A New Song (53 page)

“Oh, all right,” she said, “I don’t see why not. That recipe’s been bootlegged forty ways for Sunday, anyhow.”

“They’ll be thrilled, and not only that, I’ll be a hero.”

“Cynthia has a copy I told her she could use. She can pass that around.”

“Yes, but it’s in Mitford. Do you think you could mail me a copy?”

“I declare, that recipe will pester me to my grave. But I’ll do it. What’s your address?”

“Just send it to St. John’s, post office box fourteen.” He gave her the zip code. “Bless you, Esther.”

“Father Talbot moved into that big house up th’ street from the Harpers. He’s th’ handsomest thing you’d ever want to see, an’ th’ whitest teeth, oh, mercy. . . .”

He seemed to recall hearing this before.

“We think he bleaches, you know, wears what they call bleach trays, like people on TV.”

“So, I’m glad to know Gene is—”

“And
nice
? You wouldn’t want to
see
nicer! Crosses th’ street to talk to you, waves at you from his car . . . not to mention has been to visit Gene on a house call, and he was just
installed
two days ago!”

“My goodness,” he said, quoting Sam.

“And his children—why, they’re meek as lambs and smart as whips, plus you should see his wife, she’s a regular movie star. And
preach
? Up a
storm
! Why, he brings th’ house down! We’re goin’ to tie his leg to the altar, is what Gene says. This one’s too good to let get away.”

“Ahhh,” he said, exhaling.

 

He and Walter had talked for more than an hour, but he felt precious little consolation.

What should he do, if anything, about the rumor she was moving back to Boston? Didn’t she owe him the courtesy of telling him she was leaving? On the other hand, what did courtesy have to do with anything—under the circumstances?

Walter suggested he lie low on that one, but go ahead and inform the Hope House board of the lawsuit.

He dreaded this like the plague, for more reasons than one. He would wait until after the weekend, when things were . . . calmer. At the moment, St. John’s was under exterior scaffolding front to back, a Bobcat was digging out part of the basement, and a backhoe was on the job, doing God knows what. As anyone in their right mind could see, this was no time to call a board and relay bad news.

 

As he and Cynthia offered their nighttime prayers, he exhorted the Lord with something from “St. Patrick’s Hymn at Evening.”

“ ‘May our sleep be deep and soft,’ ” he whispered, “ ‘so our work be fresh and hard.’ ”

His wife, who was again going at her book hammer and tong, liked St. Patrick’s way of putting it.

 

Nonetheless, he still wasn’t sleeping soundly.

And he could scarcely believe what he felt God was writing upon his heart.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked aloud, standing on the upstairs deck at sunset. A snowy egret flew over the roof and settled into the tall grasses at water’s edge.

“I’d hate to get this wrong,” he said.

Then again, if he got it wrong, what did he have to lose?

Nothing.

Nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

He spent much of Monday morning speaking with Hoppy Harper and other members of the board. They were shocked, of course. But he was glad he made the calls, because they were rallying together, and he felt the encouragement of it.

They agreed that it was a blow, but if the suit succeeded, they felt they could replace the money via other avenues.

He felt the encouragement, yes, but in the very pit of his stomach was a sick feeling that appeared to be lodged in for the long haul.

“Barnabas and I are going to walk around the old neighborhood, see what’s what.” Nine o’clock, now, and a meeting at ten with Sewell Joiner at the church. Perfect timing.

“And please do something about cleaning up the car,” said Cynthia. “It looks like a farm wagon.”

“Consider it done.”

“I don’t know what you
do
to cars,” she muttered.

“We had a storm, remember?”

“But that was days ago, and the rust is going to leap onto the fenders any minute, mark my words.”

“Rust ...”

“It’s a living thing, you know. It
grows.
Have you noticed the cars and trucks running around down here? There’s hardly anything left but chassis and steering wheel.”

“Surely you exaggerate.”

“Surely I do, but please—washed and waxed and whatever else it needs; I must have it tomorrow to go up hill and down dale.”

“Tomorrow’s supposed to be a beautiful day, you could ride your Schwinn.”

“Not if it’s under Morris Love’s stairwell.”

“Good point,” he said. “See you for lunch.”

 

After checking the progress at Dove Cottage, he began his first march around the wall of Nouvelle Chanson by walking east from the iron gate, hooking a left on Hastings, and praying as he went.

Staying hard by the wall, he trotted north on Hastings and rounded the corner into the lane that dead-ended in front of Ernie’s.

He saw the figure up ahead, crossing the lane toward the Love wall. It was someone tall and slender, dark in color, and, though carrying what appeared to be a grocery bag in either arm, moving gracefully.

“Easy,” he said to his dog, who was always curious about who and what crossed their path.

Though trying not to stare, he witnessed the sudden collapse of a paper bag, and saw items go spilling onto the sandy lane. Grapefruits rolled hither and yon.

He sprinted ahead.

“Here, let me help!” he said to the woman. “Barnabas, sit!”

Barnabas didn’t sit; he reared on his hind legs so he might greet the stranger who stood looking at him with alarm. Grabbing his dog, Father Tim trotted to a small tree growing outside the wall and fastened the leash around it.

“There. I’m sorry. He’s harmless.” He went to his knees and began collecting grapefruits and bananas, sticks of butter that had burst loose from their package. . . .

“At least there were no eggs,” he said, looking up at the elegant, dark-skinned woman who looked down upon him.

“Thank you kindly.” Her voice was soft and lilting—genteel, he thought. “That’s a big dog,” she said simply.

“He is that. Well, now, what shall we put all this in?”

