by Jan Karon
When Father Tim greeted them on the porch stoop, Emma was so delighted to see her rector in a new jacket that she gave him a big hug and an air kiss that sounded something like “Ummmwah!”
Then she walked into the living room.
There, seated on the antique Chippendale sofa, were Miss Rose and Uncle Billy Watson, sipping a glass of sherry.
Miss Rose was wearing lisle stockings rolled below her knees, a pair of unlaced saddle oxfords, three World War II decorations on the front of her dress, a great deal of rouge, and a cocktail hat with a veil.
Uncle Billy had on a suit that had belonged to his brother-in-law, with a vest and a gold watch chain. A broad grin revealed his gold tooth, which coordinated handsomely.
“Emma, Hoppy, have a chair,” said their host, as serene as a cherub. “And will you have a glass of sherry?”
“Make it a double,” said the astounded Emma.
Miss Sadie arrived with Hal and Marge, who had fetched her down from Fernbank.
She carried a small shopping bag that contained several items for her rector’s freezer: two Swanson’s chicken pies, one package of Sarah Lee fruit turnovers, and a box of Eggos. This was what Miss Sadie considered a proper hostess gift when the Baxter apples were not in season.
Marge was busy hugging one and all, including Miss Rose, who did not relish a hug.
Hal was talking with Hoppy and Uncle Billy about baseball, and Miss Sadie was chattering with Emma.
Why, it’s a real celebration already, the rector thought happily, seeing two golden finches dart toward the feeder.
“Miss Sadie, your apple trees have been the prettiest I’ve ever seen,” Marge said, taking a glass of mineral water from her host.
“Do you know carloads of people have driven by the orchards this year? They’ve been a regular tourist attraction! And somebody from over at Wesley stopped to ask if they could get married under the trees that back up to Church Hill.”
“What did you say?”
“I said when do you think it might be, and she said she didn’t know, he hadn’t asked her yet!”
Their host brought in a tray of cheese and crackers. He refused to serve anything that had to be dipped. He thought dipping at parties was perilous, to say the very least. If you didn’t drip dip on yourself, you were likely to drip it on someone else. He’d once had a long conversation with his new bishop, only to look down afterward and discover that his shirt front displayed a regular assortment of the stuff, including bacon and onion.
That he did not serve dip seemed especially convenient for Miss Rose, who took two of everything offered, eating one and putting the other in her dress pocket. Uncle Billy, on the other hand, took two of everything and ate both at once.
As he passed around the mushrooms in puff pastry, Miss Sadie was admiring Miss Rose’s military decorations.
He had to admit that he’d never given a party quite like this.
The Company Stew, which had simmered with the peel of an orange and a red onion stuck with cloves, was a rousing success. In fact, he was so delighted with the whole affair that he relented and let Barnabas into the study after dinner.
Marge helped serve coffee and triple-layer cake from the old highboy, as the scent of roses drifted through the open windows.
Barnabas, meanwhile, was a model of decorum and lay next to his master’s wing chair, occasionally wagging his tail.
“You must have quoted this dog the whole book of Deuteronomy,” said Emma, who still refused to call him by name.
“This dog,” he said crisply, “is grounded.”
“Uh oh,” said Hal. “I guess that means no TV for a week?”
"No TV, no pizza, no talking on the phone.”
“Ogre!” said Marge.
“What did the big guy do, anyway?” Hoppy wondered, leaning over to scratch Barnabas behind the ears.
“I’m afraid it’s unspeakable, actually.”
“Oh, good!” exclaimed Miss Sadie. “Then tell us everything.”
Miss Sadie enjoyed the bath story so much, she brought out a lace handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
Miss Rose, however, was not amused. “I leave dogs alone.”
“Nope, dogs leave you alone,” said her husband.
“Whatever,” said Miss Rose, with a wave of her hand.
Hoppy set his dessert plate on the hearth, then leaned back and stretched his long legs. He looked fondly at his elderly patient of nearly a decade. “Uncle Billy, I’d sure like to hear a joke, if you’ve got one.”
