A Light in the Window (71 page)

He felt a great swelling in his heart as he watched them come toward the altar.

His thoughts flashed back to the first time he’d seen Dooley Barlowe—barefoot, unwashed, looking for a place to “take a dump.”

Today, he was seeing more than a boy wearing a new blazer and an uncontrollable grin. He was seeing a miracle.

Cynthia came behind Dooley, beaming, wearing the pearl and amethyst brooch. Cynthia! Another miracle in his life.

The candidates for confirmation were presented to the bishop by Hal and Marge Owen, who stood with them throughout the ceremony.

The sight of Stuart Cullen laying his hands on their heads, and praying the centuries-old prayer for God’s defense, spoke to him more deeply than he expected.

In fact, the only thing that kept him from bawling like a baby was the sudden realization that he’d forgotten to bring the platter for the ham.

Esther Bolick rang the bell for silence in the parish hall.

“I’m glad,” said Stuart Cullen, “that Lord’s Chapel hasn’t grown too big for us to hold hands around the table.”

The excited throng formed a circle, as someone fetched Rebecca Jane Owen from under a folding chair and rescued five-year-old Amy Larkin from the hot pursuit of a mechanical toy run amok from the nursery.

“Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

“Amen!”

Father Tim joined Stuart and Martha at the head of the buffet line, so the Cullens could eat and get on the road to yet another sermon, a ground breaking, and the installation of a deacon.

“Timothy,” Martha said as she helped herself to the string beans, “are you going to marry that lovely woman?”

“Why, yes. Olivia asked me some time ago if I’d officiate.”

“Not Olivia! Cynthia!”

He laughed. “Now, Martha ...”

“Don’t ‘now Martha’ me. Time is running out, dear. I can see she’s doing her part. Are you doing yours?”

Martha Cullen was a carbon copy of Katherine when it came to meddling.

“We can’t do it all, Timothy. The men must do
something.
When Stuart finally understood that, things fell into place. By the way, is that famous orange marmalade cake here today?”

“I’ll have a look,” he said, bounding from his place in line, never to return.

He spied Emma Newland, who hadn’t darkened the doors of a worship service since she married Harold and “went back to bein’ a Baptist.”

He saw Miss Sadie, Louella, Hoppy, and Olivia gabbing a mile a minute by the piano.

Dooley and Cynthia were in line with the Owens, and as far as he could tell, the orange marmalade cake had not made it to the reception.

He sliced a piece of homemade coconut, instead, and carried it to Martha’s place at the table, fetched the bishop a cup of coffee, picked up Amy Larkin and admired her patent-leather shoes, removed a stuffed bear from the floor, kissed two old parishioners, hugged several of all ages, sat down with Rebecca Jane who bit his nose and chewed on his lapel, fielded an enthusiastic round of congratulations upon Dooley’s confirmation, rummaged in the kitchen and found extra flatware for a table of eight who didn’t get any, pitched in to serve coffee for the frazzled ECW, and checked the ham to determine its popularity, which, considering the bare bone he found on the tray, was immense.

He packed Stuart and Martha out the side door, waved them off, and went back to join Dooley, Cynthia, the Owens, and Rebecca Jane for the last hoarded pieces of Esther Bolick’s coconut cake, served with a pretty good joke from Uncle Billy Watson.

Tommy was asking for Buck Leeper, who had visited the hospital faithfully but hadn’t been seen since Tommy came home.

The rector supposed Buck Leeper was far too private a man to invade someone’s home. The impersonal ground of the hospital had been a different matter.

Breaking a light sweat, he jogged up the hill to the construction site with the book under his arm. It wasn’t every day he could kill two birds with one stone.

Buck Leeper was sitting at the desk with his back to the door.

“Buck?”

The chair creaked as his heavy frame swiveled around to face the door. The superintendent merely nodded.

“Two things ...”

“Number one,” said Buck, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Tommy is asking for you, misses seeing you. I’d be glad to tell you how to find his house, if you’d like to pay a visit.”

Buck cleared his throat. “Number two.”

“I found something I wanted to give you.”

Buck stood up as he handed the book over. He looked at it for a moment before taking it in his hand.

The rector shrugged. “I thought you might like it.”

Buck studied the cover silently, drawing a cigarette out of the pack of Lucky Strikes in his shirt pocket. He held it, unlighted, as he laid the book on the desk and opened it. Then he bent over the book and slowly turned a few pages.

The rector wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

The superintendent stayed bent over the book so long, the rector thought he’d forgotten anyone was in the room.

Buck turned, finally, and looked at him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Well, I won’t keep you.”

“Where’s th’ kid’s house?”

He told him, pointing this way and that.

As he was leaving, Buck said, “Something I ought to say to you.”

“What’s that?”

“Nobody around here knows what I told you the other day.”

“Nobody will hear it from me.”

Buck lit the cigarette. “I’ll go see the boy.”

“Good. He’ll like that.”

Jogging down the hill definitely felt better than going up.

It was a long push to Elmhurst, but if they hustled, they could make it in a day, arriving back home at midnight. His jam-packed calendar wouldn’t permit dawdling.

But Dooley Barlowe did not like Elmhurst, which was only one day away from dismissing for the summer.

He did not like the grim look of the brick buildings, he did not like the cool demeanor of the headmaster, he did not like any of the teachers or even one of the boys, he hated the drab, ill-fitting school uniforms, and he refused to eat a bite in the dining room that was morbidly silent.

The boy had judgment, you could say that for him. They were in such a hurry to get out of there that the Buick nosed into the garage an hour and a half ahead of schedule.

As Olivia Davenport walked down the aisle on the arm of Dr. Leo Baldwin, the wedding guests gawked as shamelessly as tourists at a scenic overlook.

No one had ever seen anything like it in Mitford—a successful heart-transplant recipient who looked like a movie star, a famous heart surgeon from Boston, Massachusetts, and a wedding gown that would be the talk of the village for months, even years, to come.

This wedding, as someone rightly said, was “big doings.”

If the wedding of Dr. Walter Harper and Olivia Davenport was big doings, the doings that followed at Fernbank were bigger still.

People turned out merely to see the long procession of cars snaking along Main Street and up Old Church Lane.

“Is it a weddin’ or a funeral?” Hattie Cloer, who owned Cloer’s Market on the highway, was being taken for a Sunday-afternoon drive by her son. Her Chihuahua, Darlene, sat on Hattie’s shoulder, with her head stuck out the window.

“Looks like a funeral,” said her son. “I seen a long, black deal parked in th’ church driveway.”

“Oh, law,” said Hattie, “I hope it’s not old Sadie Baxter who’s keeled over. This is her church, you know.”

“I hear she had a United States president at her house one time.”

“President Jackson, I think it was, or maybe Roosevelt,” said Hattie.

Entering Fernbank’s ballroom was like entering another world.

No one stepped across the threshold who didn’t gasp with amazement or joy or disbelief, so that the reception line was backed up on the porch and down the steps and across the circle drive. No one minded standing on the lawn, some with their heels sinking into the turf, for they’d heard that a marvelous spectacle awaited inside.