by Jan Karon
"Over yonder on 'is pallet." Homeless pointed to the shorthaired, spotted dog who blinked at them. "He cain't bark, but he can blink. See there—blink, blink, blink. That's how he barks at ol' Barnabas, here."
Barnabas barked back. Then he went to the spotted dog and sniffed it. Barkless didn't flinch.
"Chippy, ain't he?"
"I'll say!" The rector moved to the stove. Though it was a warm day, the fire Homeless had built to perk the coffee was nonetheless inviting. "I'm glad to see you, my friend. It feels like I've come home when I visit the creek."
"You're welcome as th' flowers in May—day or night, hard times or fair."
"I thank you. Tell me how your crowd is taking to Pastor Greer."
"Well, sir, they love 'im, they do. He's one of them. He once fought th' Lord just like they're doin', and so they connect. He's preachin' on th' big stump every Wednesday, and we're drawin' 'em in pretty good."
"How's the soup pot holding out?"
"Now and again, somethin' leaks in. The Baptists sent a hundred last week, and out it went for five pairs of shoes.
"Th' Presbyterians put in fifty back in February. That went for medicine for two sick young 'uns. As for th' Methodists, I've not heard."
"You'll be hearing soon, is my guess. The summer crowd is back. Here's ours." He handed over an envelope.
"I like a preacher that makes house calls," said Homeless, stuffing the envelope under his mattress, "and I thank you mightily. Now, set."
He folded a blanket for his guest and put it in the nearly bottomless ladderback chair. "M' chair's gettin' bottomless to go with m' dog named Barkless."
Laughing, the rector sat down. As he did, the spotted dog sailed through the air and landed in his lap. He nearly tipped over backward.
"I like a dog with timing!" he exclaimed. Barnabas looked up and growled.
"Hold off, now." Homeless stooped down to give the big dog a good scratching behind the ears. "How're things comin' with your lady friend?"
The rector sighed. Then he smiled. Then he sighed again.
"That's a good place to begin," said Homeless, going to the stove to pour two strong cups of coffee.
He had never before given away a bride.
That the bride was Puny Bradshaw supplied one of the great joys of his life.
He walked down the aisle of First Baptist Church as if on air and could not take his eyes off the lovely creature at his side. Every freckle sparkled, and under the little hat she wore, every curl of red hair seemed to glow.
As he stepped away from her at the altar, he briefly took her hand and felt the shocking roughness of it. This hand.had mopped his floors, scrubbed his toilets, ironed his shirts, made his beds, cooked his meals, paired his socks, and fed his dog. He might have sunk to his knees on the spot and kissed it.
"Now we're related!" Esther Cunningham said, loud enough to be heard to the monument.
"Mayor," he said, "we've always been related. Philosophically."
When Puny marched into the reception in her enchanting dress, he had to gulp down his emotions. She flew to where he was standing with the Baptist minister and hugged him warmly.
"Father!" she said.
Father! He heard the name in a way he'd never heard it before. I may have missed the boat in that department, he thought, but not, thank God, altogether.
When he arrived home from the wedding, Cynthia had everything under control.
The roast was coming along nicely, as were the potatoes. The fresh asparagus was washed and lying in the steamer. The butter was set out to soften, the rolls had risen, the salad greens were clean, the raw vegetables were chopped, the salad dressing was concocted, the Camembert was ripe, and the merlot was open and breathing.
As he came in the back door, she turned around from the stove and smiled.
Good Lord, what had she done to herself? She looked so positively breathtaking that he was stopped in his tracks.
"It's the apron," she said, reading his mind. "Men like seeing women in aprons."
He kissed her tenderly. "Please!" she murmured against his cheek. "One mustn't put dessert first."
"Cynthia, Cynthia." He caressed her shoulders. "What is this happiness?"
"You've been to a wedding," she informed him. "You've seen someone with the bald courage to make a commitment. It's invigorating!"
