by Jan Karon
Sadie Baxter came off the dance floor in her emeraldgreen dress, on the arm of Leo Baldwin. Leo retrieved her cane and gave it to her as she turned and saw the man walking into the ballroom.
There was an astonished look on her face, and the rector went to her at once, wondering if the shock might...
But Miss Sadie regained her composure and held out her hand to the young man and said, wonderingly, "Leonardo?"
Roberto took her hand and kissed it. "I am Roberto, Leonardo's grandson. My grandfather salutes your beauty and grace and deeply regrets that he could not come himself. He has made me the emissary of a very special message to his childhood friend."
The rector was enthralled with the look on her face, as she waited eagerly to hear the message that had come thousands of miles, across nearly eighty years.
"My grandfather has asked me to say—Tempo e denaro!"
Roberto smiled and bowed.
No one had ever seen Sadie Baxter laugh like this; it was a regular fit of laughter. People drew round, feeling yet another pulse of excitement in a day of wondrous excitements.
"Does he," she said, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief, "still like garden peas?"
"Immensely!" said Roberto.
Miss Sadie reached again for Roberto's hand. "Let's sit down before we fall down. I want to hear everything!"
"Miss Sadie," said the rector, "before you go...what does tempo e denaro mean, anyway?"
"Didn't I tell you? It means 'time is money'!"
"Is this heaven?" asked Cynthia as they danced.
"Heavens gates, at the very least."
"Everyone loves you so.'"
"Everyone?"
"Yes," she whispered against his cheek. "Everyone."
"That's a tough act to follow," he said, his heart hammering.
"You were the one who brought Roberto here."
"Yes. I didn't say anything to you because I wanted to...I wasn't sure we could pull it off. I called Florence for his grandfather, who answered but had forgotten all his English. He handed the phone to his son, who knew a bit of English—and then Roberto, whose English is flawless, called me back.
"I said, 'Please, if you could do it, it would give great joy.' And Roberto said, 'My grandfather's life has been spent in giving joy. I will come.'
"I had tickets waiting at the airline counter in Florence, and here, thanks be to God, is Roberto."
"It's the loveliest gift imaginable."
"Miss Sadie is so often on the giving end..."
"How long will he be with us?"
"Only a few days. We'll have Andrew step in for a glass of sherry while he's here. They can rattle away in Italian, and we'll do something special for Miss Sadie and Louella. Roberto will occupy my popular guest room. Of course, there's no Puny to give a hand, but we'll manage."
"I'll help you," she said.
He pressed her hand in his. "You always help me."
As the eightpiece orchestra played on, he saw the room revolve around them in a glorious panorama, bathed with afternoon light.
He saw Absalom Greer laughing with Roberto and Miss Sadie.
He saw Andrew Gregory raise a toast to the newlyweds, and Miss Rose standing stiffly with a smiling Uncle Billy, wearing her black suit and a cocktail hat and proper shoes.
He saw Buck Leeper standing awkwardly in the doorway, holding a glass of champagne in his rough hand, and Ron and Wilma Malcolm trying to lure him into the room.
There was Emma wearing a hat, and Harold looking shy, and Esther Bolick sitting down and fanning herself with relief, and Dooley Barlowe walking toward Miss Sadie, who was beaming in his direction.
He saw Winnie Ivey taking something fancy off a passing tray, her cheeks pink with excitement, while J.C. Hogan conferred with Hessie Mayhew next to a potted palm.
And there was Louella, in a handsome dress that brought out the warmth of her coffeecolored skin, dancing with Hal Owen.
The faces of the people in the sunbathed panorama were suddenly more beautiful to him than heavenly faces on a ceiling could ever be. Let the hosts swarm overhead, shouting hosannas. He wanted to be planted exactly where he was, enveloped in this mist of wisteria.
"Man," said Dooley, as they came toward him off the dance floor, "you were sure dancin' close."
"Not nearly close enough," said Cynthia, looking mischievous.
"Dooley, why don't you dance with Cynthia?" Dooley, who was unable to imagine such a thing, paused blankly. Seizing the moment, Cynthia grabbed Dooley and dragged him at once into the happy maelstrom on the dance floor.