Uncle Billy grinned. “Did you hear the one about the skydivin’ lessons?”
“I hope you didn’t get this from Harry Nelson,” said Emma, who didn’t like Harry Nelson jokes, not even secondhand.
“Nossir. I got this joke off a feller at the Grill. He was drivin’ through from Texas.”
Everyone settled back happily, and Miss Rose gave Uncle Billy the go-ahead by jabbing him in the side with her elbow.
“Well, this feller, he wanted to learn to skydive, don’t you know. And so he goes to this school and he takes all kind of trainin’ and all, and one day comes the time he has to jump out of this airplane, and out he goes, like a ton of bricks, and he gets on down there a little ways and commences to pull th’ cord and they don’t nothin’ happen, don’t you know, and so he keeps on droppin’ and he switches over and starts pullin’ on his emergency cord, and they still don’t nothin’ happen, an’ th’ first thing you know, here comes this other feller, a shootin’ up from the ground, and the feller goin’ down says, ‘Hey, Buddy, do you know anything about parachutes?’ And the one a comin’ up says, ‘Nope, do you know anything about gas stoves?’ ”
Uncle Billy looked around proudly. He would have considered it an understatement to say that everyone roared with laughter.
“I’ve heard that bloomin’ tale forty times,” Miss Rose said, removing a slice of cheese from her pocket and having it with her coffee.
Miss Sadie followed her host into the kitchen. “I’m just having the best time in the world, Father!”
“You and me both!” he said, measuring out some more coffee beans.
“I want to have you up to lunch soon. There’s something I’d like to talk with you about that’s been on my mind for a long while.”
It was rare, indeed, for Miss Sadie to have anyone up to Fernbank for anything these days. “It’s not another find from your attic, is it?”
“Oh my, no. It’s much more important than that!”
“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, putting his arm around her frail shoulders. “You know, we’re supposed to hear something about our painting next week.”
“Yes, I know. And I hope you won’t think this is awful of me . . .”
“What’s that?”
“I dearly hope it’s not a Vermeer.”
He knew precisely what she meant. Although he’d never said it to a soul, that was his hope as well.
“That was Papa’s painting. I remember when he brought it home and we hung it on the wall downstairs. We all stepped back and just stared for hours. It was a real painting from Europe! I’d dearly love to see it on the wall in Lord’s Chapel.”
“And so would I,” he said kindly.
As she went back to the study, Hal joined him, and the two men walked out to the back stoop. The air was balmy, and sweet with springtime.
“Fine dinner, Tim.”
“Thanks. It’s great to be back in circulation.”
“Diabetes seems to be doing you more good than harm.” Hal sat on the railing and tamped the tobacco in his pipe. “About that job on the vestry,” he said, “let me put it this way: A hundred and seventy acres, a full-time practice, five dogs, two horses, fifteen cows, an old farmhouse that needs a lot of work, and an increasingly pregnant fifty-year-old wife.”
“Enough said.”
“The timing isn’t right . . . and those trips into town at night . . . You know I want to serve, I want to do something more. Just remember
that I have in the past and I will in the future.”
Father Tim nodded. “When you can, Hal. You know I’d like you to be our senior warden.”
Hal puffed on his pipe and nodded thoughtfully. They heard a dog bark in the distance, and a train whistle. “You know that pony that got caught in the fence? We put a saddle on him today.”
“Great news! That’s been on my mind.”
As the coffee finished brewing, they went inside. “You want a good man on the vestry,” Hal said with a low chuckle, “recruit Uncle Billy. He’ll loosen that crowd up.”
Father Tim poured fresh coffee into every cup. “Miss Sadie,” he said, “I’ve been hoping you’d tell us tonight about your schooling in Paris.”
“Oh, do you really want to hear that old stuff?”
“Yes!” said Marge, curling up on the sofa next to Hal. Even Barnabas assumed an air of expectancy. And Emma noticed that Hoppy Harper, who was sitting in Father Tim’s wing chair, was as relaxed “as a dishrag,” she later said.
