“I always thought Father Time was the real mayor of Mitford if you don’t mind me saying so. It seems like he takes care of everybody.”

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m done.’ He would cancel their subscription immediately, buy an iPad, read the New York Times online, and never look back. He tossed the newspaper on the coffee table. She snatched it up, found the editorial, read on.

“Remember how he was so good to Uncle Billy and Miss Rose and how he goes to the hospital every day and visits Hope House and keeps his yard looking so nice? In my opinion, he should be officially named Mitford’s Leading Citizen and the embodyment of what we should all be doing if we weren’t so busy.” Jena Ivey, Mitford Blossoms

He felt the heat in his face. He no longer went to the hospital every day, nor did he make regular calls at Hope House. Plus it had been a while since he’d done anything at all in his yard, now that Harley had the job. Blast J. C. Hogan to the moon and heaven help Vanita Bentley.

‘Listen up,’ she said.

“Father Time brings us a plate from the All-Church nearly every year and Mrs Bolick brings us a cake with orange slices on it every Christmas which is the best my mama and me has ever tasted.” Coot Hendrik

‘Where does this bloody Father Time business come from?’ he said.

‘When you type Tim it’s easy to hit the e key, I’ve done it a lot, actually. You’ll love this one.’

“Look for example at Father Time Kavanuagh who makes us all feel like his own! He retired but he didn’t quit. Maybe he’s no longer talking the talk in the pulpit, but he’s still walking the walk on the street.

“The point is, any of us can take care of our own. I am going today to deliver a hot meal to somebody old and downtrodden and so what if it’s KFC. If I can do it, anybody can do it. Get off your butts, people!!”

‘Who authored that literary gem?’

‘Anonymous,’ she said. ‘Vanita closes the piece thus.’

Are we still taking care of our own/ Who do you think is our leading citizen??? If you would like to way in on these crucial topics, please write to Vanita Vanita Bentley at the Muse or look for me on Main Street and thank you.

His wife patted him on the knee. ‘Father Time,’ she said.

He could see it coming, and oh, yes, there it came, in spades.

His wife could hurt herself laughing like this.

•   •   •

HE TOOK HIS COFFEE to the desk in the study, glanced at the calendar.

A good time to call and cancel their subscription. But no—the self-styled feature writer of all mankind would herself answer the phone, which wouldn’t be a good thing.

He chose instead to pore over the agenda he’d pored over on Tuesday. The Rotary meeting, the Kiwanis Club dinner, the cleanup day at Children’s Hospital; the call from Andrew Gregory, the subject of which he was certain; the talk to the clergy group in Holding, which meant a full day and evening down the mountain. As for the church in Hendersonville that wanted him to supply for a month next January, and the letter from the bishop which he hadn’t yet opened . . .

It was fish or cut bait.

She answered on the first ring; Snickers barked in the background.

‘Hello, Emma?’

•   •   •

DEAREST CYNTHIA was to the point—nothing wrong with that.

Darling Girl had a nice tone, she liked such terms of affection.

Ha.

He uncapped the pen and wrote.

Dear Bookend.

Good. That was it.

He had rather take a whipping than do this. Didn’t she know he loved her? What was she looking for in this exercise? It seemed a waste of time—he could be sanding the basement steps, which needed two coats and a sealer.

Nothing more came forth. He laid the pen down and sat as if turned to stone. His mind was Arctic tundra—hither a scrap of stunted moss, yon a dwarf tree.

His ankles had begun to swell when a beguiling thought pushed through, something like blood forcing passage in a heavily blocked artery, but he resisted such thinking.

Then again, why resist? And so what if it had been done before? She would love nothing better than being told the answer in scrupulous detail.

He took up the pen, ritually shook down the ink, and wrote.

How do I love thee? Let me count . . .

There was more than one way to skin a cat.

•   •   •

‘I CAME RIGHT OVER.’ Emma had let herself in through the garage, and stood at his desk looking flushed.

He glanced at his watch.

‘I know, I know.’ She thumped her purse into his out-box; he hated it when she did that. ‘It’s nine o’clock, and you said ten, I’m runnin’ early. Better an hour early than a minute late, you always said.’

‘Have a seat.’ He shuffled papers to conceal the letter. ‘How are you?’

‘I thought I’d never hear from you, I had to find out at the post office that you’d actually gotten home.’ The arched eyebrow.

‘Takes a while to get back in the swing,’ he said, dry as crust.

She removed something from her purse, took it over to Barnabas. Down the hatch it went. ‘Peanut-butter dog cookie with glucosamine,’ she said, giving his dog a perfunctory scratch behind the ear. ‘Tried one myself. Not bad.’

She sat down in front of his desk. ‘So you fainted. Dead away or just partially?’

‘Partially.’ He drummed the desktop with his fingers.

She had herself a good laugh. His relationship with Emma Newland personified what he’d heard about childbirth—one forgot the agony ’til the next time around.

‘How’s Harold?’

‘Depressed. Retirement coming up next year.’

‘Oh, that.’ That can of worms, that hoisting by one’s own petard. ‘I’d like you to make some calls for me, write a letter or two, if you’d be so kind.’

‘Excellent. I have Tuesdays free.’

‘I was thinking a couple of hours today.’

‘I could use something more permanent,’ she said. She slid her glasses down her nose, gave him a look. ‘Like we used to have.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but produced only the odd gasp.

‘Remember who rescheduled you with the airline and bailed you out of Ireland for a measly five-hundred-dollar penalty. And remember who got you into that fancy Dublin hotel at the last minute, in the middle of high season.’ She crossed her arms, satisfied, complete.

If he lost this round, he was toast. ‘And perhaps you remember,’ he said, ‘who sent you a large . . . Waterford . . . vase.’ He let the words suspend in the air.

She grinned. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’m good for a couple of hours.’

‘So make my apologies to the Rotary president for what he calls an important meeting.’ He handed her the jumble of notes he’d made; she scanned them.

‘Why do you want to skip the Rotary meeting? Rotarians do great things for people. Harold is a Rotarian.’

‘True. Great things. I need a break.’

‘Ireland wasn’t a break?’

‘I need another break.’

‘How long have you been a Rotarian?’

‘Thirty-five years and twice a club president.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘you can have a break. I’ll call.’

‘What will you say?’

‘That you’re taking a break.’

‘Okay, but say nothing more.’ Emma relished the elaborate excuse. ‘That will do.’

‘Same for the Kiwanis?’ she said, ticking off the list. ‘You’re taking a break?’

‘Just decline. No need to say why.’

‘Cleanup day?’

‘I’ll do it, I always do it. Ask for Jane Moreland, tell her I’ll prune and mulch the hedge.’

‘Do they have more than one hedge? They might get confused if there are several hedges. Take the old Fernbank place, for instance, there are three different hedges up there—hemlock, boxwood—’

‘The privet hedge.’ He’d worked on the Children’s Hospital hedge for eight years, but privet was privet and it still looked bedraggled.