Read A New Song Online

Authors: Jan Karon

A New Song (2 page)

BOOK: A New Song
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“Cheers!” said his wife, appearing in jeans and a denim shirt, toting glasses of lemonade on a tray. They had recently made it a ritual to meet here every afternoon, for what they called the Changing of the Light.
He chuckled. “We mustn’t tell anyone what we do for fun.”
“You can count on it! Besides, who’d ever believe that we sit around watching the light change?” She set the tray on the table, next to a packet of mail.
“We could do worse.”
They thumped onto the sofa, which had been carted through the hedge from the rectory.
“One more week,” he said, disbelieving.
“Ugh. Heaven help us!” She put her head back and closed her eyes. “How daunting to move to a place we’ve never seen . . . for an unknown length of time . . . behind a priest who’s got them used to the guitar!”
He took her hand, laughing. “If anyone can do it, you can. How many cartons of books are we shipping down there, anyway?”
“Fourteen, so far.”
“And not a shelf to put them on.”
“We’re mad as hatters!” she said with feeling. During the past week, his wife had worked like a Trojan to close up the yellow house, do most of the packing, and leave their financial affairs in order. He, on the other hand, had been allowed to troop around town saying his goodbyes, sipping tea like a country squire and trying to keep his mitts off the cookies and cakes that were proffered at every turn.
He had even dropped into Happy Endings Bookstore and bought two new books to take to Whitecap, a fact that he would never, even on penalty of death, reveal to Cynthia Kavanagh.
She looked at him and smiled. “I’ve prayed to see you sit and relax like this, without rushing to beat out a thousand fires. Just think how the refreshment of the last few weeks will help you, dearest, when we do the interim on the island. Who knows, after all, what lies ahead and what strength you may need?”
He gulped his lemonade. Who knew, indeed?
“The jig, however, is definitely up,” she said, meaning it. “Next week . . .”
“I know. Change the furnace filter next door, weed the perennial beds, fix the basement step, pack my clothes . . . I’ve got the entire, unexpurgated list written down.”
“Have your suit pressed,” she said, “buy two knit shirts—nothing with an alligator, I fervently hope—and find the bicycle pump for Dooley.”
“Right!” He was actually looking forward to the adrenaline of their last week in Mitford.
“By the way,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. Instead of loading the car in bits and pieces, just pile everything by the garage door. That way, I can check it twice, and we’ll load at the last minute.”
“But it would be simpler to—”
“Trust me,” she said, smiling.
Barnabas would occupy the rear seat, with Violet’s cage on the floor, left side. They’d load the right side with linens and towels, the trunk would be filled to the max, and they’d lash on top whatever remained.
“Oh, yes, Timothy, one more thing . . . stay out of the bookstore!”
She peered at him with that no-nonsense gleam in her sapphire eyes, a gleam that, for all its supposed authority, stirred a fire in him. As a man with a decidedly old-shoe nature, he had looked forward to the old-shoe stage of their marriage. So far, however, it hadn’t arrived. His blond and sensible wife had an unpredictable streak that kept the issues of life from settling into humdrum patterns.
“Anything wonderful in the mail?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I just fetched it in. Why don’t you have a look?”
His wife’s fascination with mail was greater even than his own, which was considerable. William James, in his opinion, had hit the nail on the head. “As long as there are postmen,” James declared, “life will have zest.”
“Oh, look! Lovely! A letter from Whitecap, and it’s to
me
!”
He watched her rip open the envelope.
“My goodness, listen to this. . . .
“‘Dear Mrs. Kavanagh, We are looking forward with great enthusiasm to your interim stay in our small island parish, and trust that all is going smoothly as you prepare to join us at the end of June.
“‘Our ECW has been very busy readying Dove Cottage for your stay at Whitecap, and all you need to bring is bed linens for the two bedrooms, as we discussed, and any towels and pillows which will make you feel at home.
“‘We have supplied the kitchen cupboards with new pots, and several of us have lent things of our own, so that you and Father Kavanagh may come without much disruption to your household in Mitford. Sam has fixed the electric can opener, but I hear you are a fine cook and probably won’t need it, ha ha.
