Light From Heaven (30 page)

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Authors: Jan Karon

BOOK: Light From Heaven
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Holy Trinity’s kneelers had arrived.
Shortly afterward, the driver of a competitive delivery service huffed a weighty carton onto the front porch and sprinted to the truck before anyone could ask him to set it in the front hall.
Holy Trinity’s candles, Host box, altar vases, chalice, paten, hymn board, and altar sticks had reached their destination.
CHAPTER TEN
So Shall Ye Reap
Twins.
A single.
A single.
Twins.
A single.
Twins.
Twins.
A single.
At Meadowgate Farm, lambs were arriving as frequently as flights into Atlanta.
As if fitted with coils, they sprang around the barn and over the pasture, doing what the English long ago defined as
gamboling.
“Also known as
frisking,
” said his wife, hunkered down with a camera.
“How many rolls so far?”
“Only eleven.”
“Ah yes, but shooting them is one thing, and having them developed is another.”
“In my calling, dearest, all tax deductible!”
Satisfied ewes lay about the greening pasture in fleecy mounds, chewing their cud. Here and there, a mistaken lamb gave a ewe’s udder a great, upheaving nudge and was scolded off to its own mother.
It was the time of year at Meadowgate when cars and trucks slowed along the state road. Whole families occasionally piled out of their vehicles to stand at the fence and marvel.
Father Tim threw up his hand to Willie, who was heading down the pasture with his walking stick. Willie waved back.
Using her zoom lens, Cynthia shot several frames of their good shepherd, who, due to the lambing and calving season, was looking decidedly overworked. Indeed, in the Meadowgate pasture to the north, four calves had recently been born, with six more expected.
“He needs the help of a wife, poor soul.”
“He has the neighbor boy,” said Father Tim.
“Yes, but does the neighbor boy have a hot meal on the table when Willie straggles in from the barn?”
“You have a point.”
“We’ll send him an apple pie. I found two in the freezer, I’ll pop both in the oven this afternoon; the kitchen will smell wonderful.”
“One for Willie and one for Sammy?”
“Precisely You and I will feast merely on the aroma.”
“Works for me,” he said.
He looked up and saw something moving at a pace along the brow of the hill. Guineas. The entire flock. Chasing madly after something white ... aha!
“Kavanagh, remember one of the calendar pictures we talked about—Violet chasing the guineas?”
“I’m planning that for the September page.”
The caravan raced down the hill at break-neck speed and disappeared around the barn.
“You may need to revise it slightly.”
Even with the attentions of the Mitford Hospital staff, Uncle Billy Watson wasn’t improving. Now stuck with cooking for Miss Rose and checking on her three times daily, Betty Craig was desperate; and no, there was no opening at Hope House until . . . “well, you know,” said the director of admissions.
Though he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do, he felt he must do something.
“Lloyd,” he said, shaking the rough, ham-sized hand of the low-bidding mason. “Welcome to Meadowgate.”
“I’ll take care of some prep work today, an’ startin’ tomorrow I’ll have a helper. We’ll do you a good job,” said Lloyd.
Unlike some poor saps who were promised such a thing by a contractor, the vicar was relieved to know he could take Lloyd’s promise as the gospel truth.
“Let’s play a game,” he said to his wife.
“I love games!”
“What don’t you love, Kavanagh?”
“Jeans without Lycra, lug soles on barn shoes, age spots . . .”
“Ditto.”
“And,” she continued, “any sitcom more recent than
M
★
A
★
S
★
H
.”
“So. Let’s say someone was working with you in the house two days a week. Now that you have the calendar to contend with, would that bother you?”
“Not if they did their work and let me do mine. Why?”
“End of game,” he said.
“Who won?”
“We both won,” he said. “Trust me.”
“Lily?” he whispered into the phone.
“Who
is
this?”
“It’s Father Tim,” he said, still whispering.
“Why are you
whisperin’?
”
“I don’t want my wife to hear.”
“Why, shame on you! I’ve heard of preachers like you!”
“Wait, no! It’s nothing like that. I’m trying to hire you to help Mrs. Kavanagh. It’s sort of a surprise.”
Skeptical silence.
“Two days a week,” he said.
“Doin’ what?”
“Cooking and cleaning.”
“For how many?”
“Three. This summer, there’ll be four.”
“I cain’t take any Saturday work; that’s when I do parties.”
“Of course.”
“An’ no Friday work, that’s when I get ready t’ do a party.”
“Fine. Fine.”
“An’ no Monday work, that’s when I get
over
doin’ a party.”
“Ah.” He sat down.
“Sometimes I’d have to send Del or even Vi‘let in m’ place.”
“I thought Violet was married to somebody in a brick house and . . .”
“That’s Arbutus.”
“Of course.”
“Del can’t cook t’ save ’er life, but mama says she cleans like a Turk.”
“Like a Turk . . . what does that mean, exactly?”
“Upends y’r chairs on y’r table; pulls th’ furniture out from th’ walls; beats y’r rugs with a paddle. Don’t miss a trick.”
He was having a sinking spell. “Can you come?”
“I guess I ought t’ tell you Vi’let sings as she works. I hope you don’t mind singin’. She’s very popular with ever’body.”
“I’m sure!”
“Lite Country, she calls it.”
“Can you
do
it?”
“When would I start?”
“Immediately. Right away. Tomorrow.”
“How long would this job last?”
“’Til sometime in January, when the owners of Meadowgate return.”
“I have reg’lars, y’ know. I’d have t’ make other arrangements, which can be a heap of trouble.”
“I understand,” he said. “And by the way, Mrs. Kavanagh . . .”
“She tol’ me to call ’er Cynthia.”
“Cynthia ... needs a lot of concentration to do her work. She can’t be disturbed.”
Long pause. Background music from a radio . . .
“I jis’ prayed about it,” said Lily, “but I didn’t get a answer. Zip. Zero.”
“How long do you think it might take ... to get an answer?”
“You oughta know better’n me, you’re th’ preacher.”
He sighed; Puny Bradshaw Guthrie had spoiled him for all others. “Why don’t we just . . . talk later?” A brilliant idea.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, I think I’m gettin’ a answer. Hold on.”
Longer pause. The deejay was singing along.
“I can do it!” she whooped. “Ever’ Wednesday an’ Thursday!”
“Wonderful! Terrific!”
“I’ll be there Wednesday mornin’ at eight o’clock. I bring m’ own cleanin’ rags an’ sweet tea, an’ I have a allergy to cats so I’ll be wearin’ a mask.”
“A mask. Right. Anything else?”
“I sign out at three o’clock, sharp.”
“Perfect.”
She giggled. “You can stop whisperin’ now.”
“It’s all yours,” he told Sammy.
He stood inside the rusted gate with Sammy and surveyed the sun-bathed vegetable garden. Marge once said this patch of ground had been continuously worked for more than a century, with cow, sheep, and chicken manure, at least during their tenure, being the principal fertilizers.
“That g-green stuff’s asparagus.”
Sammy lowered the bill on his ball cap, as his eyes roved the ruin of winter. He picked up a faded seed packet. “Beets was here. Maybe c-c-carrots an’ onions over there.”

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