Light From Heaven (4 page)

“God?”
Percy and Mule exclaimed in unison.

“No way!” Mule shook his head. “No way Edith Mallory would’ve said God, unless she was tryin’ to say th’ word that used to get my butt whipped when I was little.”

“Right,” said Percy. “No way.”

Yes, thought Father Tim. Yes!

He stopped by the grease pit where Harley Welch was lying on his back under a crew-cab truck.

“Harley!” He squatted down and peered at his old friend.

“Rev’ren’, is that you?”

“What’s left of me. How’s it going?”

“Goin’ good if I can git this U joint worked offa here. When’s our boy comin’ home?”

“Tomorrow We’ll catch up with you in a day or two. Did you hear about the twins?”

“Yessir, hit’s th’ big town news. Spittin’ image of th’ ol’ mayor, they say.”

He laughed. “I guess Lace is coming in?”

“Yessir, she’s wrote me a time or two lately; you know she got that big scholarship.”

“I heard. That’s wonderful! By the way, when is the last time you worked on Miss Sadie’s car?”

“Oh, law, that’s goin’ too far back f‘r m’ feeble mind. Let’s see, didn’t she pass in th’ spring?”

“She did.”

“I worked on it sometime before she passed, she was still drivin’. I remember she rolled in here one mornin’, I had to change out ’er clutch. Miss Sadie was bad t’ ride ’er clutch.”

“Do you know if it’s still parked in the garage up at Fernbank?”

“I don’t know if he’s sold it. They was some talk Mr. Gregory was goin’ to restore it.... George Gaynor worked on it a day or two, maybe. I cain’t hardly recall.”

“You pushing along all right with Miss Pringle?” Hélène Pringle was the piano teacher who rented his house in Mitford, and Harley was his old buddy who lived in the basement.

“Let’s jis’ say I’ve heered more piana music than I ever knowed was wrote.”

Father Tim laughed. “Come out to the sticks and see us, will you?”

“I will,” said Harley. “I’ll bring you’uns a pan of m’ brownies.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“How’s Miss Cynthy?”

“Couldn’t be better.” He stood, hearing the creaking of his knees. “Got to put the chairs in the wagon, as my grandmother used to say, and run to The Local. Regards to Miss Pringle!”

He walked to the truck, whistling a tune he’d heard on the radio.

There was nothing like a visit to Mitford to get a man’s spirits up and running.

He blew through the door of one of his favorite Mitford haunts, the bell jingling behind him.

“‘I love the smell of book ink in the morning! ’” he called out, quoting Umberto Eco.

“Father Tim!” Hope Winchester turned from the shelf where she was stocking biographies. “We’ve missed you!”

“And I, you. How are you, Hope?”

She lifted her left hand to his gaze.

“Man!” he said, quoting Dooley Barlowe.

“It was his grandmother Murphy’s. Scott is at a chaplain’s retreat this week, he gave it to me before he left.”

“One knee or two?”

“Two!”

“Good fellow!” He still felt a sap for having done a mere one knee with his then neighbor.

He gave Hope a heartfelt hug.
“Felicitaciones!
Mazel tov!”

“Muchas gracias.
Umm.
Obrigado!”

They laughed easily together. He thought he’d never seen the owner of Happy Endings Bookstore looking more radiant.

“I have a list,” he said, hauling it from the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Your lists have helped Happy Endings stay afloat. Thank you a thousand times. Oh, my, that’s a long one.”

“It’s been a long time since I came in. Tell me, how is Louise liking Mitford?”

“I’ll be right back,” she said. She hurried to the foot of the stairs and called up for her sister, recently moved from their deceased mother’s home place.

Louise came down the stairs at once, fixing her eyes on her feet. Hope took her sister by the arm and trotted her over.

“Father Tim, this is my sister, Louise Winchester.”

With some difficulty, Louise raised her eyes and met his gaze. “So happy . . .” she said.

Hope smiled. “Louise is shy.”

“I find shyness a very attractive characteristic. It’s as scarce these days as hens’ teeth.”

He took Louise’s hand, finding her somehow prettier than her sister, with a mane of chestnut hair and inquisitive green eyes.

“Louise, we’re happy to have you among us, you’ll make a difference, I know. May God bless you to find your way here, and prosper you in all you do.”

He was delighted by her seemingly involuntary, albeit slight, curtsy.

“Father Tim wondered how you like living in Mitford.”

A slow flush came to her cheeks. “It feels like . . . home.”

“Louise is working wonders with our mail-order business and has organized everything from A to Z.”

“Well done, Louise!” He felt suddenly proud, as if she were one of his own.

“Here’s Father Tim’s list. We have only three of the nine. Could you order the others today?”

“Just regular shipping,” he said, noting that Margaret Ann, the bookstore cat, was giving his pant legs a good coating of fur. “I’m about to be covered up, and not much time to read.”

“Pleased to meet . . .” said Louise.

By George, she did it again! If push came to shove, Emma Newland could get a curtsy demo right here on Main Street.

“Any plans?” he asked Hope.

“We’d like to talk with you about that; we’re thinking October, when the leaves change. Would you marry us, Father?”

“I will!” he vowed.

“Though we attend Lord’s Chapel, we’re hoping to find a little mountain church somewhere. Something . . .” She hesitated, thoughtful.

“Something soulful and charming?”

“Why, yes!”

“Completely unpretentious, with a magnificent view?”

“That’s it!”

“I’ll put my mind to it,” he said.

He told her about the hospital staff that was blown away by its patient’s delivery of a second set of twins; how the boys looked strong, healthy, and uncommonly like their paternal great-grandmother and Mitford’s former mayor, Esther Cunningham; how Louella had apprised him of nine thousand dollars that she thought was hidden in Miss Sadie’s car, and that so far, he had no clue what to do about it.

He reported that the snow on the roads was freezing fast; that Edith Mallory had spoken an intelligible, not to mention extraordinary, word for the first time since her grave head injury seven months ago; that J.C. Hogan was wearing aftershave again, for whatever this piece of news was worth; that Avis had given him a considerable bit of advice about perfecting oven fries; that Hope Winchester had an engagement ring and wanted him to marry them; that Louise Winchester promised to be a fine addition to Mitford; and last but certainly not least, that he’d seen a crocus blooming in the snow,
hallelujah.

He was positively exhausted from the whole deal, both the doing of it and the talking about it; he felt as if he’d trekked to another planet and back again.

“Good heavens,” said his wife, “I’m worn out just
listening.”

And how had her day gone?

Joyce Havner had called in sick.

Violet, the aging model for the cat books his wife was famous for writing and illustrating, had brought a dead mouse into the kitchen.

A pot of soup had boiled over on the stove while she did the watercolor sketch of Violet gazing out the window.

She had handed off the sketch to the UPS driver at one o’clock sharp; it was on its way to her editor in New York.

Olivia Harper had called, and Lace was arriving from UVA tomorrow.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“Don’t get high and mighty with me, Reverend, just because you’ve gone to the big city and bagged all the news, and your wife stayed home, barefoot.”

He laughed. “Missed you.”

“Missed you back,” she said, laughing with him.

In the farmhouse library, an e-mail from Father Tim’s former secretary, Emma Newland, joined the queue.