“I hardly know where to begin, it’s been so long. But, if you’re sure . . .”
Everyone was absolutely sure.
“Well, then,” she said, sitting even more upright, and squaring her shoulders. “Paris, France, was where I fell in love.”
Miss Sadie paused for a moment, her face beaming, and looked around the room. Father Tim saw at once that the truest meaning of the term captive audience was being demonstrated right before his eyes.
She sat quietly for a moment, as if she had to summon the memory from a very long distance. “I was sixteen years old when Mama and Papa allowed me to study in Paris,” she began.
“Oh, they didn’t want me to, not a bit. But Uncle Haywood talked them into it, saying Mitford was just a jumping-off place, that I’d never learn anything worthwhile in Mitford. Wasn’t that dreadful of him?
“So off I went with Mama, who was going to take me and spend a month or two near the academy before she came back home. I remember to this day what I was wearing when we left. It was a cream-colored lawn with a georgette bodice worked with seed pearls. And the waist was tied with satin ribbons. Oh, it was lovely!
“Papa took us down to Charleston to catch the boat. Mama and Papa and I all cried the whole way. We just held on to each other and bawled, because my papa was never afraid to shed a tear, he had the tenderest heart, and he was trying so hard to do what was right.
“And so we got on that old boat, and I had the worst sinking feeling. Why, we never even left the dock ’til we were so overcome with homesickness that we nearly threw ourselves overboard.”
“Oh, law!” said Uncle Billy, deeply moved.
“But there were such interesting people on that boat! My, what a collection, and they just took on over me, calling me sweet names and inviting us to eat at their table.
“So by the time I reached Paris, I had quit crying, and I just marched into that academy, and started talking the worst old Southern drawl French you ever heard, why, they nearly fell down laughing at me.
“There was one other girl from home, from Virginia, and I stuck to her like bark on a tree. Mama had to live in this house nearby and could only see me on weekends and every Wednesday. She was so lonesome, and she could only say, ‘Oui, oui’ and she’d never spent a single night away from Papa.
“Well, I started learning to watercolor, and recite poetry, and play the pianoforte, and do needlework, and study ancient history, and I don’t know what all. They just wanted to make me so fancy! And you know, all I dearly wanted to do was be plain.
“Can you imagine a girl with every privilege in the world, just wanting to be plain? I knew it would be a disappointment to Papa, and to Mama, too, and the heck with Uncle Haywood! I wanted to be back in Mitford, picking up walnuts, and playing in my dollhouse at Fernbank, and sewing doll clothes, and helping China Mae in the kitchen, and going barefooted under the apple trees with Louella.
“The very first Wednesday, Mama and I were so glad to have our freedom that we both just went skipping down the lane that led to the pastry shop.
“And while we were in there, Mama let me drink real coffee. Oh, it was the thickest, strongest, blackest stuff you ever could imagine! I just loved it! I thought, if Paris, France, was a taste instead of a city, this would be it!”
Miss Sadie’s bright eyes appeared to be looking far away. Marge thought this was like opening an old book and reading a fairy tale with faded watercolor illustrations.
“While we were sitting there, we heard this voice. And we looked up, and there was this . . . this handsome young American man, buying a pastry and a cup of coffee.
“ ‘Listen to him talk!’ said Mama. ‘Why, he sounds like he could be from Mitford!’
“He was with another young man, oh, they were so handsome and young and carefree, and they were laughing, and it was just music to our ears.
“Mama never met a stranger in her life, although most people thought she was dignified. She just held out her pretty hand to him and said, ‘Young man, where are you from?’
“And he said, ‘Mitford, North Carolina, ma’am, United States of America.’ ”
Miss Sadie’s audience murmured with amazement.
“I’ll never forget how proudly he said that, just like it was the best place on earth. Which, of course, it is,” she said, beaming.
“Amen!” Emma fairly thundered.
