A New Song (18 page)

Barnabas suddenly growled, then barked.

Father Tim glanced around for a stray dog or someone walking by. Nothing.

He quickly snipped two more blooms and put the small bouquet in his shirt pocket.

Trotting through the gate and into the narrow lane, he had the strange sense that someone was watching him. He turned to see if Cynthia might be standing on the porch, but she was not.

His parishioners had given him an earful about the uncaring, self-centered, musically gifted choir director who had abandoned his wife and children for St. John’s married organist. Speaking of Jeffrey Tolson, a parishioner had quoted John Ruskin: “When a man’s wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package.”

He had frequently prayed for Jeffrey Tolson, but was unable to dismiss the hardness of heart he often felt when doing it. And, though he’d never laid eyes on St. John’s former choir director, he knew precisely who it was when the tall, blond Scandanavian walked into the church office from the side door.

“Jeffrey Tolson,” said his caller. He stood by the desk, arms crossed.

He couldn’t help but notice that his caller wore leather clogs, and a full-sleeved white shirt in the manner of eighteenth-century poets.

“Jeffrey.”
Lord, give me the words, the wisdom, the heart for this, Your will be done. . . .

“I won’t take much of your time.”

He wanted to say,
My time is yours,
but could not. It was what he always liked to say to parishioners, no matter what the time constraints.

Jeffrey Tolson removed his billfold from a rear pocket. “I’m back in Whitecap for a few days. I wanted Janette to have this.” He withdrew a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Father Tim.

“You can’t give it to her yourself?”

“She’s in no mood to deal with me.”

He looked at the money and had a fleeting vision of punching Jeffrey Tolson in the nose—squarely, no holds barred. Gone eight months and this was the only offering?

“I’ll see that she gets it.”

“I know you think hard of me, most people do. But Janette was no angel to live with. Moody, depressed, demanding. I’m a sensitive man, Father. It was like living with a wet blanket.”

“How was it living with those children of yours?”

Jeffrey Tolson’s face was suddenly hard. “Don’t preach to me.”

“Far from it, Mr. Tolson.”

His heart was pounding, his mouth dry as he stood facing the man who had brought hurt and anger into the midst of St. John’s.

Jeffrey Tolson turned and stomped from the office. He jerked open the door to the outside steps, then slammed it behind him.

He awoke to find Barnabas standing by the bed, his black nose barely an inch from his face.

“Don’t let him kid you, Timothy, I’ve already taken him out to the garden.”

He rolled over and put his arm around his wife.

A day off! He’d have to swallow down the guilt before he could get up and enjoy it.

“Timothy . . .” He knew that tone of voice; she could read him like a book.

“Umm?”

“I hear your wheels turning already, clickety-clack! You’re going over all the things you should be doing today at church.”

“Right. You see, we’re working with Marion and her staff to organize and catalog St. John’s library, which means—”

“I’m hoping you’ll rent a bike and go riding with me today.”

Barnabas licked him on the ear and wagged his tail, urgent. His dog was never completely satisfied with Cynthia’s idea of a morning constitutional.

“But first,” she said, “I think you should walk down to Ernie’s after morning prayer and look over his books. You’ve been wanting to do it ever since we came.”

“Ernie’s . . . I don’t know.”

“It’s six-thirty. You could have breakfast at Mona’s and maybe read the paper like you used to do at the Grill . . .”

He
had
missed that sort of thing.

“. . . then, meet me back here at nine and we’ll go to Mike’s Bikes and—”

“I thought I’d make your breakfast,” he said.

“You’re always looking for something to do for someone.” She stroked his cheek. “It might be good if you spent a little time doing . . . whatever it is that men do.”

What did men do? He’d never figured it out.

He yawned. “The next thing I know, you’ll be packing me off for a day of deep-sea fishing.”

She looked at him and burst into laughter. “How did you guess? I can’t
believe
it! I just bought you a ticket on Captain Willie’s charter boat!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

At seven a.m., the day was already sultry; forecasts were for ninety-nine degrees by noon.