“I’ll go back to the house and get my basket,” she said. “I almost never carry groceries without my basket, but this mornin’ . . . if you’d watch this for me, I’d thank you.”

“Be glad to,” he said, taking the other bag from her arm.

She walked toward the house at the opposite side of the lane, a house he’d often noticed and admired for its tidy appearance and large, well-tended garden. He’d exchanged greetings with a man working the garden one summer evening, and had occasionally seen a wash hanging on the clothesline. In a world that seldom displayed its wash on a line, the sight always, and happily, took him back to his boyhood.

He stood guarding the small pile of groceries, organized neatly in the middle of the lane, as she left the house and came toward him carrying a large basket. He thought she moved regally for her age, though he couldn’t really determine her age.

“Always, always, I use this basket,” she said pleasantly, “and this mornin’, wouldn’t you know . . .”

Together, they stooped down and loaded the basket.

“May I carry it for you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” she said, standing. “I’m just goin’ right through there.” She pointed to an opening in the thick hedge that camouflaged the wall.

“Ah. Morris Love’s place.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re Mamie,” he said, noting her carefully braided hair and the printed scarf tied round like a headband.

“Yes, sir, I’m Mamie. And you’re the preacher whose wife sent Mr. Love that nice banana bread.”

“I am!” He was as excited as a child. “So pleased to meet you, Miss, Mrs. . . .”

“Just Mamie is all,” she said.

“Sure I can’t carry that for you? I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you, I’ve been carrying this basket through there for more years than I care to reckon. Well, I hope you’ll tell your wife that Mr. Love enjoyed the taste of lemon in her bread.”

“Oh, I will. And thank you. Thank you!” A woman with a strong and lively spirit. . . .

Feeling strangely moved and oddly blessed he watched her disappear along a well-worn path through the opening in the wall.

 

He looked eagerly for her when he circled the wall on the second day, which was Wednesday, but she didn’t appear. What he did see was a small wash, neatly arranged on the clothesline and flapping smartly in the November wind.

He received the welcome sight as a sign, a confirmation, and walked on, praying.

 

He timed his walk around the wall on Thursday for nine-fifteen, which was when they had met, but Mamie was nowhere to be seen. The sight of smoke puffing from her chimney gave him a curious delight, and he wondered why he had such a strong desire to see her again.

He trotted to the end of the lane and then, as he turned left around the wall, the answer came.

It was as if he’d found someone who’d been lost to him for many years.

 

“Timothy, ring Harley, he’s at Lew Boyd’s. I wrote the number by the phone.”

“How’s the book coming?” he called as he popped into his study at Sound Doctrine.

“Great! I’ve something to show you after dinner!”

It had taken his wife, who was surprisingly shy about her work, a good two years to open up and really share her work with him. So he was always pleased when . . .

“Lew! Tim Kavanagh here. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good, soon as we git this wrecker rollin’ again.”

“Harley’s the one for the job, all right. Is he around?”

“Hold on, and come see us, hear?”

He heard the cash register ring; Lew shouted for Harley; someone asked directions to the restroom.

“Harley speakin’.”

“Harley! You called?”

“Yes, sir, I did. Let me get on Lew’s cordless.”

Static, shuffling around, a horn blowing.

“OK, I’m out at th’ grease pit, cain’t nobody hear.”

He didn’t want any bad news, no way. . . .

“Hit looks like I’ve found y’r angel that was stole.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“An’ you’ll not believe where at,” said Harley.

“Where?”

“You know that ol’ car of Miss Pringle’s? Well, she brought it in to git th’ fluids changed an’ said she’d be travelin’ in it pretty soon an’ was wantin’ it to be safe an’ whatnot. Lew was up to th’ post office so I said, fine, I’ll look after it.”

“Right, right.”

“She walked up th’ street an’ I got t’ checkin’ it out, an’ seen ’er tars needed rotatin’. See, I had ’er keys an’ all, an’ a little time t’ do it, an’ looked like she’d want me to, so I opened up ’er trunk and lifted that panel in there to see if I could find ’er wheel key. Well, see, they’s this deep pocket, you might say, on either side under th’ panel. I looked in one side an’ th’ key wadn’t in there, an’ they was what looked like a sheet stuffed in th’ other side.”

He was on the edge of his chair.

“So I pulled th’ sheet out to look an’ Lord help, there was that angel you had on y’r mantelpiece.”

He would not jump to conclusions. “About twenty inches high?”

“Yes, sir. An’ kind of a dirty gold.”

Bronze.
“What sort of base?”

“Marble, looked like.”

“What color was the marble?”

“Green. An’ since she hadn’t asked me direct t’ do anything but change th’ fluids, I didn’t do nothin’ to ’er tars, or she might figure I found somethin’. When she come back, I jis’ said, Miz Pringle, y’r tars need rotatin’.”

He sat back in the chair and felt the beating of his heart.

 

He preferred acting to reacting.

If Hélène Pringle was leaving for Boston, he needed to act fast.

Certainly, he didn’t want to focus on this nasty piece of news as he made his fourth trip around the wall. He wanted to keep his mind and heart free of personal anxiety, so he could pray with an unfettered spirit.

God help me,
he thought, as he parked the Mustang at the side of Dove Cottage and set off for Hastings with his dog.

 

Ernie was standing in the parking lot with a couple of fishermen, and hailed him to come in. Without breaking stride, he raised his hand and waved. “I’ll be back!” he called.

The glass had been replaced, the side wall was up, and except for some old bricks that hadn’t been hauled away, Books, Bait & Tackle was looking fairly normal.

He was only a few yards this side of the passage in the wall when Mamie came through the front door of her house, carrying an empty wicker laundry basket.