“He had just moved to Mitford with his family and baby sister from Tennessee, and he was in Paris to show some of his pharmaceutical inventions. Well, I could go on and on, but he invited Mama and me to have dinner with him that very evening, and he gave us his card and all, and Mama felt sure he was a gentleman.
“Every Wednesday after that, he met us for pastry and coffee, and sent flowers to Mama and me, to her rooms in the little pension.”
Miss Rose ate a piece of cubed ham and some Havarti from her pocket. Barnabas had gone to sleep, and the doctor, worn from months of unrelieved strain in his growing practice, snored quietly in the wing chair.
“One day, I said, ‘Mama, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I just hate this place and everything about it. When I watercolor a dog, it looks exactly like an owl, I am still playing “Three Blind Mice” on the pianoforte, and my French is atrocious. I just want to go home and be plain Sadie.’
“Do you know what my mama said? She said, ‘Oui, oui!’
“When the young man learned we were leaving, he sent a dozen yellow roses to Mama and a dozen red roses to me. There was a note attached to mine, which said: ‘Someday when I have made my fortune, I would like to ask you to marry me.’
“So we went home, and Papa met us, and I never spoke another word of French in my life. And to this day,” she paused and looked around, “I’ve never forgotten that handsome young man from Mitford.”
Marge leaned forward. “For heaven’s sake, Miss Sadie, who was he, anyway?”
Miss Sadie looked straight at Miss Rose Watson, whose cocktail hat had tipped forward at a rakish angle.
“That young man,” Miss Sadie said, “was Miss Rose’s brother, Willard Porter.”
Hal, Marge, and Miss Sadie lingered after the others had gone, eating Belgian chocolates. “I’ve been very, very good all week in order to do this,” Marge explained, looking only slightly sheepish as she took another piece off the tray.
The rector had regained his wing chair and put his feet up. “Miss Sadie, in the years I’ve known you, you’ve always been a very private person. Why did you tell us that wonderful version of your Paris story tonight?”
Miss Sadie reflected on this. “When I brought you that painting, it started something. I started thinking about things I’d never thought about before. And I decided I was tired of holding on . . . holding on to my orchard, holding on to my possessions, holding on to my memories.
“I have decided,” she said firmly, “to start letting go. And that’s one reason I’d like to see you next Thursday for lunch at noon, if you can come, Fa
ther.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Swanson’s chicken pie?”
“My favorite!” declared her weary, but enthusiastic host.
At one o’clock in the morning, having refused all offers of help, he put away the last dish and went upstairs, thankful that tomorrow was Saturday.
He felt certain there was more to Miss Sadie’s story about Willard Porter, but he was even more certain of something else: Considering this party from beginning to end, from the initial idea to the last dried dish, it had occupied exactly six weeks of his life. And while he’d had a wonderful evening, and so had everyone else, he was certain that he didn’t want to do this again for a very long time.
He picked up his open prayer book from the night table.
“ ‘The Lord grants his loving-kindness in the daytime,’ ” he read from Psalm 42, “ ‘In the night season his song is with me.’ ”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Big Six-O
When the appraiser came the following week, the fog rolled in even heavier than it had on his first visit, which did nothing to improve his temperament.
“Is it always like this in June?” he asked with some sarcasm.
“Not always,” Father Tim replied, mildly.
According to the rector’s wishes, the vestry was to have only one representative this morning, and it was Harry Nelson. Out of respect, Father Tim had invited Miss Sadie, and he and Emma completed the group who would at last hear the news.
If it is a Vermeer, he reasoned, we’ll be in the newspapers, and on TV, and the phone will ring off the hook. He had done a bit of studying on the subject himself and read that a small Vermeer had recently sold at auction for over twenty million dollars.
How the church decided to use the money would, of course, be a topic for the most serious discussion and examination. And, he realized with some regret, at least two of his vestry members would be in deep disagreement over almost any decision.
The little office was fairly bristling with tension and expectation. And, as before, the appraiser did nothing to relieve it.