He broke a sweat before he reached Mona’s, where he found Ernie paying for a sausage biscuit and a cup of coffee at his wife’s cash register.

“I’m only allowed over th’ yellow line as a payin’ customer,” said the genial proprietor from next door. “Get your order and come over to my side—chew th’ fat awhile.”

“Well . . . ,” he said, pleased to be asked, “don’t mind if I do.”

“That’ll be two bucks.” Mona extended her hand to her husband, who shelled out the tab, mostly in change.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” said Father Tim.

The red-haired Mona had a no-nonsense look behind a pair of glasses with brightly painted frames. “So you’re hangin’ with the guys this mornin’?”

He nodded, feeling suddenly shy and excited about having someone to hang with.

“They get too rough for you,” said Mona, “come on back to where it’s civilized.”

“Right,” he said.

“This yellow line . . . ,” said Father Tim, stepping over it, “it must be a real conversation piece.”

“Thing was, Mona kept nosin’ around my side sayin’ old books wouldn’t pay th’ light bill. Then I’d go over to her side raisin’ Cain because she hadn’t hiked her prices in four years. We nearly ended up in divorce court.”

“Aha.”

“We had to learn to mind our own business, you might say. Thing is, I’ve come to believe all married people ought t’ have a yellow line of some kind or another.”

Ernie held the screen door open to Books, Bait & Tackle.

“Welcome to where th’ elite meet to eat. Boys, watch your language, Preacher Kavanagh’s goin’ to join us this mornin’.”

“Tim,” said the preacher, nodding to the assembly. “Call me Tim.”

Ernie set his bag on one of the scarred tables by the drink machines. “You remember Roanoke, he don’t much like preachers. But he’s harmless.”

Roanoke nodded curtly and poured a packet of sugar into a Styrofoam cup.

“That’s Roger Templeton over there, an’ his dog, Lucas. Lucas is blind. Roger’s his Seein’ Eye human.”

“Tim, nice to meet you,” said Roger, who was holding what appeared to be a block of wood in his lap. Roger was a tall, slender man, probably in his sixties, with a pleasant face. The filmy eyes of his brown Labrador appeared to rest on the newcomer with some interest.

“Set your sack down,” said Ernie, “and pull up a chair. It’s not fancy, but it’s all we got. Junior, come out here and meet Preacher Kavanagh.”

A sandy-haired, bearded young man came through the door of the book room. He wiped his hand on his work pants and extended it with solemn courtesy.

“How you do, sir, glad to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you, Junior.”

“Junior’s off work today, he hauls for Otis Bragg. You know Otis, I reckon.”

“Oh, yes. Otis is a member at St. John’s.”

Roanoke snorted.

Ernie launched into his sausage biscuit with considerable gusto. “Well, boys, we got a lot of work to do to get Junior’s ad in before th’ deadline. Tim, we’re glad you’re here, because you’re an educated man and know how to put things. Course, Roger’s pretty educated hisself. He was runnin’ a billion-dollar corporation before him and his wife retired to Whitecap.”

Roger smiled as he deftly used a pencil to make marks on the block of wood. “Half a billion.”

“Don’t sound as good to say half a billion.” Ernie gulped his coffee. “Junior, you got your notepad?”

“Right here,” said Junior. He removed a ballpoint pen and notepad from his shirt pocket, which was machine-embroidered with the name
Junior Bryson.

“What’s your ad about?” asked Father Tim.

Junior looked at Ernie.

“
You
tell ’im.” Ernie said to Junior.

“Well, sir, I’m tryin’ to find a wife.” Junior’s face colored.

“Aha.”

“So, me an’ Roanoke an’ Ernie an’ Roger come up with this idea to advertise.”

“That’s been known to work,” said Father Tim, unwrapping his sausage biscuit.

“We recommended advertising off the island,” said Roger.

