Текст книги "Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good"

Автор книги: Jan Karon

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

He made out like he didn’t hear, and plowed on and went to conjuring again. ‘At Christmas, Miz Bolick brings us a orange marmalade cake. It is the best cake me and my mama ever et.’

‘It is that, all right.’ Her hair was gray as fog against the pillow.

He remembered the first time Miz Bolick ever showed up at their door. It was snowing, and she was about covered up with it, as she wasn’t wearing a hat, but she was wearing red gloves and she was holding out that cake with the orange slice on top. He had busted out crying and been mighty embarrassed because her husband was standing right behind her. He hadn’t known what to do, if he should take the cake and leave them out in the snow or invite them to come in the house. He had never invited anybody to come in the house, the neighbor woman just came in whenever she took a notion, and the nurse sent by the county done the same. But Mr. and Miz Bolick had gone on home, saying Merry Christmas and waving bye-bye, and he remembered Miz Bolick’s red glove shooting up in the dark night.

It was hard to keep his eyes glued to the paper and make something up at the same time. ‘At Thanksgiving, th’ church people bring us a plate from down at th’ All-Church Feast, one f’r me and one f’r Beulah Mae Hendrick.’

She sat up and glared at him. ‘You mean to say I got my name in th’ paper?’

He hadn’t meant to say her name because she didn’t deserve to get her name in the paper. But the mule was out of the barn.

She was wagging her bony old finger like a hickory switch. ‘How come you didn’t say nothin’ ’bout my name bein’ in there?’

‘It’s a . . .’ He almost said a bad word. ‘. . . surprise!’ He’d be runnin’ for the county line if he’d of said that word.

She snatched the paper. ‘I’ll be et f’r a tater,’ she said. ‘Let me see my name. Where’s it at?’

Lord help. She could read a little bit. His finger trembled as he poked at a jumble of words in the middle of the page.

‘Well, I’ll be,’ she said, sinking back on the pillow. ‘You tear that out where my name is and put it in th’ Bible. An’ go on and keep readin’, this is mighty good.’

He felt a terrible need to pass water, but wanted to stick with this and see where it was headed; he never knowed before that he could make out like he was reading.

‘Sometimes it is a Baptist that brings our plates from th’ All-Church, and sometimes it is th’ Methodists, an’ one time it was th’ Presbyterians, but most of th’ time it’s Father Tim who used to preach down at Lord’s Chapel.’

‘That’s right,’ said Beulah Mae. ‘Most of th’ time, that’s who it is. What else did ye say?’

His mind was empty as a gourd. ‘Let me think a minute.’

He didn’t know when they dropped off to sleep, but they woke up at the same time as a clap of thunder broke directly over the house.

She sat up, hollering. ‘Let me die, I’m too old to live!’

‘Stop that now, dadgummit!’ He was sick of hearing it. His mama was going on a hundred, maybe already was a hundred, since she won’t too sure when she was born.

‘Let me die!’ she hollered again.

‘Stop eatin, then!’ he hollered as he went into the kitchen.

‘Go to meetin’ men? Are ye crazy as a bedbug?’

You’re a mama’s boy, they said in school—whenever he went to school. But he didn’t even like his mama, whose people come over from Ireland—she was mean as a wet cat.

‘What d’ye want for supper?’ he shouted.

‘Warm milk and buttered toast and you could boil me a egg if we got any.’

‘We ain’t got any eggs n’r any milk. Our checks don’t come ’til day after next.’

‘Why’d you ask, then?’

‘To hear m’ head roar!’ he hollered.

He would bake her an onion, right in the skin, then take the skin off when he put it out in the bowl and salt it a little but not much, given she had high blood pressure and fluid around her heart and he didn’t know what all. And he’d put a piece of buttered toast with that and a cup of hot tea with a spoon of sugar. Don’t say that wouldn’t be good, and he’d fix the same for hisself.

He heard the rain on the roof, coming down hard; he liked rain and snow and weather of all kinds except high wind. He fairly hummed as he took two yellow onions out of the basket and set about doing what had to be done in this life.

