Out to Canaan (152 page)

Two hours later, they were close to a deal.

“The development firm has unfortunately asked for several of the finest pieces,” said Andrew. He referred to notes that he had hastily jotted as they toured the house.

“Nonetheless, I'd be interested in the Federal loveseat in Miss Sadie's bedroom, the Georgian chest of drawers in her dressing room,
the three leather trunks in the attic, the chaise in the storage room, which I believe is Louis XIV, the English china dresser, and all the beds in the house, which are exceedingly fine walnut . . . now, let's see . . . the six framed oils we discussed, which appear to be French . . . and the pine farm table in that wonderful kitchen! It must have been made by a local craftsman around the turn of the century.”

“Anything else?” asked the rector, feeling like a traitor, a grave robber.

“In truth, I'd like the dining room suite, but it's Victorian, and I never fare well with Victorian. There are two chairs on the landing, however—I'm not certain of their origins, but they're charming. I'll have those chairs, into the bargain . . . and oh, yes, the contents of the linen drawers. I have a customer in Richmond who fancies brocade napery.”

“Hardly used!” said Father Tim, knowing that Miss Sadie had certainly never trotted it out for him.

Cynthia roamed around, sounding like a squirrel in the attic, as he went through the miserable ordeal of dismantling someone's life, someone's history.

Miss Sadie's long letter, which was delivered to him after her death, gave very clear instructions: “Do not offer anything for view at a yard sale, or let people pick over the remains. I know you will understand.”

Was Andrew picking over the remains? He didn't think so, he was being a four-square gentleman about the whole thing. Besides, something had to be done with the contents of twenty-one rooms and the detritus of nearly a century.

“How about the silver hollowware?” asked the rector. He felt like Avis Packard who, after selling and bagging a dozen ears of corn, was trying to get rid of last week's broccoli. “The, ah, flatware, perhaps?”

“Well, and why not?” agreed Andrew, looking jaunty. “Who cares if it's all monogrammed with
B,
I think I'll have it for my own!”

The rector drew a deep breath. This wasn't so hard.

“The rugs! How about the rugs?” After all, every cent he raised would go into the Hope House till . . . .

Andrew smiled gently. “I don't think Miss Sadie's father did his
homework on the rugs.” He jotted some more and offered a price that nearly floored the rector.

“Done!” he exclaimed.

Feeling vastly relieved, he shook Andrew's hand with undeniable vigor.

“While you and Andrew toured around like big shots, eyeing major pieces, I was burrowing into minor pieces. Look what I found!”

His wife's face was positively beaming.

“An easel! Hand-carved! Isn't it wonderful? And look at this—an ancient wooden box of watercolors, two whole compartments full! The cakes are dried and cracked, of course, but they'll spring back to life in no time at all, with—guess what?—water!”

He hadn't seen Christmas make her so jubilant.

“And look! A boxful of needlepoint chair covers, worked with roses and hydrangeas and pansies, in all my favorite colors! Perfect for our dining room! Oh, Timothy, how could we have neglected this treasure trove for a full year? It's as if we stayed away from a gold mine, content with digging ore!”

She held up a chair cover for him to admire.

“Now it's your turn to find something for yourself, like Miss Sadie asked you to do. She said ‘Take anything you like,' those were her very words.”

He stood frozen to the spot, suddenly feeling as if he'd burst into tears.

Cynthia quietly put the chair cover down, and came to him and held him.

He found it in the dimly lit attic.

Though the box appeared to be of no special consequence, he felt drawn to it, somehow, and knelt to remove the lid and unwrap the heavy object within.

The figure had the weight of a stone, but a certain lightness about its form, which rested on a sizeable chunk of marble.

Back at the rectory, he set the bronze angel on the living room mantel and stood looking at it.

It was enough. He wanted nothing more.

“Mule! What have you got in a little rental house, maybe two bedrooms, something bright and sunny, something spacious and open—and oh, yes, low-maintenance, in a nice part of Mitford, maybe with a fireplace and a washing machine, not too much money, and—”

“Hold it!” exclaimed Mule. “Are you kidding me? You're talkin' like a crazy person. Think about it. If I
had
anything like that, would it be
available?”

He thought about it. “Guess not,” he said.

Cynthia's interest was growing. “Let's invite Pauline and Poo!”

They sat in the kitchen, planning the dinner party while their own supper roasted in the oven.

“Terrific idea. Louella, Pauline, Dooley, Poo, Harley, you, and me. Meat loaf for seven!”

“Better make it for ten. Dooley has the appetite of a baseball team.”

“Right! Ten, then.”

“I'll make lemonade and tea and bake a cobbler,” she said.

“Deal.”

“In the meantime, dearest, I've planned our retreat.”

“Really?”

“Really. Next week, I'm taking you away for two days.”

“But Cynthia, I can't go away for two days. I have things to
do.
”

“Darling, that's exactly why I'm taking you away!”

“But there's an important vestry meeting, and—”

“Poop on the vestry meeting. Since when does the rector have to attend every vestry meeting as if it were the Nicene Council?”

“Cynthia, Cynthia . . .”

“Timothy, Timothy. Let me remind you of all you've recently done—you've had three baptisms, a death at the hospital, you're
working on that project with the bishop which keeps you talking on the phone like schoolgirls, you do two services every Sunday, Holy Eucharist every Wednesday, not to mention your weekly Bible class.
Plus
—”

“There's no way—”

“Plus your hospital visits every morning, and pulling together that huge thing for the mayor, and working on the benefit for the Children's Hospital, and tearing down Betty's shed—not to mention that on your birthday you made a wonderful evening for
me
!”

She took a deep breath. “
Plus
—”

Not that again. “But you see—”

“Plus you still think you haven't done enough.”

What was enough? He'd never been able to figure it out.

“Well, dearest, I can see you have no intention of listening to reason, so . . . I shall be forced do what women have been forced to do for millennia.”

She marched around the kitchen table and thumped down in his lap. Then she mussed what was left of his hair and kissed him on the top of his head. Next she gave him a lingering kiss on the mouth, and unsnapped his collar, and whispered in his ear.

He blushed. “OK,” he said. “I'll do it.”

While Cynthia scraped and stacked the dishes, he sat in the kitchen, awaiting his cue to wash, and read the
Muse.

Violet was perched by the gloxinia, purring; Barnabas lay under the table, snoring.

Four Convicted in Wesley Drug Burst

He roared with laughter. This was one for his cousin Walter, all right! He got up and pulled the scissors from the kitchen drawer and clipped the story. Walter liked nothing better than a few choice headlines from the type fonts of J. C. Hogan.

“Who discovered America?” He heard Lace Turner's voice drifting up the stairs through the open basement door.

“Christopher Columbus!” said Harley.

“Who was America named for?”

“Amerigo Vespucci! Looks like it ought've been named f'r Mr. Columbus, don't it? But see, that's th' way of th' world, you discover somethin' and they don't even notice you f'r doin' it.”

Cynthia whispered, “She's been coming over and teaching him for several nights, you've been too busy to notice.”