"Turn around," he said.
"What for?"
"I'm checking you for hair curlers."
They laughed hysterically. Hadn't he taken her to visit the bishop last year, with a maverick curler banging around in her hair? She'd been gravely disinclined to forgive him for not bringing it to her attention— though heaven knows he'd tried.
At dinner, Dooley Barlowe looked a fashion plate, used his manners to a fault, and said 'ain't' only once.
Cynthia Coppersmith made the bishop laugh and caused Martha to exclaim, and as for himself, he was hardpressed to do anything more than pour the wine, compliment the cook, admire Martha's dress, and ask the blessing. "I'm giving you a break," he told Stuart, who appreciated it.
After Stuart and Martha went up to bed in the scrubbed, polished, disinfected, and thoroughly set-to-rights guest room, he put the blue velvet pouch in his pocket and led Cynthia into the study.
"I've already given you this once, so you don't have to thank me again."
"Good! I'm too tired to enthuse over anything more than the complete success of your dinner party."
"Our dinner party."
She sighed happily. "Whatever."
They sat on the sofa, and he handed her the brooch.
"Thank you," she said, sniffing. "It means more than you know."
"Are you going to cry?"
"Certainly not!"
"Excellent!" He held her hand. "Will you wear it tomorrow?"
"With my bedroom shoes!" she said. He smiled, thinking of the time she met him in the street before church, absentmindedly wearing her embroidered scuffs.
He put his arm around her and looked into her eyes.
"In the morning, the bishop will be confirming you. But you confirm something for me every day."
"What, for heaven's sake?"
"That love is a divine gift and should not be held back. Thank you for not holding back."
She put her head against his chest and he stroked her temple.
The Lord's Chapel bells were chiming eleven o'clock when he discovered she had fallen asleep in his arms.
He felt a great swelling in his heart as he watched them come toward the altar.
His thoughts flashed back to the first time he'd seen Dooley Barlowe—barefoot, unwashed, looking for a place to "take a dump."
Today, he was seeing more than a boy wearing a new blazer and an uncontrollable grin. He was seeing a miracle.
Cynthia came behind Dooley, beaming, wearing the pearl and amethyst brooch. Cynthia! Another miracle in his life.
The candidates for confirmation were presented to the bishop by Hal and Marge Owen, who stood with them throughout the ceremony.
The sight of Stuart Cullen laying his hands on their heads and praying the centuriesold prayer for God's defense, spoke to him more deeply than he expected.
In fact, the only thing that kept him from bawling like a baby was the sudden realization that he'd forgotten to bring the platter for the ham.
Esther Bolick rang the bell for silence in the parish hall.
"I'm glad," said Stuart Cullen, "that Lord's Chapel hasn't grown too big for us to hold hands around the table."
The excited throng formed a circle, as someone fetched Rebecca Jane Owen from under a folding chair and rescued fiveyearold Amy Larkin from the hot pursuit of a mechanical toy run amok from the nursery.
"Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord."
"Amen!"
Father Tim joined Stuart and Martha at the head of the buffet line, so the Cullens could eat and get on t
he road to yet another sermon, a ground breaking, and the installation of a deacon.
"Timothy," Martha said as she helped herself to the string beans, "are you going to marry that lovely woman?"
"Why, yes. Olivia asked me some time ago if I'd officiate."
"Not Olivia! Cynthia!"
He laughed. "Now, Martha..."
"Don't 'now Martha' me. Time is running out, dear. I can see she's doing her part. Are you doing yours?"
Martha Cullen was a carbon copy of Katherine when it came to meddling.
"We can't do it all, Timothy. The men must do something. When Stuart finally understood that, things fell into place. By the way, is that famous orange marmalade cake here today?"
"I'll have a look," he said, bounding from his place in line, never to return.
He spied Emma Newland, who hadn't darkened the doors of a worship service since she married Harold and "went back to bein' a Baptist."