•   •   •

‘I LOVE THEE WITH the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life,’ he read aloud from the Browning model. Hard to beat. Impossible, actually. He would give cash money to be released from this torment.

He picked up the pen, wrote.

I love thee for the way you look in the morning, like the girl next door which you once were and ever shall be to me . . . for the way you forgive me even before I commit the unforgivable . . . for believing that I am all the things I thought myself never to be—

How she occasionally raved on, his heedless, imaginative wife, and how he loved her with everything in him.

. . . for being brave when I am not, for being cheerful when I am sour, for putting up with me.

Somehow, it wasn’t coming together as he hoped. Though each sentiment was supremely true, the words lacked something visceral—bells needed to chime, bands needed to march.

The rain had stopped; he had enjoyed the sound of it pecking at the window. He looked to the kitchen, to the wall clock. Nine p.m. Cynthia had gone up to bed with a book; his crowd snored by the last embers of the fire.

He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. A desperate matter, the bishop had said.

He stood and stretched, feeling newfound muscles in his back, in his legs, as headlights flashed into the rectory drive next door. Sammy, Kenny, and Harley were home from the hills of Kentucky, safe and sound as he’d prayed them to be.

He pulled on his cardigan and walked out to the stoop. He’d get a breath of air, maybe go over and welcome them home.

Truck doors slamming, the crunching of pea gravel beyond the hedge, voices.

‘Tote my grip in, somebody.’ Harley, his old buddy. ‘I got t’ find th’ door key. Leave th’ truck lights on, hit’s dark as a dungeon out here.’

‘I ain’t g-goin’ back to school, I don’t c-care what you say.’ Ah, Sammy.

‘I just said Dooley wants to talk about it when he comes home.’ Kenny’s deep baritone. ‘Talk about it, that’s all.’

‘D-Dooley th’ king, dude of th’ earth, Mr. m-money f-freak!’

‘Chill, Sam. Dooley loves you, he’s good to you.’

‘You been mouthin’ off th’ last twenty miles,’ said Harley. ‘I’m gon’ yank a knot in y’r tail if ye don’t hush.’

‘I’d like to s-s-see that. You ain’t th’ b-boss of me.’ This followed by a stream of language.

‘Miz Pringle don’t want t’ hear such talk,’ said Harley. ‘She’ll give ye y’r walkin’ papers.’

‘She won’t g-give me n-nothin’. But she might g-g-give you somethin’, parley voo f-francay.’

‘Whoa, now, dadgummit.’

The back porch light switched on.

‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, cessez ces vilains cris tout de suite! N’avez-vous donc aucune consideration pour nos bons voisins?’

Hélène Pringle spoke French when vexed, and though he hardly understood a word she’d just said, he definitely got her meaning.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Kenny. ‘We apologize. We’re sorry.’

Harley chimed in. ‘We sure are, Miss Pringle. Real sorry.’

‘You have roast poulet waiting downstairs in your oven, though I can’t think why I did such a thing for shameless hooligans.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Kenny. ‘We thank you.’

‘It won’t happen ag’in,’ said Harley.

We’ll see about that, he thought, stepping inside.

Chapter Six

So he was a laughingstock, he thought as he gave himself the morning insulin shot. Big deal. Clergy were known to do worse than go weak in the knees. He would get out there and face the music, let the chips fall where they may. Not for him the blighted syndrome of retired-priest-who-won’t-leave-the-house.

He did his stretching in the study, tied on the bandanna Puny had laundered, made a swing through the kitchen to stuff the bakery list in his shorts pocket, and paid his respects in the studio.

‘Pray for me,’ he said, kissing his wife.

‘Go and be as the butterfly, sweetheart.’

He went out through the garage and hit the sidewalk running.

In this desperate matter . . . can’t be spoken. He learned long ago that it was useless to second-guess a bishop. Cynthia would go with him on the drive to Asheville; they would have a nice lunch, maybe put the top down and live a little.

Truth be told, he was more concerned about tonight’s pool lesson and how much a fool he’d make of himself. He’d shot a few games, of course, though he hardly had a clue what he was doing; he just tried to get a ball in a pocket—any ball, any pocket.

