Out to Canaan (35 page)

Ingrid Swenson was, if possible, more deeply tanned than before. He didn't believe he'd ever seen so much gold jewelry on one person, as his wealthy seasonal parishioners tended to be fairly low-key while summering in Mitford.

She read from the offer-to-purchase document as if, being children, they couldn't read it for themselves. Every word seemed weighted with a kind of doom he couldn't explain, though he noted how happy, even ecstatic, his vestry appeared to be.

“Miami Development, as Buyer, hereby offers to purchase, and The Chapel of Our Lord and Savior, as Seller, upon acceptance of said offer, agrees to sell and convey—all of that plot, piece or parcel of land described below . . .”

While some appeared to savor every word as they would a first course leading to the entrée, he wanted to skip straight to the price and the conditions.

In the interim, they dealt with, and once again agreed upon, the pieces of personal property to be included in the contract.

“The purchase price,” she said at last, looking around the table, “is one hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars, and shall be paid as follows—twenty thousand in earnest money—”

“Excuse me,” he said.

She glanced up.

“I don't think I heard the offer correctly.”

“One hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars.” He noted the obvious edge of impatience in her voice.

“Thank you,” he said, betraying an edge in his own.

Buddy Benfield made coffee, which they all trooped into the kitchen to pour for themselves. Ron brought Ingrid Swenson a china cup, not Styrofoam.

“You do realize,” she said, smiling, “that the electrical system violates all state and local ordinances.”

Had they realized that?

She withdrew a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. “Let's look at the numbers, which is always an informative place to look.

“The new roof, as you know, is coming in at around forty-five thousand. The plumbing as it stands is corroded cast-iron pipe, all of which must be removed and replaced with copper.” She sipped her coffee. “Twenty thousand, minimum. Then, of course, there's the waste-lines replacement and the hookup to city water and sewage at a hundred thousand plus.

“As to the heating system, it is, as you're aware, an oil-fired furnace added several decades ago. Our inspection shows that the firebox is burned through.” She sat back in her chair. “I'm sure I needn't remind you how lethal this can be. Estimates, then, for the installation of a forced warm-air system with new returns and ductwork is in excess of ten thousand.”

Would this never end?

“Now, before we move to far brighter issues, let's revisit the electrical system.”

There was a general shifting around in chairs, accompanied by discreet coughing.

“As you no doubt realize, Mr. Malcolm, Father—the attic has parallel wiring, which fails to pass inspection not merely because it is dangerous, but because it is . . .”—the agent for Miami Development Company gazed around the table—“illegal. Throughout the structure, there is exposed wiring not in conduit, all of which, to make a very long story conveniently shorter, is sufficient to have the structure condemned.”

His heart pounded. Condemned.

Ron Malcolm sat forward in his chair. “Miss Swenson, have you stated your case?”

“Not completely, Mr. Malcolm. There are two remarks I'd like to make in closing. One is that the property improvements so far noted will cost the buyer in excess of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. With that in mind, I believe you'll see the wisdom of selling
your . . . distressed property . . . at the very fair price which we're offering.

“Now, to address the brighter side. What we propose to do will bring a vital new economy to Mitford. It will strengthen your tax base by, among other things, raising the value of every property in your village. Mr. Malcolm, I believe that you, for one, live on property contiguous to Fernbank. I don't have to tell you just how great an advantage this will be to your personal assets.

“Surely, all of you realize that nobody in Mitford could afford to take this uninhabitable property off your hands, and I know how grateful you must be to your own Mr. Stroupe for bringing our two parties together. Lacking the local means to reclaim this property, it would be tragic, would it not, to stand by helplessly while Fernbank, the very crown of your village, is torn down?”

The agony he felt was nearly unbearable. He wanted desperately to turn the clock back and have things as they were. He fought an urge to flee the smothering confines of this nightmarish meeting and run into the street.

“In closing, then,” she said, looking into the faces of everyone assembled, “we're asking that you respond today, or within a maximum of seven days, to our offer—an offer that is as much designed for the good of Mitford as it is designed to accommodate the interests of Miami Development.”

The rector stood, hearing the legs of his chair grate against the bare floor, against the overwhelmed silence of the vestry members.

“We will consider your offer for thirty days,” he said evenly.

She paused, but was unruffled. “Thirty days, Father? I assume you understand that, in the volatile business of real estate, seven days is generous.”

He saw his vestry's surprised alarm that he'd seized control of a sensitive issue. However, they silently reasoned, he'd been the liaison with Miss Sadie all these years. They probably wouldn't have the property at all if it weren't for the Father.

“And you do realize,” Ingrid Swenson continued, “that our legal right to withdraw the offer in view of such a delay puts the sale of your property greatly at risk.”

He said to her what she had said to him only weeks before.

“Risk, Miss Swenson, has a certain adrenaline, after all.”

She kissed his face tenderly—both cheeks, his forehead, his temples, the bridge of his nose. “There,” she said, and trotted off to fetch him a glass of sherry.

He couldn't recall feeling so weary. Somehow, the road miles to Florida and back were still lurking in him, and the meeting . . . he felt as if it had delivered a blow to his very gut.

Ron Malcolm had argued that Miami Development was placing far too much emphasis on the flaws of the structure, and far too little on the valuable and outstanding piece of land that went with it. Though Ron made his case convincingly, even eloquently, Ingrid Swenson was not only unmoved, but in a big hurry to get out of there.

The rector couldn't dismiss some deeply intuitive sense that the whole thing was . . . he couldn't put his finger on what it was. But every time he denied his intuitions, trouble followed. He hadn't turned sixty-three—or was it sixty-four?—without learning a few things, and paying attention to his instincts was one of the precious few things he'd learned.

But how could he reasonably argue for holding on to a property that may, indeed, end up under the wrecking ball? His vestry hadn't said it in so many words, but they wanted the blasted thing behind them—their hands washed, and money in the till.

He put one of the old needlepoint pillows under his head and lay back on the study sofa. His dog sprawled on the rug beside him and licked his hand.

Dear God! If not for this consolation of home and all that now came with it, where or what would he be?

Wandering the waysides, a raving maniac . . . .

“Now that you've rested, dearest . . .”

He knew that look. He knew that look as well as his own face in the mirror.

She leaned her head to one side in the way he'd never been able to resist. “You have rested, haven't you?”

“Well . . .” He didn't know which way to step.

“So here's my idea. You know how formal the dining room is.”

“Formal?” The dining room she'd painted that wild, heedless pumpkin color?

“I mean, with the carved walnut highboy from one of the Georges, and those stately chairs with the brocade cushions—”

“Spit it out, Kavanagh.”

“I want to move the dining table into the kitchen.”

“Are you mad?” he blurted.

“Only for Thursday night,” she said, cool as a cucumber. “You see, Pauline and Harley aren't dining room people, and neither is Louella, they'd be stiff as boards in that setting. They know our kitchen, it's like home to them, it's . . .”

He couldn't believe his ears.

“ . . . it's what we have to
do,
” she said, looking him in the eye. “Pumpkin walls notwithstanding, the dining room seems filled with the presence of . . . old bishops!”

He had definitely, absolutely heard it all.