“Right,” said Ernie. “Everybody on Whitecap knows Junior, and he knows everybody.”

“Does that mean there aren’t any candidates on Whitecap?”

“Not to speak of,” said Ernie. “Besides, our advice is, get a woman you have to go
across
to see, makes it more . . . more . . .”

“Romantic,” said Roger.

Junior beamed and nodded.

“If I was you,” said Roanoke, “I’d run me a big ad with a border around it.” He drew a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket.

“That’d cost more,” said Ernie.

Roanoke struck a match. “Might be worth more.”

“Read what you have so far,” said Roger.

“White male, thirty-six, five foot eleven an’ a half . . .”

Roanoke sipped his coffee. “I’d say six foot.”

“Right,” said Ernie. “Sounds better.”

“That’d be a lie,” said Junior.

“Put a lift in your shoes,” said Roanoke.

“I ain’t goin’ to lie. Five foot eleven an’ a half with kep’ beard—”

Ernie shook his head. “I wouldn’t mention a beard. Some women don’t like face hair a’tall.”

“Might as well git things out in th’ open,” said Junior.

“Keep readin’,” said Roanoke.

“Five foot eleven an’ a half with kep’ beard, likes country music, fishin’, and Scrabble, drives late-model Bronco.”

Roanoke leaned forward. “What’d you say Scrabble for? You ought t’ say poker or gin rummy.”

Ernie frowned. “It’s th’ Bronco I wouldn’t say anything about. I’d say more like a . . . like a . . .”

“A Mustang convertible!” suggested Roanoke, unsmiling. “Maybe you could borry the preacher’s car.”

“Yessir,” said Junior, grinning. “I’ve seen your car around, it’s a real sharp ride.”

“Thank you.”

“We got to hurry up,” said Ernie, checking his watch. “If this is goin’ to run in th’
Diplomat,
Junior’s got t’ call it across in thirty minutes.”

“Read it again,” said Roanoke. He wadded up his biscuit wrapper and lobbed it into a box beside the Pepsi machine.

Junior cleared his throat and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “White male, thirty-six, five foot eleven an’ a half with kep’ beard, likes country music, fishin’, and Scrabble, drives late-model Bronco . . . plus, I’m addin’ this . . . lookin’ for serious relationship, send photo.”

“I wouldn’t put nothin’ in there about a serious relationship,” said Roanoke. “That’ll scare ’em off.”

Junior gazed helplessly at his advisors. Then he zeroed in on Father Tim. “What do
you
think, sir?”

In truth, he’d hardly been thinking at all. “Well . . .”

Junior’s pen was poised above the notepad.

“Actually, I like your idea about getting things out in the open.”

Junior nodded, looking relieved. “Well, good! It’s wrote, then.”

The sweat was trickling down his back as he made a quick sweep through the book room, finding a ragged copy of Conrad Richter’s
The Trees.
He knew he’d never read it again, but he recalled his early fondness for it with such reverence that he couldn’t resist. Especially not for fifty cents.

He found a cat asleep in one of the numerous book-filled boxes stationed around the room, and nearly leaped out of his running shorts when it sprang up and hissed at him.

“That’s Elmo th’ Book Cat,” said Ernie, standing in the doorway. “He’s older’n dirt. That’s his sleepin’ box, it’s full of Zane Grey paperbacks. You ever read Zane Grey?”

“Tried,” he said, his eyes roving the shelves. “Couldn’t.”

“Ever read Louis L’Amour?”

“Never have.”

“That’s my main man. Listen to this.” Ernie grabbed a book off the shelf, thumbed through the pages, and adjusted his glasses.

“ ‘We are, finally, all wanderers in search of knowledge. Most of us hold the dream of becoming something better than we are, something larger, richer, in some way more important to the world and ourselves. Too often, the way taken is the wrong way, with too much emphasis on what we want to have, rather than what we wish to become.’ ”

Ernie looked up. “A world of truth in that.”