The morning was unseasonably warm and humid, not unlike the flatlands in late spring. He crossed Wisteria and stood for a moment on the corner, observing Main Street in motion at seven-thirty—two workmen on ladders, replacing the awning at Village Shoes, a pickup truck off-loading bushels of valley apples into the Local.

And there was the cloud of aromas sent forth by the Sweet Stuff Bakery ovens, fired six days a week at five a.m. sharp. For his money, the yeasty fragrance diffused by clean mountain air was the best thing about Mitford—where could you find another town that smelled this good every morning?

He dodged Shirlene’s sandwich board and buzzed three times at the bakery’s side entrance—he being one of the few customers allowed entry before the front doors opened at eight. The kitchen curtain parted, Winnie Kendall peered through the window. The monitor buzzed, the door swung open.

‘Good morning, good morning!’ he called out to the kitchen.

Winnie stepped into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Father! We’re just glazin’ the Danish an’ slicin’ th’ cakes. What can we do for you?’

He loved her good face, it was all smiles, all the time—the sort of face you wouldn’t mind wearing every day.

‘Just dropping off an order and I’ll get out of your way.’

He dug in his shorts pocket for the list. ‘I can swing by for it later this morning.’

Odd. It was in a small envelope. He hadn’t noticed that when he grabbed it off the kitchen counter.

‘Let’s see.’ He opened the envelope, and knew at once this wasn’t the list. Something like joy leaped in him. What to do? Put it back in his pocket and wait to read it later? But then, why wait?

‘This is not the list,’ he said. ‘I’ll just . . . sit a minute in the coffee nook.’

‘Good! Away from the window where nobody can see you, or they’ll be comin’ in through th’ air vents.’

He glanced at his watch; Winnie and her husband, Thomas, had forty-five minutes to fill the display cases. Her accelerator was definitely floored.

‘Can you remember your list, Father?’

‘Yes, yes. Let’s see.’ The mix-up had rattled him. Maybe if he recalled who would be there tonight . . . ‘There’s Sammy, he’s sixteen, no, wait, he’s seventeen. And Kenny, he’s nineteen, a strapping fellow. And Harley, he’s just driven from Kentucky, so he’ll have an appetite. And there’s Miss Pringle.’

A timer going off in the kitchen.

‘That’ll be th’ bran muffins,’ said Winnie. ‘Sounds like you need a cake. The triple-chocolate would be my recommendation.’

‘A cake! That reminds me. I need to stop by Esther Bolick’s and order a two-layer orange marmalade for Dooley’s visit home.’

Now Winnie seemed rattled.

‘What is it, Winnie?’

‘Oh, my. Well. Nothing, just . . . nothing!’

‘It wasn’t a cake we’re after,’ he said. ‘Let’s see . . .’ His mind was a complete blank.

‘Two teenagers, you said. That’s brownies for sure.’

‘Of course! That’s it. Your famous brownies. A panful, please. And two sugar-free lemon squares. And a chocolate pie. No, wait, we talked about the pie for Lace, for the weekend of the seventeenth.’

‘Of September?’

‘No, no. October.’ He was a basket case; he could handle only one social event at a time. ‘Let’s see. Yes! And a crème brûlée!’ For Harley, who had no teeth at all. ‘And a napoleon for Miss Pringle, she’s French, you know. And a pan of yeast rolls and two bags of hamburger buns.’ He was drained.

‘A pan of brownies,’ she said. ‘Two sugar-free lemon squares, a crème brûlée, a napoleon, a pan of yeast rolls, and two bags of buns. I can have it ready at nine-thirty, but that’s a long time for you to wait.’

‘No, no, I’ll be back at nine-thirty. I’ll just sit here a minute, if you don’t mind.’

‘I can’t turn th’ lights on in here ’til eight or they’ll be bangin’ on th’ door.’

‘Of course, that’s fine.’

‘How about a cup of coffee?’

‘Please, don’t trouble yourself, you have your hands full.’

‘Never too full for you, Father, you helped me hang on to this old place, remember?’

‘Well, then, black as coal, Winnie, and thank you.’

