by Jan Karon
The rector looked toward Fernbank as he walked to the Grill. He couldn’t see the house, but he could see the upper portion of the fern-massed bank, and the great grove of trees.
A spa?
As hard as he tried, he couldn’t even begin to imagine it.
“Softball?” said Percy. “Are you kiddin’ me?”
“I am not kidding you. August tenth, be there or be square.”
“Me’n Velma will do hotdogs, but I ain’t runnin’ around to any bases, I got enough bases to cover in th’ food business.”
“Fine. You’re in. Expect twenty-five from Hope House, twenty or so players . . . and who knows how many in the bleachers?”
Percy scribbled on the back of an order pad. “That’s a hundred and fifty beef dogs, max, plus all th’ trimmin’s, includin’ Velma’s chili—”
“Wrong!” said Velma. “I’m not standin’ over a hot stove stirrin’ chili another day of my life! I’ve decided to go with canned from here out.”
“Canned chili?” Percy was unbelieving.
“And how long has it been since you peeled spuds for french fries? Years, that’s how long. They come in here frozen as a rock, like they do everywhere else that people don’t want to kill theirselves workin’.”
“Yeah, but frozen fries is one thing, canned chili is another.”
“To you, maybe. But not to me.”
Velma stalked away. Percy sighed deeply.
The rector didn’t say anything, but he knew darn well their conversation wasn’t about chili.
It was about a cruise.
He turned into Happy Endings to see if the rare book search had yielded the John Buchan volume.
Hope Winchester shook her head. “Totally chimerical thus far.”
“So be it,” he said. “Oh. Know anybody who plays softball?”
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 blo
w 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.
Dooley Barlowe was nowhere to be found, and Harley’s strengths lay in other areas of endeavor. It was fish or cut bait.
They turned the mahogany table on its side and, by careful engineering, managed to get it through the kitchen door without slashing the inlaid medallion in the center.
He was certain this was a dream; convinced of it, actually.
That there was hardly room to stand at the stove and cook, once the table was in and upright, was no surprise at all. Could he open the oven door?
“Perfect!” she said, obviously elated. “We’ll just use that plaid damask cloth of your mother’s.”
“That old cloth is worn as thin as a moth’s wing. Hardly suitable,” he said, feeling distinctly grumpy.
“I love old tablecloths!” she exclaimed.
He sighed. “What don’t you love?”
“Grits without butter. Dust balls on ceiling fans. Grumpy husbands.”
“Aha,” he said, going down on his hands and knees to put a matchbook under a table leg.
At breakfast the next morning, he found the much-larger table with the worn cloth looking wonderful in the light that streamed through the open windows. She had filled a basket with roses from the side garden and wrapped the basket with tendrils of ivy. Her cranberry-colored glasses, already set out for the evening meal, caught the light and poured ribbons of warm color across the damask.
Lovely! he mused, careful not to say it aloud.
Finding Jessie had been uncannily simple, he thought, walking to the office with Barnabas on his red leash. He had given thanks for this miracle over and over again. The chase, after all, might have led anywhere—or nowhere. But they’d gone straight to the door and knocked, and she had answered.
He would thank Emma Newland from his very heart, he would do something special for her, but what? Emma loved earrings, the bigger, the better. He would buy her a pair of earrings to end all earrings! No fit compensation for what she had done, but a token, nonetheless, of their appreciation for her inspired and creative thinking.
He pushed open the office door as Snickers rushed past him, snarled hideously into his own dog’s face, barked at an octave that could puncture eardrums, and peed on the front step—seemingly all at once.
Barnabas dug in and barked back, grievously insulted and totally astounded. From her desk, Emma shouted over the uproar, “I wouldn’t bring him in here if I were you!”
The rector saw that urging his dog over the threshold would result in a savage engagement with this desperately overwrought creature, an engagement in which someone, possibly even himself, could be injured.
Furious, he turned on his heel and stomped toward the Grill, dragging his even more furious dog behind.
He blew past the windows of the Irish Shop, as Minnie Lomax finished dressing a mannequin whose arms, years earlier, had been mistakenly carted off with the trash.