He who hesitates is lost! thought the rector, grinning.
"Mrs. Walter Harper?"
"The very same!"
"May I kiss the bride?"
"I'll be crushed if you don't."
He kissed her on both cheeks and stood holding her hands, fairly smitten with the light in her violet eyes. "You're a great beauty, Mrs. Harper. But there's even greater beauty inside. I won't say that Hoppy is a lucky man, for I don't believe in luck, but grace. May God bless you both with the deepest happiness, always."
"Thank you. May I kiss my priest and friend?"
"I'll be crushed if you don't."
She kissed him on both cheeks, and they laughed. "I've never been so blessed and happy in all my life. A wonderful husband, a loving and doting aunt...and this glorious room that I know was done just for us. How can one bear such happiness?"
"Drink deeply. It's richly deserved."
"I hope you'll soon be doing this yourself, Father."
"This?"
"Getting married, sharing your life."
"I don't know if I could..."
She looked at him, smiling, but serious. "Don't you remember? Philippians 4:13, for Pete's sake!"
•CHAPTER TWENTY ONE•
DOOLEY'S HOMEROOM TEACHER WROTE in a neat, confined hand:
To Whom It May Concern: When it comes to math, Dooley Barlowe is a genius.
He felt fortified. Now if Louise Appleshaw could pull off a miracle...
He said as much. "Miss Appleshaw, I confess I'm expecting a miracle."
"Rector, one does not expect miracles. A miracle is, at least partly by definition, something quite unexpected." She looked down her nose at him.
He became a worm and crawled from the room.
Andrew Gregory stopped in for a glass of Italian wine before meeting friends for dinner at the club.
Roberto had put on the rector's favorite apron, tucked his tie into his shirt front, and was busy creating the most seductive aromas in the rectory's history.
"Osso buco!" Roberto announced, taking the pot lid off with one hand and waving a wooden spoon with the other.
"Ummmm!" cried Cynthia, coming through the back door with an armful of flowers. "Ravishing!"
"Man!" exclaimed Dooley, lured downstairs.
"Oh, my gracious!" gasped Miss Sadie, who arrived with her usual hostess gift of Swanson's Chicken Pie and a Sara Lee pound cake for his freezer.
Louella sniffed the air, appreciatively. "That ain't no collards and pigs' feet!"
The toasts flew as thick as snowflakes during last year's blizzard.
To Leonardo, who lay crippled with rheumatism in Florence.
To Roberto's happiness in Mitford!
To Miss Sadie's good health!
To Louella's quick recovery from an impending knee operation.
To Dooley's prospects for a new school.
To the hospitality of the host!
To the charm and beauty of the hostess!
To Olivia and Hoppy at Brown's Hotel in London!
Avis Packard called to find out if everything was going all right, thrilled with having cut veal for a real Italian who knew what was what.
Roberto showed photos of his wife and three beautiful children, of his grandfather's work in the homes and churches of Florence, and of Leonardo himself, wearing the same boyish smile Miss Sadie remembered from his longago visit to Fernbank.
The rector had never seen so much toasting and cooking and pouring of olive oil and peeling of garlic, nor heard so much laughing and joking.
It was as if Roberto were one of their very own and had come home to them all, at last.
Bingo.
Dooley liked the second school they visited. And why not? Cynthia went with them on the journey and kept them laughing all the way.
Better still, she never once let the admissions director believe he was interviewing them but that it was definitely the other way around.
Though the boys were away for the summer and they couldn't tell much about the tone of the place, Dooley warmed up to the affable headmaster who dropped in from his home next door, dressed in khakis, loafers, and a sweatshirt, to give them an enthusiastic tour.
He also liked the science lab with the brain in a jar, and the gym, the track, the football field, and the horse stables where the groom put him on his personal steed and slapped its rump and sent Dooley flying around the ring, barely clinging on.
"Needs polish," said the groom.
The dorm rooms did not measure up.
"Gag," said Dooley.
"Spoiled," said the rector.
"No problem," said Cynthia, who rattled on about paint and curtains.