“‘Oh, yes. Marjorie Lamb and I have done a bit of work in the cottage gardens, which were looking woefully forlorn after years of neglect. We found a dear old-fashioned rose, which I hear your husband enjoys, and liberated it from the brambles. It is now climbing up your trellis instead of running into the street! We expect the hydrangeas and crepe myrtle to be in full glory for your arrival, though the magnolias in the churchyard will, alas, be out of bloom.
“‘Complete directions are enclosed, which Marjorie’s husband, Leonard, assures me should take you from Mitford straight to the door of Dove Cottage without a snare. (Leonard once traveled on the road selling plumbing supplies.)
“‘Please notice the red arrow I have drawn on the map. You must be very careful at this point to watch for the street sign, as it is hidden by a dreadful hedge which the property owner refuses to trim. I have thought of trimming it myself, but Sam says that would be meddling.
“‘We hope you will not object to a rather gregarious greeting committee, who are bent on giving you a parish-wide luau the day following your arrival. I believe I have talked them out of wearing grass skirts, but that embarrassing notion could possibly break forth again.
“‘When Father Morgan joined us several years ago, he, too, came in
the summer and was expecting a nice holiday at the beach. I’m sure you’ve been warned that summer is our busiest time, what with the tourists who swell our little church to bursting and push us to two services! We all take our rest in the winter when one must hunker down and live off the nuts we’ve gathered!
“‘Bishop Harvey was thrilled to learn from Bishop Cullen how greatly you and Father Kavanagh were appreciated by your parish in Mitford! We shall all do our utmost to make you feel as welcome as the flowers in May, as my dear mother used to say.
“‘Goodness! I hope you’ll forgive the length of this letter! Since childhood, I have loved the feel of a pen flowing over paper, and often get carried away.
“‘We wish you and Father Timothy safe travel.
“‘Yours sincerely,
“‘Marion Fieldwalker, vestry member of St. John’s in the Grove, and Pres. Episcopal Church Women
“‘ P.S. I am the librarian of Whitecap Island Community Library (35 years) and do pray you might be willing to give a reading this fall from one of your famous Violet books. Your little books stay checked out, and I believe every child on the island has read them at least twice!’”
His wife flushed with approval. “There! How uplifting! Marion sounds lovely! And just think, dearest—trellises and old roses!”
“Not to mention new saucepans,” he said, admiring the effort of his future parishioners.
She drank from her perspiring glass and continued to sort through the pile. “Timothy, look at his handwriting. He’s finally stopped printing and gone to cursive!”
“Let me see. . . .”
Definitely a new look in the handwriting department, and a distinct credit to Dooley Barlowe’s Virginia prep schooling. Miss Sadie’s big bucks, forked over annually, albeit posthumously, were continuing to put spit and polish on the red-haired mountain boy who’d come to live with him at the rectory five years ago.
“‘Hey,’”
he read aloud from Dooley’s letter,
“‘I have thought about it a lot and I would like to stay in Mitford and work for Avis this summer and make money to get a car and play softball with the Reds.
“‘I don’t want to go to the beach.
“‘Don’t be mad or upset or anything. I can live in the basement with
Harley like you said, and we will be fine. Puny could maybe come and do the laundry or we could do stuff ourselves and eat in Wesley or at the Grill or Harley could cook.
“‘I will come down to that island for either Thanksgiving or Christmas like we talked about.
“‘Thanks for letting me go home from school with Jimmy Duncan, I am having a great time, he drives a Wrangler. His mom drives a Range Rover and his dad has a BMW 850. That’s what I would like to have. A Wrangler, I mean. I’ll get home before you leave, Mr. Duncan is driving me on his way to a big meeting. Say hey to Barnabas and Violet. Thanks for the money. Love, Dooley.’”
“Oh, well,” said his wife, looking disappointed. “I’m sure he wanted to be close to his friends. . . .”
“Right. And his brother and sister. . . .”
She sighed. “Pretty much what we expected.”
He felt disappointed, himself, that the boy wouldn’t be coming to Whitecap for the summer, but they’d given him a choice and the choice had been made. Besides, he learned a couple of years ago not to let Dooley Barlowe’s summer pursuits wreck his own enjoyment of that fleeting season.