He felt eighteen years old as he withdrew the triple-folded sheet from the envelope. Her scent of wisteria . . .

She had gotten ahead of him by a mile, and with things going the way they were, he wouldn’t be able to turn his in ’til tomorrow. Sic vita est.

‘You look happy as a chigger,’ said Winnie, delivering his coffee in a real mug instead of Styrofoam.

He laid the folded letter by the coffee mug and waited. He would not be tempted to read it in haste, as her words would be wonderful and one must prepare, as best one ever can, for what is wonderful.

And maybe reading it here wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Maybe he should take it to the bench at the Methodist chapel, where there was a large bird feeder and a good bit of birdsong. He blew on the coffee to cool it down. For that matter, he would be running right by Lord’s Chapel, where he could sit on the bench in the rose garden he’d planted himself.

He saw her as she might have looked when writing it, the way she held her mouth when she worked—and yes, she would have worked on this, for his wife, like Flaubert, minded every word. She was earnest in all she undertook, and now this tangible gift, this endearing artifact of her affections . . .

He felt a slow flood of happiness, like a tide coming in, and made the sign of the cross and lifted the fold.

My dearest husband,

As a child with parents who scarcely knew me, I remember distinctly what I yearned for—to be somewhere safe with somebody good.

When I was recovering from the clumsy attempt to end my life and just awakening to His life in me, I remember asking, Please, God, let me be somewhere safe with somebody good.

Your goodness to me has been overwhelming. How tender you are, though I am often as tough as gristle. How patiently you have loved me since you made up your mind to love me always.

By His grace, I am safe at last. But to be safe with you is grace beyond measure.

Thomas Traherne said “We are as prone to love as the sun is to shine.”

I was always prone—as prone as one could possibly be, I feel. But could I actually love? Not until I met you, Timothy, who is Love’s truest yeoman.

For everything that you are to me and to many, for your kindness of spirit and unbounded generosity, I love and cherish you with all my being, and if God choose—please forgive me for borrowing this—I shall but love thee better after death.

Bookends forever,

C

Thomas blew into the room bearing an enormous tray. Jelly donuts, cookies, Danish, crème horns, lemon squares. The still-unlighted room hummed with energy.

‘Winnie’s comin’ with th’ muffins, but we’re runnin’ behind on th’ cakes,’ said Thomas, mildly desperate.

‘I’ll pray!’ he said, and did. Retail these days needed all the help it could get.

‘Anything you’d like before you go, Father? We have sugar-free Danish, you know.’

‘No, thanks, Thomas, and much obliged for the coffee. I have everything I need.’

He checked his pocket, making sure the letter was there. ‘Absolutely everything.’

•   •   •

HE WAS BREATHING HARD as he came around the bend at the Methodist chapel, looking neither right nor left, and ignoring the thought of the bench—there would be no more sitting, he was done with sitting. He was flying now, zooming, really, in some rare transport he’d seldom known. And while there was no real need to stop by Esther’s—he could call, Cynthia could call—he liked the idea of seeing his old parishioner and personally delivering his OMC order. Besides, three miles was three miles, nobody said he couldn’t make stops along the way.

How could he top such a letter? He could not, and anyway, topping it was not the point. That she could say such things to him, as woolly as he’d been of late, was yet another testament to her own boundless generosity. As for the pitiable effort sitting unfinished in his desk drawer, surely he would get his wind—be able to go deeper, step up higher, somehow hit the mark.

He would be wringing wet by the time he reached Esther Bolick’s; maybe he should call her, after all. And maybe he should order a three-layer, not a two. While the two-layer was heaven’s gate, the three-layer was heaven itself.

There went the mailman tooling along in his mail cart; he threw up his hand in salute, reminded that he was feeling letter-challenged. He couldn’t seem to finish the one to Henry, either. He would give a shout to Holly Springs on Sunday—voice-to-voice was always good—and say hello to Peggy while he was at it.

As a boy, he had prayed with desperation for a brother—roughly sixty years later, he had one. For that reason alone, the business of Henry was beyond blood or color or Matthew Kavanagh’s duplicity. The smart, sensitive, considerate Henry Winchester was a tailor-made brother with whom he shared major understanding from the get-go.

