Light From Heaven (33 page)

“Miss Martha, I have a confession to make.”

“It’s about time
clergy
started confessin’; I read th’ newspapers, you know.”

“Well, we don’t want to go there, do we?”

“Certainly not in my house!” she said, affronted by the whole notion.

“I asked Jubal about sending you and Miss Mary a couple of squirrels.”

“An’ th’ ol’ so-an’-so refused.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t keep from grinning. “He did. Said let Miss Martha shoot her own.”

To his glad surprise, Martha McKinney hooted with laughter.

“Now here’s my confession,” he said. “I told him I thought ... I thought you might bake him a pie. You know—in exchange.”

Miss Martha looked thunderstruck. He had stepped in it, big time.

She folded her arms across her ample bosom and looked down at him from on high. She was a mighty oak; he was a worm.

“Or, maybe”—he was back-pedaling, and no help for it—“a few cookies?”

Lower than a worm.

“A biscuit or two?”

“Meddlin’!
If there’s anything I can’t tolerate, it’s meddlin’! I spied evidence of this hopeless affliction when I first laid eyes on you!”

It was true. He was the worst meddler in the world. He bowed his head, resigned to this ineffable flaw in his character.

“Look!” said Miss Mary. “He’s a-prayin’.”

“He’d better be prayin’!”

He heard Agnes chuckling, Miss Mary giggling.

He looked up, as one about to be beheaded.

Miss Martha was as red in the face as a turkey gobbler, trying to hold back her laughter.

“You tell th’ old dirt dauber I’ll bake him a blackberry pie, but if you ever go an’ do such a thing again, I’ll ...”

“You’ll ... ?”

“I’ll give you th’ rollin’ pin an’ let you bake your own bloomin’ pie!”

“Yes,
ma’am!
” he said, thankful to be among the living.

He’d known he wouldn’t be at home, but he left a note and a carton of eggs on a shelf beside the door.

He’d fretted about the covered dish deal. Should he let Robert off the hook because he lived alone and probably didn’t cook, or should he allow him to step up to the plate with the rest of the parish? In any case, the vicar would be bringing a ham; Lily would be baking a cake; his wife would be making enough potato salad for the Roman legions; and all would be well.

“Thank you,” said Agnes when he returned to the truck.

He looked at her, curious, but didn’t ask her meaning.

“How can I find Robert during the day?”

“He has an automotive repair shop in Lambert, about ten miles away. I haven’t been there in years. Lloyd would know how to find it.”

“I’d like to make a call soon. Want to come along?”

“I believe just the two of you would be best.”

“Why did you thank me just now?”

She appeared oddly moved. “For meddling,” she said.

The other people on their list hadn’t been at home. At every stop, they left a new flyer, and inserted quite a few into roadside mailboxes.

Arriving at Meadowgate a little before three, he sat on the top step of the back porch, removed his brown loafer, and shook out what felt like a piece of driveway gravel. Through the screen door he heard Del and Cynthia talking.

“I seen y’r white cat at th’ smokehouse.”

“That’s Violet. She was sunning herself.”

“I’d keep ’er in if I was you.”

“Why is that?”

“Bear.”

“Spotted one crossin’ th’ road th’ other mornin’.” Long silence, the rattle of a lid against a pot. “Then there’s bobcat an’ coyote.”

“Certainly not!”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Th’ coyotes used t’ didn’ mess around these parts, but now they’ve come over th’ mountain and sometimes carries off little animals, don’t you know.”

He heard his wife’s sharp intake of breath.

“Course, I guess you heard ‘bout th’ painters.”

“The painters?”

“Wild
painters. They mostly live in th’ mountains, but some has seen ’em in th’ valley.”

“What on earth is a wild painter?”

“A cat. Like in Africa, but diff’rent. They say they’re extinct, but they ain’t.You ought t’ hear ’em scream. I ain’t never heard ’em scream, but my brother Jack has. He said th’ only way t’ keep a painter from tearin’ y’ t’ pieces is if you shuck off your clothes while you’re runnin’ an’ drop a piece at a time. That gives ’em somethin’ t’ stop an’ chew on so you can git away.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Hawks.”

“Yes, ma’am. They’ve been known t’ carry off little animals that cain’t hardly fight back.”

Bolting from the kitchen and slamming the screen door behind her, his wife nearly mowed him down on her way to the smokehouse.

“Fourteen,” said Willie.

“Again?”

“Nineteen lambs, seven calves, fourteen eggs.” Willie gave him one of his very rare grins. “Farmin’ these days is all about numbers, ain’t it?”

Though he dreaded the answer, the question had to be asked.

“How did Del do?”

“Absolutely
towering
strength. Have never seen her
equal.
Was a
blur
the livelong day.”

“But how did she do?”

“I’m so
grateful,
darling, that you pulled all this together. It was
wonderful
of you.”

“But?”

“If Del comes again, I’m leaving.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Yanking up rugs, hauling them to the clothesline, beating them within an inch of their lives ...”

He decided not to comment.

“... screeching furniture across the floor, up on the stepladder polishing ceiling fixtures, scrubbing the countertops like there’s no tomorrow ...” His wife looked pale. “And
then
...”

“And then?”

“... scaring the daylights out of me about bears and coyotes and an absolute zoo of creatures prowling around out there, including something called
wild painters
.”

“Panthers,” he said.

“Local people say painter for panther.”

He decided the timing wasn’t right to mention that once Lloyd and his helper got going, there’d be—how had Lloyd put it?—a good bit of in and out.