by Jan Karon
Uncle Billy walked out on the street with the help of his cane and tapped Father Tim on the shoulder. “Hit’s like a Chiney puzzle, don’t you know. If you ‘uns’d move that’n off to th’ side and git that’n to th‘ curb, hit’d be done with.”
“No more parking on Wisteria,” Ron Malcolm reported to the rector. “We’ll direct the rest of the crowd to the church lot and shoot ‘em back here in the Hope House van.”
A UPS driver, who had clearly made an unwise turn onto Wisteria, sat in his truck in front of the rectory, stunned by the sight of so much traffic on the usually uneventful Holding-Mitford-Wesley run.
“Hit’s what you call a standstill,” Uncle Billy told J. C. Hogan, who showed up with his Nikon and six rolls of Tri-X.
As traffic started to flow again, the rector saw Mack Stroupe turn onto Wisteria Lane from Church Hill. Clearly, he was circling the block.
“I’d like to whop him upside th‘ head with a two-by-four,” said Mule. He glared at Mack, who was reared back in the seat with both windows down, listening to a country music station. Mack waved to several women, who immediately turned their heads.
Mule snorted. “Th‘ dumb so-and-so! How would you like to have that peckerwood for mayor?”
The rector wiped his perspiring forehead. “Watch your blood pressure, buddyroe.”
“He says he’s goin‘ to campaign straight through spring and summer, right up to election in November. Kind of like bein’ tortured by a drippin‘ faucet.”
As the truck passed, Emma Newland stomped over. “I ought to climb in that truck and slap his jaws. What’s he doin‘, anyway, trying to sway church people to his way of thinkin’?”
“Let him be,” he cautioned his secretary and on-line computer whiz. After all, give Mack enough rope and ...
Cynthia was lying in bed, moaning, as he came out of the shower. He went into the bedroom, hastily drying off.
“Why are you moaning?” he asked, alarmed.
“Because it helps relieve exhaustion. I hope the windows are closed so the neighbors can’t hear.”
“The only neighbor close enough to hear is no longer living in the little yellow house next door. She is, in fact, lying right here, doing the moaning.”
She moaned again. “Moaning is good,” she told him, her face mashed into the pillow. “You should try it.”
“I don’t think so,” he said.
Warm as a steamed clam from the shower, he put on his pajamas and sat on the side of the bed. “I’m proud of you,” he said, rubbing her back. “That was a tea and a half! The best! In fact, words fail. You’ll have a time topping that one.”
“Don’t tell me I’m supposed to top it!”
“Yes, well, not to worry. Next year, we can have Omer Cunningham and his pilot buddies do a fly-over. That’ll give the ladies something to talk about.”
“A little further down,” she implored. “It’s my lower back. Ugh. It’s killing me from all the standing and baking.”
“I got the reviews as your guests left.”
“Only tell me the good ones, I don’t want to hear about the cheese straws, which were as limp as linguine.”
“ ‘Perfect’ was a word they bandied around quite a bit, and the lemon squares, of course, got their usual share of raves. Some wanted me to know how charming they think you are, and others made lavish remarks about your youth and beauty.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, inhaling the faintest scent of wisteria. “You are beautiful, Kavanagh.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t suppose there are any special thanks you’d like to offer the poor rube who helped unsnarl four thousand three hundred and seventy-nine cars, trucks, and vans?”
She rolled over and looked at him, smiling. Then she held her head to one side in that way he couldn’t resist, and pulled him to her and kissed him tenderly.
“Now you’re talking,” he said.
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
Dooley! “Hey, yourself, buddy.”
“Is Cynthia sending me a box of stuff she made for that tea? I can’t talk long.”
“Two boxes. Went off today.”
“Man! Thanks!”
“You’re welcome. How’s school?”
“Great.”
Great? Dooley Barlowe was not one to use superlatives. “No kidding?”
“You’re going to like my grades.”
Was this the little guy he’d struggled to raise for nearly three years? The Dooley who always shot himself in the foot? The self-assured sound of the boy’s voice made his hair fairly stand on end.
“We’re going to like you coming home, that’s what. In just six or seven weeks, you’ll be here....”
Silence. Was Dooley dreading to tell him he wanted to spend the summer at Meadowgate Farm? The boy’s decision to do that last year had nearly broken his heart, not to mention Cynthia’s. They had, of course, gotten over it, as they watched the boy doing what he loved—learning more about veterinary medicine at the country practice of Hal Owen.
“Of course,” said the rector, pushing on, “we want you to go out to Meadowgate, if that’s what you’d like to do.” He swallowed. This year, he was stronger, he could let go.
“OK,” said Dooley, “that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Fine. No problem. I’ll call you tomorrow for our usual phone visit. We love you.”
“I love you back.”
“Here’s Cynthia.”
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey, yourself.” It was their family greeting.
“So, you big galoot, we sent a box for you and one to share with your friends.”
“What’s in it?”
“Lemon squares.”
“I like lemon squares.”
“Plus raspberry tarts, pecan truffles, and brownies made by the preacher.”
“Thanks. ”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes.”
“No kidding?”
