Out to Canaan (56 page)

“This,” he said, introducing his still-youthful seminary friend, “is my bishop, the Right Reverend Stuart Cullen.”

“Right Reverend . . .” said Percy, pondering. “I guess you wouldn't hardly talk about it if you was th' Wrong Reverend.”

“Percy!” said Velma.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, don't listen to Timothy, call me Stuart.” Stuart shook hands all around, and the rector watched him charm the entire assembly.

“Hold it right there!” J.C. hunkered over his Nikon and cranked off six shots in rapid succession.

“I ain't never seen a pope,” said Coot Hendrick, wide-eyed.

“Not a pope, a bishop,” said Mule.

Percy looked puzzled. “I thought you said he was a reverend.”

“Call me Stuart and get it over with,” pleaded the bishop, hastening to a booth with Father Tim.

Stuart poured cream in his coffee. “By the way, someone told me that Abraham's route to Canaan now requires four visas.”

“Not surprising, since it's a six-hundred-mile trip. I wouldn't mind seeing the real thing one day. I was just remembering from a study we did in seminary that Canaan is the birthplace of the word
Bible.
”

“Not to mention the birthplace of our alphabet. So, how would you like a stint on the Outer Banks at some point? I fancy it might be your Plain of Jezreel, at the very least.”

“Tell me more.”

“Wonderful parish, small Carpenter Gothic church, historic cemetery, gorgeous setting . . .”

“Keep talking.”

“There's a rector down there who'd like nothing better than a mountain church. I have just the church, and Bill Harvey, who's the bishop in that diocese, thinks we might work out a trade—you could wn as an interim . . . the summer after you retire.”

“I'll mention it to Cynthia. Let me know more. So when are
you
going out to Canaan, my friend?”

“I knew you'd ask, but I don't know. I'm still terrified, just as you were.”

“How did I get smarter than you?”

“You're older,” said Stuart, grinning. “Much older.”

“Remember Edith Mallory?”

“The vulture who tried to get her talons in your hide.”

“We have an election coming up, and I feel certain she's been funneling big money to the opposition.”

“Who's the opposition?” asked Stuart, taking a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich.

“Not known as the sort who'd be good for this town.”

“If I know where you're going with this, the best policy is hands off.”

“I agree. Especially since I have no proof.”

“Poisonous business. But you know the antidote.”

“Prayer.”

“Exactly. How's your Search Committee coming along? I haven't had a report recently.”

“I'm pretty much out of the loop,” said the rector, “but they seem excited. We surveyed the parish, and the consensus is for a young priest with children.”

“They can save all of us some heartache by asking the candidates a central question.”

“Which is?”

“ ‘Do you believe Jesus is God?' ”

“Right. I've talked about that with the committee. Sad state of affairs when we have to point such a question at candidates who took the ordination vows . . .”

The bishop sighed. “Paul said in the second epistle to the good chap you were named after, ‘The time is coming when people will not put up with sound doctrine . . . they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires, and will turn from the truth and wander away to myths.' Ah, Timothy . . .”

“Eat up, my friend. You've got a long haul ahead of you. Why aren't you flying?”

“I'm driving because I need time to think, I need some time alone.”

“A man has to get in a car and hurtle down the interstate to get time alone? Ah, Stuart . . .”

Stuart chuckled. “Two weeks at the beach doesn't solve everything.”

“Especially not when you're holding your stomach in,” said the rector.

“I've done it,” Winnie announced.

He couldn't tell whether she was going to laugh or cry.

“Would you take this copy of the contract home and look it over?” she asked. “I had a lawyer look it over, but I don't know how good he is, maybe if you're not too busy, you could do it, I should have asked you before. Course I guess it's too late now, since it's mailed, but still, if you would . . .”

“I don't know what help I can be, but yes, I'll look it over.” Dadgum it, why didn't he just go study for a broker's license? He seemed to be spending as much time in real estate as in the priesthood.

“They've about ragged me to death, Father. I guess I'll stay on and run it.” She looked white as a sheet, he thought.

“I'm thrilled to hear you'll stay in Mitford. Your business is thriving, you have a legion of friends here—”

“But my family's up there—a brother and sister and two nieces and a nephew.”

“I know. But aren't we family? Don't we love you?” Shame on him, trying to win her heart from her own blood kin.

“I'll be glad to go on that cruise next week,” she said, not looking glad about anything.

Lace was sitting at the kitchen table doing her history homework when Dooley called from school. Father Tim answered the wall phone by the sink. “Rectory . . .”

“I'm on my way to study hall.”

“Hey, buddy!”

“Hey, yourself,” said Dooley. “What's going on?”

“Not much. What about you?”

“We're having our fall mixer tomorrow night. Man!”

“Man, what?”

“Four busloads of girls are coming, maybe five.”

“Man!” He agreed that seemed to say it all.

“How's Barn?”

“Looking good. Eating well. Sleeping a lot.”

“I sort of miss him.”

“He misses you more. So, what kind of mixer is it?”

“We're having a band, it's gong to be in the field house. I helped decorate.”

“Aha.”

“We hung a lot of sheets with wires and turned it into a huge tent. It's neat, you should see it.”

“When are we coming up for a visit?”

“I'll let you know. I gotta go.”

“Want to say a quick hello to Lace? She's here.”

“Sure.”

He handed the phone to Lace. “Dr. Barlowe.”

Her smile, which he had seldom seen, was so spontaneous and unguarded, he blushed and left the room.

They were sitting at the table having a cup of tea as Lace organized her books and papers to go home.

“What's interesting in school these days?” Cynthia wanted to know.

“I just found out about palindromes, I'm always lookin' for 'em,” she said.

“Like Bob, right?”

“Right. Words that're the same spelled forwards or backwards. Like that,” she said, pointing to the contract he'd left lying on the table, “isn't a palindrome, it says H. Tide readin' forwards, and Edith if you read it backwards. But guess what, you can also make a palindrome with whole sentences, like ‘Poor Dan is in a droop.' ”

“Neat!” said Cynthia.

“See you later,” she said, going to the basement door. “ 'Bye, Harley! Read your book I left on the sink!”

“What did you leave on the sink?” inquired the rector, filled with curiosity.

“
Silas Marner.
”

“Aha. Well, come back, Lace.”

“Anytime,” said Cynthia.

“OK!”

He pulled the contract toward him.

EdiT .H

His blood pounded in his temples. Edith? Could H. Tide be owned by Edith Mallory?

Is that why H. Tide wanted the rectory so urgently? Edith knew he and Cynthia would be living in the yellow house. Did she want to control the house next door to him in some morbid, devious way?

“What is it, Timothy?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.” He took the contract into the study and sat at his desk, looking out the window at the deepening shadows of Baxter Park.

Mack Stroupe. H. Tide. Edith Mallory.

If what Lace just prompted him to think was true, Edith was now trying to get her hands on another piece of Main Street property. The way she had treated Percy wasn't something he'd like to see happen to anyone else, especially Winnie. And what might Edith be trying to gouge from Winnie, who was selling her business without the aid of a realtor?

He glanced at the contract—it was right up there with cave-wall hieroglyphs—and called his attorney cousin, Walter. “You've reached Walter and Katherine, please leave a message at the sound of the beep. We'll return your call with haste.”

Wasn't a signed contract legal and binding?

He paced the floor.

Edith Mallory had always held a lot of real estate. But why would she sell the Shoe Barn to her own company? He didn't understand this. Was he making too much of a name spelled backward?