He saw Miss Sadie, Louella, Hoppy, and Olivia gabbing a mile a minute by the piano.
Dooley and Cynthia were in line with the Owens, and as far as he could tell, the orange marmalade cake had not made it to the reception.
He sliced a piece of homemade coconut, instead, and carried it to Martha's place at the table, fetched the bishop a cup of coffee, picked up Amy Larkin and admired her patentleather shoes, removed a stuffed bear from the floor, kissed two old parishioners, hugged several of all ages, sat down with Rebecca Jane who bit his nose and chewed on his lapel, fielded an enthusiastic round of congratulations upon Dooley's confirmation, rummaged in the kitchen and found extra flatware for a table of eight who didn't get any, pitched in to serve coffee for the frazzled ECW, and checked the ham to determine its popularity, which, considering the bare bone he found on the tray, was immense.
He packed Stuart and Martha out the side door, waved them off, and went back to join Dooley, Cynthia, the Owens, and Rebecca Jane for the last hoarded pieces of Esther Bolick's coconut cake, served with a pretty good joke from Uncle Billy Watson.
Tommy was asking for Buck Leeper, who had visited the hospital faithfully but hadn't been seen since Tommy came home.
The rector supposed Buck Leeper was far too private a man to invade someone's home. The impersonal ground of the hospital had been a different matter.
Breaking a light sweat, he jogged up the hill to the construction site with the book under his arm. It wasn't every day he could kill two birds with one stone.
Buck Leeper was sitting at the desk with his back to the door.
"Buck?"
The chair creaked as his heavy frame swiveled around to face the door. The superintendent merely nodded.
"Two things..."
"Number one," said Buck, stubbing out his cigarette.
"Tommy is asking for you, misses seeing you. I'd be glad to tell you how to find his house, if you'd like to pay a visit."
Buck cleared his throat. "Number two."
"I found something I wanted to give you."
Buck stood up as he handed the book over. He looked at it for a moment before taking it in his hand.
The rector shrugged. "I thought you might like it."
Buck studied the cover silently, drawing a cigarette out of the pack of Lucky Strikes in his shirt pocket. He held it, unlighted, as he laid the book on the desk and opened it. Then he bent over the book and slowly turned a few pages.
The rector wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
The superintendent stayed bent over the book so long, the rector thought he'd forgotten anyone was in the room.
Buck turned, finally, and looked at him. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Well, I won't keep you."
"Where's th' kid's house?"
He told him, pointing this way and that.
As he was leaving, Buck said, "Something I ought to say to you."
"What's that?"
"Nobody around here knows what I told you the other day."
"Nobody will hear it from me."
Buck lit the cigarette. "I'll go see the boy."
"Good. He'll like that."
Jogging down the hill definitely felt better than going up.
It was a long push to Elmhurst, but if they hustled, they could make it in a day, arriving back home at midnight. His jampacked calendar wouldn't permit dawdling.
But Dooley Barlowe did not like Elmhurst, which was only one day away from dismissing for the summer.
He did not like the grim look of the brick buildings, he did not like the cool demeanor of the headmaster, he did not like any of the teachers or even one of the boys, he hated the drab, illfitting school uniforms, and he refused to eat a bite in the dining room that was morbidly silent.
The boy had judgment, you could say that for him. They were in such a hurry to get out of there that the Buick nosed into the garage an hourandahalf ahead of schedule.
As Olivia Davenport walked down the aisle on the arm of Dr. Leo Baldwin, the wedding guests gawked as shamelessly as tourists at a scenic overlook.
No one had ever seen anything like it in Mitford—a successful hearttransplant recipient who looked like a movie star, a famous heart surgeon from Boston, Massachusetts, and a wedding gown that would be the talk of the village for months, even years, to come.
This wedding, as someone rightly said, was "big doings."
If the wedding of Dr. Walter Harper and Olivia Davenport was big doings, the doings that followed at Fernbank were bigger still.
