conversation.’

That was sticking the knife in and turning it. He pulled The Very Hungry Caterpillar off a shelf.

‘It was somethin’ to do with Lord’s Chapel, I can tell you that.’ Smug’s truest meaning, personified.

He studied the S authors, found a Sendak, paged through. What if Where the Wild Things Are scared the granddaughter? How could he possibly know what to recommend if all he’d read of the children’s inventory was Violet books?

‘Just give me one of Cynthia’s,’ she said, impatient. ‘Or two—Hope needs th’ money. So, are you goin’ to say somethin’ about my tan or not?’

‘It’s becoming.’

‘It’s th’ Boca. You should try it yourself while th’ special’s on. And by th’ way, I will not vote for Wanda Basinger next time around, I am not that democratic.’

He took two Violet books off the shelf and headed for the register, Emma nipping at his heels.

‘Nothing she does is out of the goodness of her heart. A restaurant is a commercial enterprise; she is paid to make great fries, she is supposed to stack her garbage in a neat pile for pickup.’ She stood at the sales counter, slid her glasses down her nose, gave him a look. ‘So where’s any leadership involved in that?’

He swiped her card.

‘How’s Snickers?’ he said.

•   •   •

HE WAS ROAMING THE STORE looking for O titles when he heard the bell. Irene McGraw. Irene was in her usual garb of pants and cotton sweater, making the casual appear elegant. He wished he could remember the name of the famous film star people said she looked like, but since he never saw a movie . . .

She didn’t see him, so he let her browse. Book browsing had its own set of rules, of course. It was a contemplative pursuit, and he was trying to learn when to reel in a paying customer and when to reel out.

‘Irene,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you. I apologize for the uproar we caused.’

She smiled. ‘It was very funny. So few things are in today’s news. Thank you for your concern, it was lovely to feel looked after.’

‘How’s the new grandson?’

‘A fine, big boy, thank you. He has his Grandfather Chester’s eyes.’

‘I miss seeing Chester,’ he said, meaning it. ‘How may I help you?’

She waved her hand, a kind of flutter. ‘Lots of grandchildren who love to read.’

‘Fifteen percent off titles beginning with O,’ he said.

‘I’ll just wander through, if you don’t mind. I may be a while. I like to read the books I give.’

He was impressed, to say the least.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then. And many thanks for your kind generosity to the hospital. When we went looking for you that day, I waited for Cynthia in your living room. I confess that I studied your paintings. They’re breathtaking, really.’

There was the look he always associated with her, the distant, sorrowing, distracted look. A look which was actually rather beautiful, like the face of a Madonna.

She smiled, but didn’t acknowledge his praise. ‘I believe the children’s books are that way?’