Authors: Jan Karon
Light From Heaven (47 page)
“You want a little summer job, I’d like t’ talk to you,” Bud told Sammy.
“He has a job,” said the vicar. “He’s a very fine gardener.”
On the way home, he could feel it coming.
“I’d like t’ work f’r Bud.”
“How do you think you’d get there?”
Long silence. Looking straight ahead, Sammy finally answered. “You could take me.”
Father Tim restrained himself from out-and-out hilarity, and merely chuckled.
“I skinned t-twenty bucks off ’is butt.”
What Lon Burtie had told him about Sammy’s gambling in the Wesley pool hall had, until now, gone from Father Tim’s memory.
“I didn’t know gambling would be going on today, I’m pretty dumb about these things. You’re a fine player, Sammy; Bud says you’re a natural. It’d be great to see you play for the thrill of the game. Let the game itself be the payoff.”
“I like hustlin’. I like it even b-better when s-s-some smart ass thinks he’s hustlin’ m-me.”
“You have a good job with good pay. You don’t have to hustle to put food on the table or take care of your dad like you once did. Money always changes things. It looks to me like pool is a great game, and it deserves better than that.”
They drove in silence for a couple of miles. He’d better lay it out right now, not tomorrow, not next week when Sammy wanted to go to Wesley again.
“Here’s how it has to be. I’ll drive you to shoot a little pool now and again, but only on one condition: No gambling.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
“You should see him shoot pool. Blew everybody away. The owner offered him a job!” He wasn’t ready to share the rest of the story.
“Say what we will about their upbringing,” said Cynthia, “the young Barlowes have some amazing capabilities. Where is he?”
“In the garden, seeing if anything’s sprouting. Who showed up today?”
“Lily.”
“Thank goodness!”
“Violet is on the docket for tomorrow.”
“You know they say Violet sings as she works.”
Cynthia wrinkled her brow. “Continually, do you think?”
“Not sure.”
“I’ve got to move my easel, Timothy The kitchen is tourist season at the Acropolis; it’s the Mall of America! I can’t keep doing this, and yet—that’s where the north light comes in.”
“Shall we go home to Mitford?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Ugh, I’ve had a splitting headache all day”
“We can work it out,” he said. “We could have you back in your studio, with everything pretty much in place, in two days.”
“No, I’d rather find a way to do my work and let everyone else do theirs.”
“Remember our retreat? We could have it tomorrow—and try to figure something out.”
She smiled, cheered. “I’ll bring the picnic basket.”
“And I’ll bring the blanket,” he said.
When Violet arrived at eight o’clock, she wasn’t wearing her cowgirl outfit, but something that resembled, however vaguely, an Austrian dirndl.
“Why, look here! An Alpine milkmaid!”
“I got it at a yard sale for three dollars!” she said, twirling around to give the full effect. “I also yodel.”
“Yodel?”
She threw her head back and demonstrated. “Idaleetleodleladitee, yeodleladitee, yeodleladeeeee!”
“I’ll be darned!” he said, blushing. “Umm, please don’t do that in the house; my wife works in the kitchen.”
“No problem!” she said. “Did you hear me on th’ radio?”
“I didn’t. But give us a heads-up next time, and we’ll try to listen in. By the way, we have a cat named Violet. She’s around here somewhere.”
“I’m crazy about cats. Lily don’t like ’em; she sneezes her brains out. Shooee, what’s ’at
smell
?”
smell
?”
“Creosote. Wind blew down part of our chimney. We’re working on it. Do you have a family, Violet?”
“Oh, no, sir, I’m barren like in th’ Bible, an’ my sweet husband died when he was thirty-five.” She snapped her fingers. “Th’ Lord took ’im just like that. Heart attack. It run in ’is fam’ly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I ain’t found nobody as sweet as Tommy O’ Grady ...”
“I’m sure.”
Violet’s face was bright with good humor. “But that’s not t’ say I ain’t tryin’!”
“What do you think ... so far?”
“I love that she wants to dry sheets on the line instead of in the dryer. But she
is
terribly vocal. When she was hanging the wash, it sounded exactly like she was ...
yodeling.”
Cynthia appeared puzzled. “But surely not.”
is
terribly vocal. When she was hanging the wash, it sounded exactly like she was ...
yodeling.”
Cynthia appeared puzzled. “But surely not.”
“Surely not.”
He noted that their milkmaid had stopped on the path from the clothesline to the porch, and was watching the guineas careen through the yard.
Father Tim’s grin was stretching halfway around his head as he watched Lloyd watch Violet watch the guineas. “Lloyd,” he said beneath his breath, “your eyes are out on stems.”
Lloyd turned a fierce shade of pink. “Way out,” he said, grinning back.
“It’s a whole other world in here!”
Cynthia peered at the canopy of interlacing tree branches above the farm track. Light and shadow dappled the track, which was still recognizable beneath the leaf mold.
He knew at once an infilling peace. “Wordsworthian!” he said, smitten. “A leafy glade! A vernal bower!”
At the foot of the bank to their left, the creek hurried on its journey to the New River.
Cynthia released a long breath. “I could sit down right here and be happy.”
He sneaked a glance at his watch. In an hour and a half, he would need to talk to his lawyer about the adoption papers.
“I saw that,” she said.
“Saw what?”
“You looked at your watch.”
“I did. Force of habit.”
“What a lovely little creek—why don’t we pitch our camp here? I’m too famished to explore before lunch. And look, darling, this gives us a wonderful view of the sheep paddock.”
Indeed, the view along the track opened out of the woods to the green meadow, with ewes and lambs grazing among the outcrop of rocks. Beyond the rocks, the fence line, and farther along, the rooftop of the farmhouse beneath a spreading oak.
Happy, he smoothed their intended place on the cushion of leaves and moss, and together they spread the quilt on a slope toward the creek.
She lay on the quilt and gazed up at the tracery of limbs against a blue sky. “Thank You, Lord!”
“Yes, thank You, Lord.”
As he sat beside her, she turned her head and looked at him, content. “Churchill said, ‘We’re always getting ready to live, but never living.’ We should have done this sooner.”
“True enough. And then there’s this one, by a good fellow named Henry Canby:
“ ‘Live deep instead of fast.’ ”
Birds called throughout the copse of trees. “When the brick dust gets too thick, let’s always remember to come here and do what Mr. Canby suggests.”
He unwrapped their sandwiches. “We can handle that.”
She picked something from the leaves. “A brown feather,” she said, examining it. “Someday I’d love to do a book about how things look under a microscope.What might we see if I made a slide of it?” She twirled the feather between her thumb and forefinger. “What bird dropped it, do you suppose?”
“It’s a chicken feather,” he said.
Early afternoon sun filtered through the leaves above; they were light and shadow beneath.
He lay on his back beside her. “So what are we going to do about your work space?”
“Lloyd says we haven’t seen anything yet, it’s really going to get messy on Monday morning—they’ve been tiptoeing around the inevitable. Then there’s Lily, of course, who must have the kitchen if she’s going to cook, so we’re looking at ... chaos, to put it plainly.”
“Sammy’s room gets good light. Maybe, somehow...”
“I can’t do that.”
“Can we move you into the smokehouse? It has a window.”
“Ugh. Lots of creepy crawlies in there, and spiders with legs as long as mine.”
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