“Can’t even get in my own office!” he snorted. “Earrings, indeed!”
“Not again,” sighed Minnie, watching him disappear up the street.
Passing the Collar Button, he was hailed by one of his parishioners, one who hadn’t been even remotely amused by the announcement that he was going out to Canaan—or anywhere else.
“Father! You’re looking well!”
Things were on an even keel again, thanks be to God. After all that uproar, most people seemed to have forgotten he was retiring, and it was business as usual.
He saw Dooley wheel out of the alley across the street and stop, looking both ways. As he glanced toward the monument, Jenny ran down the library steps, carrying a backpack. She saw Dooley and waved, and he pedaled toward her.
He didn’t mean to stand there and watch, but he couldn’t seem to turn away. Although Dooley’s back was to him, he could see Jenny’s face very clearly.
She was looking at The Local’s summer help as if he had hung the moon.
“It’s big doin’s,” Mule was saying to J.C. as the rector slid into the booth.
“What is?” he asked.
“Th’ real estate market in this town. There’s Lord’s Chapel with that fancy outfit tryin’ to hook Fernbank, Edith Mallory’s Shoe Barn just went on the block, and I hear major money’s lookin’ at Sweet Stuff.”
“Whose major money?”
“I don’t know, Winnie’s trying to sell it herself to save the commission, so I don’t have a clue who th’ prospect is. Meantime, some realtor from Lord knows where is handlin’ th’ Shoe Barn, Ron Malcolm’s brokerin’ for Lord’s Chapel, and as for yours truly, I can’t get a lead, much less a listin’.”
“Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink,” said J.C., hammering down on a vegetable plate with a side of country-style steak.
“Speakin’ of th’ Shoe Barn, what ever became of that witch on a broom?” asked Mule.
The rector’s stomach churned at the mention of Edith Mallory, who owned the large Shoe Barn property. Her focused, unrelenting pursuit of him before he married Cynthia was something he’d finally managed to put out of his mind.
“You’re ruinin’ his appetite,” said Percy, pulling up a stool. Percy had fought his own battle with the woman, who also owned the roof under which they were sitting—she’d tried to jack up the rent and blow him off before his lease expired. That’s when the rector discovered that the floor beams of the Grill were rotten and nearly ready to bring the whole building down. Bottom line, Percy walked off with a new lease—on his terms, not
hers.
Percy grinned at the rector. “Boys howdy, you fixed her good, you put her high-and-mighty butt through th’ grinder.”
“Watch your language,” said Velma, passing with a tray of ham sandwiches.
“And she ain’t been back, neither! No, sirree bob! Hadn’t had th’ guts to show her face in this town since th’ night you whittled her down to size.”
J.C. used his favorite epithet for Percy’s lessor.
“So when are you closing the deal on Fernbank?” asked Mule.
“I don’t know. We’ll consider their offer for thirty days.”
Mule gave him an astounded look. “You want to sit around for thirty days with that white elephant eatin’ out of your pocket?”
He felt suddenly angry, impelled to get up and leave. Chill, he told himself, using advice learned from Dooley Barlowe.
“Do you play softball?” he asked the Muse editor, who was busy chewing a mouthful.
“Prezure fum dinnity monce.”
“Right. So how about you?” he asked Mule. “Scott Murphy wants to get up a game for the residents at Hope House. August tenth. We need players.”
“I ain’t too bad a catcher.”
“You’re on,” he said. “Percy, I wouldn’t mind having a cheeseburger all the way. With fries!”
Percy scratched his head. “Man! In sixteen years, you prob’ly ordered a cheeseburger twice. And never all the way.”
“Life is short,” he said, still feeling ticked. “And put a strip of bacon on it.”
“How’s it coming, buddy?”
“I got Tommy and his dad and Avis. Ol’ Avis says he can hit a ball off th’ field and clean over our house.”
“No kidding? What do you think about Harley? Think he could do it?”
“Harley, don’t . . . doesn’t have any teeth.”
“What do teeth have to do with playing softball?”
