A New Song (10 page)

“Timothy, look! The walls!”

Good grief, there were some of those walls his wife had created in the rectory kitchen a couple of years ago—pockmarked, smoky, primitive—not Miss Sadie’s walls at all. Miss Sadie would be in a huff over this, and no two ways about it.

“Father! Cynthia! Dooley! Welcome!”

It was the hospitable Andrew Gregory, coming through the door of the dining room in a pale linen suit.

He felt positively heady with the rush of aromas and sounds, and the sight of Mitford’s favorite antiques dealer transformed into a tanned and happy maître d’.

 

Mule and Fancy dropped by the table where the Kavanaghs and Dooley were seated with the Harpers and Lace Turner.

“How do you say th’ name of this place?” Fancy asked in a whisper. “I can’t remember for shoot!”

“Lu-
chair
-ah!” crowed Cynthia, glad to be of help.

Fancy stared around the room, disbelieving. “There’s people here I never laid eyes on before.”

Mule sighed. “This is gonna be a deep-pocket deal,” he muttered, following Fancy to their corner table.

Father Tim was fairly smitten with his dinner companions, it all seemed so lively and . . .
fun
, a thing he was always seeking to understand and claim for his own.

Olivia hadn’t aged an iota since he married her to the town doctor a few years ago; he remembered dancing at their reception in the ball-room, across the hall from this very table. Her dark hair was pulled into French braids, such as she eagerly wove each day for Lace, and her violet eyes still pierced his heart with appealing candor.

Hoppy grinned at his wife and took her hand. “Where
are
we, anyway?”

“Certainly not in Mitford!” she said, laughing.

“I think we’re . . . in a dream,” said Lace, so softly that only he and perhaps Dooley could hear.

Enthralled, that was the word. They were all enthralled.

The large dining room, where he’d once eaten cornbread and beans with Miss Sadie and Louella, was crowded with people from Wesley and Holding, with the occasional familiar face thrown in, as it were, for good measure.

There was Hope Winchester waving across the room, and a couple of tables away were the mayor and Ray with at least two of their attractive, deluxe-size daughters, sitting where Miss Sadie’s Georgian highboy used to stand, and over in the far corner . . .

His heart pumped wildly, taking his breath away. Edith Mallory. Just as he spotted her, she looked up and gazed directly into his eyes.

He turned away quickly. Any contact at all with his former parishioner was akin to a sting from a scorpion. He had foolishly believed she would somehow drop out of sight, and he’d never be forced to lay eyes on her again. She’d been a thorn in his flesh for years—seeking to manipulate and seduce him, trying to buy the last mayoral race, treating the villagers like pond scum. . . .

Cynthia peered at him. “What is it, dearest? You’re white as a sheet.”

“Starving,” he mumbled, grabbing a chunk of bread.

 

A couple of years ago, Lace Turner had helped Dooley save Barnabas from bleeding to death when hit by a car. When minutes counted, Dooley and Lace had pitched in to get the job done, and a bond formed between them where only enmity had existed.

But time and distance had strained that bond, and they were now two new and different people.

Father Tim hadn’t missed Dooley’s fervent appraisal of Lace Turner as she studied her hand-printed menu. He found it more telling, however, that Dooley feigned indifference each time Lace spoke, which wasn’t often. Further, he observed, the boy who was known for his appetite picked at his food, laughed nervously, eternally twisted the knot in his tie, and knocked over his water glass.

No doubt about it, Dooley Barlowe was interested in more than cars.

 

They had feasted on risotto and scallopini, on lamb shank and fresh mussels, on chicken roasted with rosemary from the Fernbank gardens, and on Anna Gregory’s freshly made pasta stuffed with ricotta and bathed in a sultry marinara from local greenhouse tomatoes; they had ordered gallons of sparkling water, Coke, and a bottle of Chianti from Lucera, and had all placed their order for Tony’s tiramisu.

Hoppy Harper sat back and looked fondly at Lace, who was seated next to him and across from Dooley. “Lace, why don’t you tell everyone your good news?”

Lace gazed around the table slowly, half shyly.

Father Tim observed that Dooley pretended to be more interested in drumming his fingers on the table than hearing what Lace had to say.