“Yep.”
“Good!” said Cynthia. “Lace Turner asked about you the other day.”
“That dumb girl that dresses like a guy?”
“She doesn’t dress like a guy anymore. Oh, and Jenny was asking about you, too.”
“How’s Tommy?”
“Missing you. Just as we do. So hurry home, even if you are going to spend the summer at Meadowgate, you big creep.”
Dooley cackled.
“We love you.”
“I love you back.”
Cynthia placed the receiver on the hook, smiling happily.
“Now, you poor rube,” she said, “where were we?”
He sat on the study sofa and took the rubber band off the Mitford Muse.
Good grief! There he was on the front page, standing bewildered in front of the UPS truck with his nose looking, as usual, like a turnip or a tulip bulb. Why did J. C. Hogan run this odious picture, when he might have photographed his hardworking, good-looking, and thoroughly deserving wife?
Primrose Tee Draws
Stand Out Crowd
Clearly, Hessie had not written this story, but had given her notes to J.C., who had forged ahead without checking his spelling.
Good time had by all ... same time next year ... a hundred and thirty guests ... nine gallons of tea, ten dozen lemon squares, eight dozen raspberry tarts ... traffic jam ...
The phone gave a sharp blast.
“Hello?”
“Timothy ...”
“Hal! I’ve just been thinking of you and Marge.”
“Good. And we of you. I’ve got some ... hard news, and wanted you to know.”
Hal and Marge Owen were two of his closest, most valued friends. He was afraid to know.
“I’ve just hired a full-time assistant.”
“That’s the bad news? It sounds good to me, you work like a Trojan.”
“Yes, but ... we won’t be able to have Dooley this summer. My assista
nt is a young fellow, just starting out, and I’ll have to give him a lot of time and attention. Also, we’re putting him up in Dooley’s room until he gets established.” Hal sighed.
“But that’s terrific. You know Dooley’s looking forward to being there—however, circumstances alter cases, as my Mississippi kin used to say.”
“There’s a large riding stable coming in about a mile down the road, they’ve asked me to vet the horses. That could be a full-time job, right there.”
“I understand. Of course. Your practice is growing.”
“We’ll miss the boy, Tim, you know how we feel about him, how Rebecca Jane loves him. But look, we’ll have him out the first two weeks he’s home from school, if that works for you.”
“Absolutely.”
“Ah...”
“Yes?”
“Will you tell him?”
“I will. I’ll talk to him in the next couple of days, get him thinking of what to do this summer. Be good for him.”
“So why don’t you and Cynthia plan to bring him out and spend the day? Bring Barnabas, too. Marge will make your favorite.”
Deep-dish chicken pie, with a crust like French pastry. “We’ll be there!” he said, meaning it.
“Will you tell him?” he asked Cynthia.
“No way,” she said.
Nobody wanted to tell Dooley Barlowe that he couldn’t spend the summer doing what he loved more than anything on earth.
She opened her eyes and rolled over to find him sitting up in bed.
“Oh, my dear! Oh, my goodness! What happened?”
He loved the look on his wife’s face, he wanted to savor it. “It’s already turned a few colors,” he said, removing his hand from his right temple.
She peered at him as if he were a butterfly on a pin. “Yes! Black ... and blue and ... the tiniest bit of yellow.”
“My old school colors,” he said.
“But what happened?” He never heard such tssking and gasping.
“T. D. A,” he replied.
“The dreaded armoire? What do you mean?”
“I mean that I got up in the middle of the night, in the dark, and went out to the landing, and opened the windows to give Barnabas a cool breeze. As I careened through the bedroom on my way to the bathroom, I slammed into the blasted thing.”
“Oh, no. Oh, heavens. What can I do? And tomorrow’s Sunday!”
“Spousal abuse,” he muttered. “In today’s TV news climate, my congregation will pick up on it immediately.”
“Timothy, dearest, I’m so sorry. I’ll get something for you, I don’t know what, but something. Just stay right there and don’t move.”
She put on her slippers and robe and flew downstairs, Barnabas barking at her heels.
T. D. A. might stand for “The Dreaded Armoire” as far as his wife was concerned. As far as he was concerned, it stood for something else entirely.
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Jan Karon writes “to give readers an extended family, and to applaud the extraordinary beauty of ordinary lives.” She is the author of nine Mitford novels, At Home in Mitford; A Light in the Window; These High, Green Hills; Out to Canaan; A New Song; A Common Life; In This Mountain; Shepherds Abiding; and Light from Heaven, all available from Penguin. She is also the author of The Mitford Bedside Companion; Jan Karon’s Mitford Cookbook & Kitchen Reader; A Continual Feast: Words of Comfort and Celebration, Collected by Father Tim; Patches of Godlight: Father Tim’s Favorite Quotes; The Mitford Snowmen: A Christmas Story; Esther’s Gift; and The Trellis and the Seed. Her children’s books include Miss Fannie’s Hat; Jeremy: The Tale of an Honest Bunny; and Violet Comes to Stay. Coming from Viking in fall 2007 is the first Father Tim Novel, Home to Holly Springs.
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