He remembered their talk while sitting on Henry’s garden bench in the frying heat of a Holly Springs morning. They had connected on a level too profound to plumb straight off, but which, with time, might be plumbed for the rest of their lives.

In the end, his mother’s memory could not be shamed by a gift from God. Don’t worry about me, she would say, and never worry what others may think. I worried too much about what others thought—I can tell you it’s a tragic waste of time and energy and pokes God in the eye.

Yes, yes, and yes. If allowed, the dead still spoke.

On his left, Lord’s Chapel, built of stone laid by local workmen in the early twentieth century. He glanced toward the rose garden, but the trees had grown up considerably in just a few years, and he couldn’t see much that lay beyond.

This had once been the center of the universe for him; sixteen years of memories stored in a vault to which he alone held the key. Dooley’s confirmation, his own wedding day with the church packed and the bride late and the groom on search-and-rescue and the organist hammering away to fill the gap and the two of them running, no, racing down Main Street, and how she ever did it in high heels was beyond him. Uncle Billy’s funeral, which turned into a laugh-in he’d never forget; the long procession of cars with people paying their last respects to Sadie Baxter, his favorite parishioner of this life or any other; the annual Advent Walk and everyone’s freezing fingers warmed by the heat of apple cider in a paper cup; the annual All-Church Thanksgiving that made ecumenism so lively and quick in these mountains . . .

He noted a bit of trash caught in the overgrown hemlock hedge, and stopped, blowing like a horse. He removed the bandanna and wiped his head and face and neck. What salve was the common bandanna.

But if he picked the stuff out of the hedge, where would he put it?

A fast-food wrapper, a plastic fork, a grocery receipt, a baby diaper, of all things, and the inevitable plastic bag, which he stuffed with the other detritus. He hadn’t noticed the trash before, perhaps because he’d been running on the opposite side of the street. Trash had never lingered in the hedge when he was priest. Dooley’s now-deceased grandfather and church sexton, Russell Jacks, had seen to that.

He moved along, stooping, filling the bag. Where did this stuff come from? Tourists, some might accuse, but that dog wouldn’t necessarily hunt.

He straightened up, looked at the church building in the September light. There was a spirit about it that he didn’t quite recognize—something—he searched for the word—doleful, perhaps. As they were members now of the Wesley cure, he hadn’t kept up with his old parish—it was, in fact, against church tradition for him to meddle in the business of a former congregation. Some hierarchy hadn’t been thrilled that he’d chosen to remain in Mitford—most retiring priests moved to other pastures to make the severance complete.

He started his run again, jogging to the curb, where he paused before crossing Main.

The limo was moving south, flying. Headed down the mountain, apparently, and too fast for a good look at the license plate. Either George Clooney had closed the deal with the realtor and was in a hurry to get home, or Elvis was after barbecue on the bypass in Holding.

He continued up Old Church Lane toward the minuscule office he had shared, for what seemed eternity, with Emma Newland. How had he done that? Emma, Emma, Preacher’s Dilemma, someone had said. But she was loyal. Oh, yes, and to a fault. She would flog any man, woman, or child who stepped out of line with her erstwhile boss.

And there was the time he’d been minding his sermon and Russell Jacks brought his grandson to that very door. He could see as plain as day the barefoot Dooley Barlowe in filthy overalls, looking up at him. ‘You got anyplace where I can take a dump?’

Right there, their lives had changed forever. X marks the spot.

He was wiping out too quickly this morning, but avoided looking at the memorial bench under the tree on the office lawn. That’s pretty much where he’d been standing when half the parish showed up for his Big Six-Oh. They had wheeled in a red motor scooter for their priest, who had given up driving a car eight years prior, and set him on the thing and turned the key. Drunk with astonishment and adrenaline, he had gunned it up the hill and out of view with everybody whooping and hollering like pagans.

Ah, but his bit of carless Lenten devotion had been exactly what was needed to put him on the street. Wearing out shoe leather was how he got to know his parish up close and personal—he wouldn’t take anything for those years. Was he looking for something like that again, and if so, wasn’t he bound to be disappointed?