In all, a satisfying trip, which brought them home at two o'clock in the morning, reeling with exhaustion.
The statue of Captain Willard Porter was definitely the centerpiece of the first—and soon to be annual—Mitford Museum Festival.
It stood on the freshly groomed lawn of the Porter place, mysteriously draped with a tarpaulin and encircled by booths.
Over by the lilac bushes, Joe Ivey had set up a barbering chair and a table displaying the tools of his trade, from tins of talc and bottles of Sea Breeze to a neck brush and a batteryoperated shaver. Shaves were three dollars, haircuts were six, and all proceeds would go to the museum.
Across the circle, as far as she could possibly remove herself from the competition, was Fancy Skinner, dressed to the teeth in limegreen pedal pushers and a Vnecked sweater. When someone wondered about the shocking departure from her favorite color, she said she was "trying to cut through the clutter and stand out in the crowd, which, as anyone, ought to know, is what business is all about."
Fancy was offering manicures for five dollars and lip waxings and pedicures for ten (behind a sheet that was hung on a wire). The only problem with her assigned location, as she later pointed out in a letter to the town council, was that Mack Stroupe was boiling hot dogs right next to her booth, which created both a clamor and a smell that were entirely inappropriate for beauty treatments.
Winnie Ivey manned the Sweet Stuff donut stand, which was staked out under the elm tree, in conjunction with her cousin who had made thirty pimiento cheese sandwiches, thirty sliced ham and cheese, and forty chicken salad, which she was keeping on ice in a cooler.
On the opposite side of the elm tree, two llamas stood patiently in the shade gazing at the crowd. Pet the Llamas Fifty Cents, read the sign tacked to the tree.
"Fifty cents is way too much to pet a llama!" said a young mother, who decided to invest in donuts. Her brood of three stood howling at the mere sight of a llama.
There were cakes baked by Esther Bolick, who complained that the Harper wedding and museum festival were far too close together. Her cakes, however, were selling fast, with her prize twolayer orange marmalade waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder at noon. It sat on review under an open tent, as Percy and Velma Mosely's youngest grandchild waved a fly swatter over it.
Free lemonade was available on the porch, which was the only concession the town council had made in the area of hospitality—except, of course, for the Porta John that leaned alarmingly to the right on a bank next to the cellar door.
Dora Pugh offered a miniature garden shop under a tent, with a box of newly hatched biddies to entertain the children. Ten percent of Dora's sales would go to the museum, while Andrew Gregory was donating all proceeds from the sale of his English Lemon Furniture Wax, which he displayed on an eighteenthcentury teak garden bench under the redbud tree.
"Law!" said J.C. Hogan, wiping his face with his handkerchief, "this is a whopper." He had shot four rolls of film in only one hour since the festival officially opened, one of which featured Mayor Cunningham standing on the steps of the Porter place, flanked by Miss Rose and Uncle Billy.
According to Uncle Billy, Miss Rose started the day in one of the worst moods he had ever witnessed and completely refused his offer of help with her wardrobe.
She had turned up at one of the most important events ever staged in Mitford, wearing a crackedleather bomber jacket from World War II, a black cocktail hat with a mashedflat silk peony that had come loose and slipped down over one ear, a pair of saddle oxfords, and a flowered dress that had belonged to her mother. She had chosen to carry a handbag made from the cork circles that once appeared in the caps of PepsiCola bottles.
Uncle Billy had been able to make only one inroad on this discouraging situation—his wife had let him tie the laces of her shoes.
As the brass band marched around the lawn playing special selections, the crowd increased. Also, it was the first time anyone could remember the street being roped off, which clearly added to the general excitement.
A list of the day's activities was handwritten on a blackboard, which stood teetering on an easel at the sidewalk facing Lilac Road.
Included in the long list were:
See someone you know push a peanut with their NOSE!
Watch Percy Mosely do the
HULA DANCE in a grass skirt!
"I ain't doin' any hula dance," said Percy, who had come home from Hawaii with a tan. "I told 'er that plain as day, but Esther Cunningham don't take no for an answer, and now she's got false advertisin' on her hands."
