Out to Canaan (180 page)

“Father? Scott Murphy!”

He could hear it in Scott's voice. “When? Who?” he asked.

“Last night! Two men who've been showing up every Wednesday, one with his kids. They said they wanted to know more about God's plan for their lives, and we talked, and they prayed and it was a wondrous thing, marvelous. Homeless is beside himself. He thinks that next summer we may be able to do what Absalom Greer did, have weekly services on the creek bank.”

“You must tell me every detail,” said the rector. “Want to run together tomorrow morning?”

“Six-thirty, starting from my place?”

“You got it.”

Scott laughed, exultant. “Eat your Wheaties,” he said.

Andrew rang to find out if Buck Leeper might be available for the renovation of Fernbank. “I don't think so, but I'll ask him,” he said.

“I'll also be looking for a good nursery. I'd like to replace some of the shrubs and trees.”

“I know a splendid nursery, though their trees are fairly small.”

“At my age, Father, one doesn't permit oneself two things—young wine and small trees.”

The rector laughed.

“I'd give credit to the fellow who said that, but I can't remember who it was—another distinguishing mark of advancing years.”

“Come, come, Andrew. You're looking like a lad, thanks to your beautiful bride! I'm smitten with Anna, as everyone else will be. Thanks for bringing Anna and Tony to Mitford. I know they'll make a wonderful difference.”

“Thank you, Father, we're anxious to get started on the hill. Anna would like to have a couple of rooms finished by Christmas, though it could take a year to do the whole job properly, given our weather.”

“Let me step down to the church and see what's up. If Buck is interested, I'll have him ring you.”

He left the office, zipping his jacket, eager to be in the cold, snapping air, and on a construction site where the real stuff of life was going on.

“Early December, I'm out of here,” said Buck, stomping the mud off his work boots. “Your house is in good hands and I'll keep in touch, I'll check on it.”

“Well, you see, there's another job for you up the hill at Fernbank. I know Andrew Gregory would be a fine person to work with, and certainly Miss Sadie would be thrilled, she was so pleased with what you did at Hope House—”

“I've laid out long enough,” Buck said curtly.

Father Tim pressed on. “I believe if you stayed in Mitford, there'd be plenty of work for you. You could grow your own business.”

“No way. There's nothing here for me.”

He thought of Jessie and the doll . . .

“Well, then,” he said, feeling a kind of despair.

“I brought you somethin'!” said Velma.

“Me? You brought
me
something?”

“Lookit,” said Velma, taking a tissue-wrapped item from a bag.
She held up a shirt with orange, red, and green monkeys leaping around in palm trees.

“Aha. Well. That's mighty generous . . .”

“You helped Winnie win th' contest, and I got to go free, so . . .”

“I'll wear it!” he said, getting up for the idea.

“Have you seen what Winnie brought home?” asked Percy.

“Can't imagine.”

“And don't you tell 'im, either,” said Velma. “He gets to find that out for hisself. Go on down there and look and I'll start your order. But hop to it.”

Tanned people returning from exotic places seemed to bring new energy home with them. He fairly skipped to the bake shop.

He inhaled deeply as he went in. The very gates of heaven! “Winnie!” he bellowed.

She came through the curtains. Or was that Winnie?

“Winnie?” he said, taking off his glasses. He fogged them and wiped them with his handkerchief. “Is that you?”

“Course it's me!” she said. Winnie was looking ten years younger, maybe twenty, and tanned to the gills.

“Velma said you brought something back.”

“Come on,” she said, laughing. “I'll show you.”

He passed through the curtains and there, standing beside the ovens, was a tall, very large fellow with full, dark hair and twinkling eyes, wearing an apron dusted with flour.

“This is
him
!” crowed Winnie, looking radiant.

“Him?”

“You know, the one I always dreamed about standin' beside me in th' kitchen. Father Kavanagh, this is Thomas Kendall from Topeka, Kansas.”

“What . . . where . . . ?”

“I met him on th' ship!”

“In the kitchen, actually,” said Thomas, extending a large hand and grinning from ear to ear. “I'm a pastry chef, Father.”

“You stole the ship's pastry chef? Winnie!”

They all laughed. “No,” said Winnie, “it was his last week on the job, he was going back to Kansas and decided he'd come home with me first. He's stayin' with Velma and Percy.”

No doubt about it, he was dumbfounded. First Andrew, now Winnie . . .

“He likes my cream horns,” she said, suddenly shy.

“Who doesn't?”

Thomas put his arm around Winnie and looked down at her, obviously proud. “I'm mighty glad to be in Mitford,” he said simply.

“By jing, we're mighty glad to have you,” replied the rector, meaning it.

Esther Cunningham released a special news story to the
Mitford Muse,
which ran the morning before the election.

“When I'm re-elected,” she was quoted as saying, “I'll give you something we've all been waiting for—new Christmas decorations!” The single ropes of lights up and down Main Street had caused squawking and grumbling for over a decade. So what if this solution had been forced by economic considerations, when it made the town look like a commuter landing strip?

“Stick with the platform that sticks by the people,” said the mayor, “and I'll give you angels on Main Street!”

He was among the first at the polls on Tuesday morning. He didn't have to wonder about Mule's and Percy's vote, but he was plenty skeptical about J.C.'s. Had J.C. avoided looking him in the eye when they saw each other in front of Town Hall?

His eyes scanned the crowd.

The Perkinses, they were big Esther fans. And there were Ron and Wilma . . . surely the Malcolms were voting for Esther. Based on the crowd standing near the door, he figured eight or nine out of ten were good, solid, dependable
Stickin
' votes.

So what was there to worry about?

Mack's last hoorah had been another billboard, which definitely hadn't gone over well, as far as the rector could determine.

“Did you see th' pores in his face?” asked Emma, who appeared completely disgusted. They looked like craters on th' moon. If I never set eyes on Mack Stroupe again, it'll be too soon!”

From the corner of his eye, he watched her boot the computer and check her E-mail from an old schoolmate in Atlanta, a prayer chain in Uruguay, and a church in northern England. Emma Newland in cyberspace. He wouldn't have believed he'd live to see the day.

He walked up the street after lunch, leaning into a bitter wind. As Esther Bolick still wasn't going out, he hoped Gene had seen to turning in her proxy vote.

“Good crowd?” he asked at the polls.

“Oh, yes, Father. Real good. Bigger than in a long while.”

He adjusted his
Stickin'
button and stood outside, greeting voters, for as long as he could bear the knifing wind.

He hoped his bishop didn't drive by.

“You and Cynthia come on over and bring that little fella who lives in your basement,” said the mayor.

“Harley.”

“Right. I'd like to get him workin' on our RV. Anyway, we're havin' a big rib feast while they count th' votes, Ray's cookin'.”

“What time?” he asked, thrilled that his carefully watched food exchange would actually permit such an indulgence.

“Th' polls close at seven-thirty, be at my office at seven thirty-five.”

“Done!” he said. He could just see the red splotches breaking out on the mayor.