He surprised himself by hooking a right straight to the bench, where he sat clutching the trash bag, grateful for shade. He felt the letter in his pocket, and considered taking it out and reading it again.

‘Timothy?’

Father Talbot stood in the doorway of the office, athletic, tall, and good-looking. It was as if the Search Committee had been mandated to pick the polar opposite of Tim Kavanagh. A head full of chestnut-colored hair streaked with silver and a poster boy for the dazzling smile, Henry Talbot was said to wear a ‘piece’ and bleach his teeth, and what was wrong with that, after all?

The man had aged considerably since he had seen him before the Holly Springs trip. Talbot had come over to him at Rotary and wished him a happy birthday.

‘How did you know such a thing?’ he asked, flattered.

‘A very busy grapevine,’ Talbot had said.

He stood and shook the hand of his successor at Lord’s Chapel. ‘Just using your bench for a little R&R. How are you, Henry?’

‘You’re looking fit.’

‘Not so fit as yourself,’ he said. Talbot was what he would call a serious runner, replete with Nikes, who kept himself trim through all weathers. ‘Still running?’

‘When I can,’ Talbot said.

‘What’s your route?’

‘Up the hill and through the woods. There’s a path, you know, behind the hospital. No exhaust fumes.’

What was he sensing in Talbot’s demeanor? Exhaustion, perhaps, maybe depression, a kind of shocked daze, in any case. Perhaps it was something like his own daze during the early stages of diabetes. Burned out, strung out, a condition endemic to clergy, diabetic or not—that would be enough right there to cause rumors.

He felt he needed to keep moving, but was oddly stuck, uneasy.

‘Your laundry?’ asked Talbot in an attempt at humor.

‘Picked up a bit of trash.’

‘Ever helpful,’ Talbot said.

‘Well, then, off I go, and great to see you.’

‘Perhaps we could . . .’

In the north light, Talbot’s blue eyes were the color of water.

‘. . . get together . . .’

‘The tea shop,’ he said. ‘Lunch?’ He would have suggested a time, but Henry turned to go inside.

‘Best wishes to Mary.’

He sensed that Henry had purposely turned away at the offer of a meeting.

Depression—he could smell it. But surely this wasn’t the ‘grave matter’ the bishop wished to discuss. Depression was merely the heavy bear that went with a rising majority of the priesthood.

He huffed his way up Old Church Lane, carrying the plastic bag and remembering why it isn’t good to stop along the way—one lost momentum, and an extra push was needed to regain it.

There was Esther’s house at the end of the pebble drive, with its baskets of geraniums gasping their last since the first nipping frost, and how could he not knock on the door and say hello and tell her he was remembering Gene, and that he wouldn’t forget? The trouble with dying is that the living so quickly forgot.

He jogged up the drive.

Suffering. That’s what he’d tried to put his finger on. Henry Talbot was suffering.

•   •   •

EVEN ESTHER BOLICK SEEMED OLDER since he’d seen her last, and smaller. How could she be stout last June and fragile in September? What was going on with people?

‘Come in, Father, come in, I’m tickled to see you.’

She was wearing what his grandmother had called a ‘housecoat’ and old slippers resembling rabbits with whiskers.

‘No, no, I won’t come in, Esther. Too sweaty. Just stopping to order an OMC and say I miss seeing Gene, I think of him often.’

‘He was my taster,’ she said, taking a tissue from her pocket.

‘I know.’

She wiped her eyes. ‘If you won’t come in, I’ll get you a glass of water and come out. You sit over there in the swing, you’re just what the doctor ordered.’

No way would he argue with the legendary baker of his wedding cake. He watched a female cardinal at the feeder until Esther came out.

‘I’m done, Father. That’s that.’ She handed him the glass of water and sat in a wicker chair. ‘You’ll be takin’ your cake orders up th’ street. From this day on, Sweet Stuff is bakin’ th’ OMC.’

‘Good Lord, Esther. Surely not. Only you can bake the OMC.’ He was an ardent fan of her celebrated orange marmalade cake, even if it had nearly taken him out—one slice at the wrong time and he’d plunged into a nonketotic coma in which he enjoyed a lengthy dinner with Charles Spurgeon.

