Out to Canaan (224 page)

“Timothy!” she whispered, unbelieving.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

No two ways about it, he had hit a home run.

They lay in bed, holding each other, the room warmed by the glow of her bedside lamp.

“You're wonderful,” he said, meaning it.

She smiled. “But I'm old!”

“Old? You? Never!”

“Just look at these crow's feet . . . .”

“I don't see any crow's feet,” he said, kissing her crow's feet.

“Father, this is Lottie Greer.”

Lottie Greer—the spinster sister of Absalom Greer, the elderly revival preacher who had loved Sadie Baxter . . .

“It's Absalom.” He heard the fear in her voice.

“What is it?”

“It's pneumonia. He wants you to pray.”

“I will, Miss Lottie, and others with me. Shall I come?”

“He said to just pray. There's fluid in his lungs.”

He told her he was available anytime, that she should let him know what he could do. Then he called Cynthia and the all-church prayer chain.

He had come to love Absalom Greer. The eloquent, unschooled preacher had been a force in his life and those of countless others, including Pauline and Lace. He was among the last of the old warriors who fearlessly confronted the issue of sin, preached repentence and salvation, and pulled no punches when it came to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Bottom line, the old man was his brother. He would go out on Sunday.

What was he waiting for?

The question was unspoken, but every time he ran into a member
of the vestry, he felt the weight of it. Thirty days? For what? Ingrid Swenson didn't look like somebody who could be bluffed into coughing up two ninety-five after she offered one ninety-eight. But the point was, the property was fully worth two ninety-five, and in his opinion, Miami Development was trying to steal it. To be bluffed themselves was a humiliation not to be suffered lightly.

The answer was, he didn't know what he was waiting for. He only knew that selling Fernbank to Miami Development was something that didn't feel right. Maybe it would feel right later—then again, later could be too late.

He hated this, he hated it.

He tried to act nonchalant by puttering in the side garden as they backed out of the driveway. Dooley was lit up like downtown Holding at Christmas, and Harley was generating a few kilowatts himself.

He looked up and waved, and they waved back.

Four-thirty. Dooley had left work a half hour early, and they had promised to be back at the rectory around six.

He looked through the hedge to the little yellow house. A window box needed fixing, the bolt had come loose and the box was hanging whomper-jawed under the studio window.

Too bad that little house didn't get more use. But one day . . .

He'd better get cracking and have Buck look it over, tell them what to do, help them get started with the additions and renovations. If there was ever a perfect opportunity to get top-drawer input, Buck Leeper was providing it.

He turned to go inside, then stopped and looked at the yellow house again.

By jing!

“But he'll never be there when you're there, because when you're working, he'll be working.”

“That great big man in work boots and chinos stomping around and picking his teeth? In my
house
? Goodness, Timothy . . .”

“His company will pay the rent.”

“Do you really think it would be all right?”

“Of course it would be all right. With Buck living there, he'd get to know exactly what we need and how to pull it off, and we wouldn't have to hire an architect, he can draw it up—
and
hire the crew.”

She wrinkled her brow. “I don't know . . . .”

“It's a great opportunity.”

“Consider it done, then,” she said, quoting her priest.

At a quarter 'til six, he was standing at the front door, searching the street. Then he walked out and sat on the top step of the front porch.

“Come out with me,” he called to Cynthia.

She came and sat with him and took his hand.

“I've been thinking,” she said.

“Uh-oh.”

“I want to play in that softball game.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I can hit a ball. I can run. I can—”

“You can whistle.”

She put her fingers to her mouth and blew out the windows.

“You're good, Kavanagh.”

“So hire me.”

“You're the only female.”

“So far,” she said. “I hear Adele Hogan wants to play.”

“The police officer? J.C.'s wife?”

“She's the baddest softball player you ever want to see. At least, that's what she said.”

“J.C. didn't mention that.”

“He probably thought it was a guy's game.”

“Well,” he said, “it was . . . .”

At seven o'clock, he was ready to make a search of Farmer, which he and Harley had judged a perfect location for the driving lesson.

But maybe he should call the hospital first. He went to the study to find his cordless.

Cynthia wasn't worried at all. “Give them another fifteen minutes. It's a beautiful summer evening . . . .”

“Yes, but Harley knew the curfew, he wouldn't do this. I'm calling the police.”

Barnabas let out a loud series of barks. As the rector raced up the front hall, he saw Harley standing on the porch. He looked like he'd gone a few rounds with a grizzly.

“Now, Rev'rend, I wouldn't want you t' worry . . . .”

He pushed open the screen door. “Where's Dooley? What happened?”

“Th' last thing I'd want t' do is cause you an' th' missus t' worry . . . .”

“Tell me, Harley.”

“No, sir, worry's not what I'd ever want to' bring in y'r house . . . .”

“Dadgum it, Harley, I am worried, and will be 'til you tell me what the dickens went on.”

“Well, sir, y'r boy's fine.”

“Thank God.”

“We crashed m' truck.”

“No!”

“We did.”

“Who did?”

“Now, I don't want you t' worry . . . .”