People turned out merely to see the long procession of cars snaking along Main Street and up Old Church Lane.
"Is it a weddin' or a funeral?" Hattie Cloer, who owned Cloer's Market on the highway, was being taken for a Sundayafternoon drive by her son. Her Chihuahua, Darlene, sat on Hattie's shoulder, with her head stuck out the window.
"Looks like a funeral," said her son. "I seen a long, black deal parked in th' church driveway."
"Oh, law," said Hattie, "I hope it's not old Sadie Baxter who's keeled over. This is her church, you know."
"I hear she had a United States president at her house one time."
"President Jackson, I think it was, or maybe Roosevelt," said Hattie.
Entering Fernbank's ballroom was like entering another world. No one stepped across the threshold who didn't gasp with amazement or joy or disbelief, so that the reception line was backed up on the porch and down the steps and across the circle drive. No one minded standing on the lawn, some with their heels sinking into the turf, for they'd heard that a marvelous spectacle awaited inside.
Quite a few had never been on the lawn at Fernbank and had only seen the rooftop over the trees. They'd heard for years the place was falling to ruin, but all they saw was some peeling paint here and there, hardly worse than what they had at home.
Not a soul was untouched by the enchantment of it, and the skirted tables on the lawn, and the young, attractive strangers in black bow ties who smiled and poured champagne and served limegreen punch and made them feel like royalty.
Enormous baskets of tuberoses and stephanotis and country roses and stock flanked the porch steps, pouring out their fragrance. And through the open windows, strains of music—Mozart, someone said— declared itself, sweetening the air all the way to the orchards.
Uncle Billy Watson stood near the end of the line and straightened his tie. "Lord have mercy!" he said, deeph moved by the occasion. He gave Miss Rose a final check and discovered he'd missed the label that was turned out of her collar. He turned it in.
Absalom Greer felt an odd beating of his heart. Where had more than sixty years gone since his feet came down those steps and he drove away with Sadie Baxter in her father's town car, believing with all his heart that she would be his bride?
Hessie Mayhew did not wait in line. She marched up the steps and across the porch and slipped in and found a chair and claimed her territory by dumping her pocketbook in it.
Then she took out her notepad and pen. After all, she was not here to have a good time; she was h
ere to work. She had finally talked J.C. Hogan into letting her do something besides the gardening column.
The reception line alone had been an emotional experience for the rector. When he met her, Olivia Davenport had been dying, and he had, with his own eyes, witnessed her agonizing brush with death. Now, to see her beauty and to feel her joy...it was another miracle in a string of miracles.
Hoppy Harper clasped his hand and held it for a long moment. Working as a team, they had pitched in and prayed for Olivia, and it would bind them together for life.
But perhaps what he was feeling most deeply of all was this strange, new sense of family as he moved through the line with Cynthia and Dooley. He felt a connection that was beyond his understanding, as if the three of them were bound together like the links of a chain.
It was a new feeling, and he was intoxicated by it even before he got to the champagne.
Esther Bolick had made the wedding cake, which was displayed on a round table, skirted to the floor with ivory tulle and ornamented with calla lilies.
"A masterpiece!" he said, meaning it.
Esther was literally wringing her hands, looking at it. "I declare, I've never done anything this complicated. I was up 'til all hours. Three different cakes, three layers each—it looks like the Empire State Buildin' on that stand the caterers brought."
"What do you think of the other masterpiece in the room?"
"Law, I haven't had a minute to look around. Where?"
"Up there."
Esther looked up and gasped. "Who painted that?"
"Leonardo and Michelangelo."
"You don't mean it!"
"I do mean it!" he said.
Once again, he went to the windows that faced the circle drive and looked out. Planes were always late, weren't they?
And then he saw the taxi coming up the drive, and he went out quickly and hurried down the steps and was there to greet the tall, dark, gentle man who was Leonardo Francesca's grandson.