"Aw, Percy," someone cajoled, "go ahead and do it. It's for a good cause."
The band passed by, drowning out Percy's list of indignations.
"I declare," said Chief Rodney Underwood, who was eating a hot dog and talking to the rector, "we go along thinkin' we're a small town. Then we get big doin's like this, and first thing you know, we look like New York City."
Esther Cunningham drew alongside them, wearing a new red linen suit. "Th' tourists are swarmin' over this place like flies," she said with disgust. "You'd think they'd let us alone for five bloomin' minutes."
Rodney wiped the chili off his hand. "It's June, Esther. We always get tourists in June."
She looked down at her jacket. "I hate linen. Would you look at this suit? It's got more wrinkles than Carter has liver pills. I'm packin' up and goin' to Colorado as soon as this thing's over."
She stomped off to get a donut.
"I thought this was a festival," said Mule Skinner, arriving fresh from a round of golf, "but it looks like a circus to me."
"Big crowd," said the rector.
"Next year, they better bring in barbecue and sweetpotato pie. Hot dogs won't cut it."
"We'll get Percy to set up a booth."
"When do the events begin, the pig kissin' and all?"
"One o'clock, if there's a soul left alive to watch," said the rector.
"Mack Stroupe?"
The rector nodded, laughing. Two dogs streaked by them, chasing a squirrel. Rodney ran after somebody whose shopping bag had lost its bottom and was spilling a trail of tea towels and bran muffins bought at the Library Ladies booth.
"Are you on for the Scripture Dog act?" said Mule.
"That's me," sighed the rector. "It was that or push a blasted peanut..."
"Esther Cunningham makes my army sergeant look like Mother Teresa."
They looked up to see Hattie Cloer charging toward them with Darlene on a leash.
"Duck," hissed Mule, but it was too late.
"Father," said Hattie, "how far gone do you have to be to get last rites?"
"Pretty far," said Mule, helping out with the conversation.
Darl
ene bared her teeth and growled at the rector.
"I was thinkin' last night of askin' Clyde to call you," said Hattie. "I was layin' there 'til way up in th' morning with somethin' I thought was gas. Oh, law, I was so distended! But it had a worse pain to it than gas, you know. It was something really serious, I could just tell. So I said, 'Clyde, honey, wake up and feel this.' And he rolled over and felt of it and sat straight up and called the ambulance, but he dialed the wrong number and got Charlie's Tavern on the highway. And by the time he was through talkin', I was feelin' better and got up and cooked a pot of string beans that just came in down at th' store. And knowin' how you like string beans, you might want to come over and get you a pound or two. They'll freeze. You know I give a quarter off for clergy. But anyway, it did cause me to wonder about maybe needin' you to come over..."
"Call me anytime," he told Hattie, who dragged Darlene away, still growling.
"I'd get an unlisted number if I was you," said Mule.
At one o'clock sharp, the mayor stood on the front porch steps as the brass band played 'God Bless America,' and everyone crossed their hearts.
The Rotary had loaned a small sea of folding chairs to the festival, which were neatly placed about the lawn in rows near the steps.
Miss Sadie, Louella, Roberto, Father Tim, Cynthia, Dooley, and Andrew Gregory occupied the front row.
The rector glanced anxiously at Miss Sadie. How would she react to seeing the statue of the man she had loved for so many years? She didn't care for public display, to say the least.
The mayor thanked everyone for turning out, reminded them of the free lemonade, and launched into a prepared speech that was ghostwritten, as far as he could tell, by Hessie Mayhew.
She thanked Miss Rose and Uncle Billy for their civic generosity in letting their home be overtaken by a museum, and everyone applauded.
Miss Rose stood and bowed, sending her mashedflat silk peony into the grass.
Then the mayor went on at some length about Willard Porter, his deep roots in Mitford, his fondly remembered generosity to the Presbyterian church, his brilliant contributions to the pharmaceutical profession, and the noble architecture of the house, which, for nearly seventy years, had been the centerpiece of the village. His death in France, she said in closing, had been to the glory of God and America.