It was the business about cars that concerned him. . . . Dooley had turned sixteen last February, and would hit Mitford in less than three days, packing a bona fide driver’s license.
“Knock, knock!” Emma Newland blew down the hall and into the study. “Don’t get up,” she said, commandeering the room. “You’ll never believe this!”
His former part-time church secretary, who had retired when he retired, had clearly been unable to let go of her old job. She made it her business to visit twice a week and help out for a couple of hours, whether he needed it or not.
“I do it for th’ Lord,” she had stated flatly, refusing any thanks. Though Cynthia usually fled the room when she arrived, he rather looked forward to Emma’s visits, and to the link she represented to Lord’s Chapel, which was now under the leadership of its own interim priest.
Emma stood with her hands on her hips and peered over her glasses. “Y’all won’t believe what I found on th’ Internet. Three guesses!”
“Excuse me!” said Cynthia, bolting from the sofa. “I’ll just bring you a lemonade, Emma, and get back to work. I’ve
gobs
of books to pack.”
“Guess!” Emma insisted, playing a game that he found both mindless and desperately aggravating.
“A recipe for mixing your own house paint?”
“Oh,
please
,” she said, looking disgusted. “You’re not trying.”
“The complete works of Fulgentius of Ruspe!”
“Who?”
“I give up,” he said, meaning it.
“I found another Mitford! It’s in England, and it has a church as old as mud, not to mention a castle!” She looked triumphant, as if she’d just squelched an invasion of Moors.
“Really? Terrific! I suppose it’s where those writing Mitfords came from—”
“No connection. They were from th’ Cotswolds, this place is up north somewhere. I had a stack of stuff I printed out, but Snickers sat on th’ whole bloomin’ mess after playin’ in the creek, and I have to print it out again.”
“Aha.”
“OK, guess what else!”
“Dadgummit, Emma. You know I hate this.”
She said what she always said. “It’s good for you, keeps your brain active.”
As far as she was concerned, he’d gone soft in the head since retiring six months ago.
“Just tell me and get it over with.”
“Oh, come on! Try at least one guess. Here’s a clue. It’s about the election in November.”
“Esther’s stepping down and Andrew Gregory’s going to run.”
She frowned. “How’d you know that?”
“I haven’t gone deaf and blind, for Pete’s sake. I do get around.”
“I suppose you also know,” said Emma, hoping he didn’t, “that the restaurant at Fernbank is openin’ the night before you leave.”
“Right. We’ve been invited.”
She thumped into the slipcovered wing chair and peered at him as if he were a beetle on a pin. Though she’d certainly never say such a thing, she believed he was existing in a kind of purgatory between the inarguable heaven of Lord’s Chapel and the hell of a strange parish in a strange place where the temperature was a hundred and five in the shade.
“Will you have a secretary down there?” she asked, suspicious.
“I don’t think so. Small parish, you know.”
“How small can it be?”
“Oh, fifty, sixty people.”
“I thought Bishop Cullen was your
friend
,” she sniffed. She’d never say so, but in her heart of hearts, she had hoped her boss of sixteen years would be given a big church in a big city, and make a come-back for himself. As it was, he trotted up the hill to Hope House and the hospital every livelong morning, appearing so cheerful about the whole thing that she recognized it at once as a cover-up.
Cynthia returned with a glass of lemonade and a plate of shortbread, which she put on the table next to Emma. “I’ll be in the studio if anyone needs me. With all the books we’re taking, we may sink the island!”
“A regular Atlantis,” said Father Tim.
“Speakin’ of books,” Emma said to his wife, “are you doin’ a new one?”
“Not if I can help it!”
He laughed as Cynthia trotted down the hall. “She usually can’t help it.” He expected a new children’s book to break forth from his energetic wife any day now. Indeed, didn’t she have a history of starting one when life was upside down and backward?
Emma munched on a piece of shortbread, showering crumbs in her lap. “Do you have those letters ready for me to do on th’ computer?”
BOOK: A New Song
12Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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