‘People have bootlegged my recipe for a hundred years without so much as a thank-you-ma’am. And what do they do with it? They change it—to make it their own, they say. Oh, no, they say, this is not Esther’s recipe, this is my recipe, new an’ improved.

‘Mangled is what it is, when they get through dumpin’ nuts in th’ batter—nuts! Not to mention th’ screwy bunch that pours in a bucket of Cointreau. Can you believe it? No, you can’t believe it, because that is unbelievable.’

‘Absolutely!’ He was riled, himself.

‘Fame,’ she said, ‘is a wicked thing.’

‘Indeed it is.’ Not that he’d ever had any. ‘But why?’

‘My legs an’ my back. It’s either this or knee replacements.’ She gave him a fierce look. ‘Bakin’ is hard work, Father.’

‘It is, it is.’ He had baked a cake once, it half killed him. ‘But with you, it’s also an art form.’

‘I don’t want to quit,’ she said. ‘I’d bake th’ OMC ’til th’ cows come home, but my bakin’ days are over. Winnie and I signed th’ letter of agreement yesterday afternoon. It says she’ll never, under any circumstances, add, delete, or falsify any part of th’ recipe. Where it says one tablespoon grated zest, that’s what I mean. One tablespoon grated zest. Where it says five large eggs . . .’

‘You do not mean small or medium.’

‘That’s correct,’ she said, ‘I do not.’

‘I don’t know, Esther, this is kind of like losing the town monument.’

‘It’ll be advertised as Esther’s OMC, made from th’ recipe I’ve used for forty years. And you’ll never guess what she’s askin’ for every two-layer ten-inch she sells.’

He drained the glass, afraid to guess.

‘Thirty-five dollars! In this town! How ’bout them apples?’

‘People will come from all over,’ he said. ‘Wesley, Holding . . . shoot, maybe even Charlotte!’

‘And every one that flies out of her case, I get ten percent—for sittin’ on my behind readin’ Danielle Steel.’

‘Gene would be proud.’

‘Every cake I baked, he tasted th’ batter before it went in th’ pan. Hon, he’d say, this’ll be your best yet.’ She looked away, wistful. ‘Did you see th’ sign over town for Fancy’s sister? I ought to go up and get my hair dyed, I’ve never had my hair dyed. They’re runnin’ a special.’

‘Well, got to get these dry bones moving. It’s wonderful to see you.’

He went to her and stooped and kissed her forehead. Esther without Gene was a lost Esther.

She squinted up at him. ‘Do you think Mitford still takes care of its own? I’ve been thinkin’ about it. I don’t know.’

He didn’t know, either. Indeed, he had nearly left her house without offering what was needed most. ‘May I pray for you?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said. ‘It’s certainly nothin’ Father Talbot ever troubled himself to do. Set your bag down right there and go for it.’

•   •   •

‘I DIDN’T WANT TO SAY anything ’til th’ sign went up and it was official.’

He hadn’t seen Winnie look so solemn since Edith Mallory tried to sabotage the lease on Sweet Stuff.

‘I mean, while I’m truly honored to bake th’ OMC, I’m against th’ whole idea.’

‘You are?’

‘Totally,’ she said. ‘Esther shouldn’t quit bakin’ th’ OMC, it’s her joy.’

He agreed.

‘But its official, Father, and I’m ready to put th’ sign in th’ window. Or do you think it should go on th’ door?’

‘On the door.’

They stood on the sidewalk and stared at the computer-generated sign, not speaking for a time.

‘The end of an era, Winnie.’

She looked at him. ‘Eras have a way of endin’ all over th’ place.’

•   •   •

PUNY MET HIM at the side door and took the bake shop bags.

‘They was a man here to see you,’ she said. ‘In a black car with tinted windows.’

He was floored. ‘What did he want?’

‘He wanted to see you an’ I said you were out runnin’ and then ’is cell started beepin’ an’ he answered an’ said yes, ma’am, a whole lot of times an’ then he said they had to git down th’ mountain an’ off he went in a hurry.’