“I’m going away to school in September.”

The fingers stopped drumming.

“Lovely!”
said Cynthia. “Where?”

“Virginia. Mrs. Hemingway’s.” Fresh color stole into the girl’s tanned cheeks.

“Oh, man,” said Dooley, rolling his eyes. “Gross.”

Father Tim bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Hemingway has geeky girls.”

Father Tim could have shaken the boy until his teeth rattled. “Apologize for that at once.”

Dooley colored furiously, undecided about whether to stick up for what he had just said, or do as he was told.

He stuck up for what he had just said. “They hardly ever get invited to our school for parties, they’re so . . .
smart.
” He said the last word with derision.

“Lace has just told us good news,” Father Tim said quietly. “You have just shown us bad behavior. I ask once more that you apologize to Lace.”

Dooley tried to raise his eyes to his dinner partner, but could not. “Sorry,” he said, meditating on his water glass.

Hoppy slipped his arm around Lace’s shoulders. “Dooley’s right, actually. The girls at Mrs. Hemingway’s are very smart, indeed. Gifted, as well. Lace and several of her classmates will spend next summer in Tuscany, studying classical literature and watercolor—on scholarships. We’re very proud of Lace.”

Father Tim saw on the girl’s face the kind of look he’d seen when he caught her stealing Miss Sadie’s ferns—the softness had disappeared, the hardness had returned.

Lace sat straight as a ramrod in the chair, staring over the head of the miserable and hapless wretch opposite her.

Dooley Barlowe had stepped in it, big-time.

 

While Cynthia trotted off with Dooley to bring the car around, Father Tim went in search of Andrew, seeking the whereabouts of their check.

Andrew Gregory still looked as fresh and unwrinkled as if he’d sauntered through the park, not opened a restaurant and catered to the whims of more than fifty people. He was the only man Father Tim knew who didn’t wrinkle linen.

His mind couldn’t avoid a momentary flashback to Andrew’s earnest courtship of Cynthia. He’d watched their comings and goings from his bedroom window at the rectory, feeling miserable, to say the least. He remembered once thinking of the tall, slender Andrew as a cedar of Lebanon, and of himself, a lowly country parson, as mere scrub pine.

But who had won fair maid?

“I’ve had quite a visit with your new tenant,” Andrew said. “She stayed in Wesley the last few days, waiting for the movers, and came several times to the shop. Very inquisitive about Fernbank, it seems. Wanted to know what was sold out of the house, and so on. Said she had a great interest in old homes.”

“Yes, she mentioned that to me.”

“She asked me to name the pieces I bought from you, and was eager to learn whether anything was left in the attic. I told her no, it had all been cleaned out and given away. She asked whether relatives had taken anything, and I said I didn’t really know.”

“Curious.”

“I thought so,” said Andrew. “And by the way, your money doesn’t spend here.”

Andrew’s wife joined them from the kitchen, looking flushed and happy.

“Put away, put back,” said Anna, indicating his wallet. He thought Andrew’s Italian bride of two years, who had come from the village of Lucera, bore a breathtaking resemblance to Sophia Loren.

“But . . .”

“It’s our gift to you, our farewell present,” Andrew insisted.

“Well, then. Thank you. Thank you so much! You’ve made a great contribution to Mitford, Miss Sadie would be proud to see Fernbank filled with light and laughter. Anna, Andrew—’til we meet again.”

“Ciao!”
cried Anna, throwing her arms around him and kissing both his cheeks. He loved Italians. “Go with God!”

“Father!” It was Tony, Anna’s younger brother and Lucera’s chef, running from the kitchen in his white hat and splattered apron. “
Grazie al cielo!
I thought I’d missed you!”

Tony embraced him vigorously, kissed both cheeks, then stood back and gripped his shoulders. Father Tim didn’t know when he’d seen a handsomer fellow in Mitford.
“Ciao!”
said Tony, his dark eyes bright with feeling. “God be with you!”

“And also with you, my friend.”

“Ciao!”
they shouted from the car to Andrew and Anna, who came out to the porch as they drove away from Fernbank, away from the grand old house with the grand new life.

 

He was driving on the Parkway with the top down, when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw his Buick pulling up behind him.

Who was the driver? It was Dooley, with Barnabas sitting in the seat beside him, looking straight ahead.

Dooley was grinning from ear to ear; he could see him distinctly. Yet, when he looked again, the car was gone, vanished.

He woke up, peering into the darkness.

Two a.m., according to the clock by their bed. He sighed.

“Are you awake?” asked Cynthia.

“I had a dream.”

“About what?”

“Dooley. He was driving my Buick.”

“Oh. I can’t sleep, I can never sleep before a long trip.” She sighed, and he reached over and patted her shoulder.

“Maybe I could give Dooley the Buick next year. He could pay something for it, two or three thousand. . . .”

“Umm,” she said.

Suddenly he had a brilliant idea. Not everybody could wake in the middle of the night and think so cleverly.

“Tell you what. Why don’t I give
you
the Buick, and you let Dooley pay you a few thousand for the Mazda. I think he’d like your car better. It’s newer, has more . . . youthful styling.”

“Not on your life,” she said. “I may be a preacher’s wife, but I did
not
take a vow of poverty.”

“Cynthia, the Buick drives like a dream.”

“Dream on,” she said. His wife was stubborn as a mule.

“It never needs any work.”

“It is fourteen years old, the paint is faded, and there’s rust on the right fender. The upholstery on the driver’s side is smithereens, a church fan works better than the air conditioner, and it reeks of mildew.”

He sighed. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?”

She giggled.

He rolled over to her and they assumed their easy spoon position, which someone had called “the staple consolation of the marriage bed.” She felt warm and easy in his arms.

“Listen,” he said.

“To what?”

“I heard something just then. Music, I think.”

They lay very still. The lightest notes from a piano floated through the window.

“A piano,” he said.

“Chopin,” she murmured.

Moments later, he heard her whiffling snore, found it calming, and fell asleep.

 

Hammer and tong.

That’s how they were going at it in the yellow house.

The plan was to get on the road by eight o’clock, which was when Dooley reported to The Local.

Excited about the idea that had come to him in the dream, Father Tim asked Dooley to help tote the last of the cargo to the curb, where Violet was already in her cage on the rear floor of the Mustang.

The top was down, the day was bright and promising, and Barnabas had been walked around the monument at a trot.

“Ah!” Father Tim inhaled the summer morning air, then turned to Dooley, grinning.

“You’re pretty happy,” said Dooley.

“I’m happy to tell you that next summer, with only a modest outlay of funds on your part, Cynthia and I would like to make you the proud owner of . . . the Buick.”

Dooley looked stunned.

“I ain’t drivin’ that thing!” he said, reverting to local vernacular and obviously highly insulted.

 

They were standing on the sidewalk as the Lord’s Chapel bells chimed eight.

Puny and the twins were first in line, and he was up to bat.

“Say bye-bye to Granpaw,” urged Puny.

“Bye-bye, Ba,” said Sissy. She reached out to him, nearly sprawling out of Puny’s arms.

He plucked her from her mother and held her, kissing her forehead. “God be with you, Sissy.”

Her green eyes brimmed with tears. “Come back, Ba.”

He set her down on chubby legs, wondering how he could go through with this. . . .

He hoisted the plump, sober Sassy, who was chewing a piece of toast, and kissed the damp tousle of red hair. “God’s blessings, Sassy.” Barnabas, who was sitting patiently on the sidewalk, licked Sissy’s face.

Puny was openly bawling. Blast. He took it like a man and gave her a hug, feeling her great steadfastness, smelling the starch in her blouse, loving her goodness to him over the years. “You’re always in our prayers,” he told her, hoarse with feeling.

Puny wiped her nose with the hem of her apron. “We’ll miss you.”

“We’ll be back before you know it.”

Puny and the children fled into the yellow house, as Cynthia stood on tiptoe and gave Dooley a hug. “Take care of yourself, you big lug.”

“I will.”

“And write. Or call. A lot!”

“I will.”

Father Tim clasped the boy to him, then stood back and gazed at him intently. “I’m counting on you to help Harley hold things together around here.”