‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Kenny. ‘We apologize. We’re sorry.’

Harley chimed in. ‘We sure are, Miss Pringle. Real sorry.’

‘You have roast poulet waiting downstairs in your oven, though I can’t think why I did such a thing for shameless hooligans.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Kenny. ‘We thank you.’

‘It won’t happen ag’in,’ said Harley.

We’ll see about that, he thought, stepping inside.

Chapter Six

So he was a laughingstock, he thought as he gave himself the morning insulin shot. Big deal. Clergy were known to do worse than go weak in the knees. He would get out there and face the music, let the chips fall where they may. Not for him the blighted syndrome of retired-priest-who-won’t-leave-the-house.

He did his stretching in the study, tied on the bandanna Puny had laundered, made a swing through the kitchen to stuff the bakery list in his shorts pocket, and paid his respects in the studio.

‘Pray for me,’ he said, kissing his wife.

‘Go and be as the butterfly, sweetheart.’

He went out through the garage and hit the sidewalk running.

In this desperate matter . . . can’t be spoken. He learned long ago that it was useless to second-guess a bishop. Cynthia would go with him on the drive to Asheville; they would have a nice lunch, maybe put the top down and live a little.

Truth be told, he was more concerned about tonight’s pool lesson and how much a fool he’d make of himself. He’d shot a few games, of course, though he hardly had a clue what he was doing; he just tried to get a ball in a pocket—any ball, any pocket.

The morning was unseasonably warm and humid, not unlike the flatlands in late spring. He crossed Wisteria and stood for a moment on the corner, observing Main Street in motion at seven-thirty—two workmen on ladders, replacing the awning at Village Shoes, a pickup truck off-loading bushels of valley apples into the Local.

And there was the cloud of aromas sent forth by the Sweet Stuff Bakery ovens, fired six days a week at five a.m. sharp. For his money, the yeasty fragrance diffused by clean mountain air was the best thing about Mitford—where could you find another town that smelled this good every morning?

He dodged Shirlene’s sandwich board and buzzed three times at the bakery’s side entrance—he being one of the few customers allowed entry before the front doors opened at eight. The kitchen curtain parted, Winnie Kendall peered through the window. The monitor buzzed, the door swung open.

‘Good morning, good morning!’ he called out to the kitchen.

Winnie stepped into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Father! We’re just glazin’ the Danish an’ slicin’ th’ cakes. What can we do for you?’

He loved her good face, it was all smiles, all the time—the sort of face you wouldn’t mind wearing every day.

‘Just dropping off an order and I’ll get out of your way.’

He dug in his shorts pocket for the list. ‘I can swing by for it later this morning.’

Odd. It was in a small envelope. He hadn’t noticed that when he grabbed it off the kitchen counter.

‘Let’s see.’ He opened the envelope, and knew at once this wasn’t the list. Something like joy leaped in him. What to do? Put it back in his pocket and wait to read it later? But then, why wait?

‘This is not the list,’ he said. ‘I’ll just . . . sit a minute in the coffee nook.’

‘Good! Away from the window where nobody can see you, or they’ll be comin’ in through th’ air vents.’

He glanced at his watch; Winnie and her husband, Thomas, had forty-five minutes to fill the display cases. Her accelerator was definitely floored.

‘Can you remember your list, Father?’

‘Yes, yes. Let’s see.’ The mix-up had rattled him. Maybe if he recalled who would be there tonight . . . ‘There’s Sammy, he’s sixteen, no, wait, he’s seventeen. And Kenny, he’s nineteen, a strapping fellow. And Harley, he’s just driven from Kentucky, so he’ll have an appetite. And there’s Miss Pringle.’

A timer going off in the kitchen.

‘That’ll be th’ bran muffins,’ said Winnie. ‘Sounds like you need a cake. The triple-chocolate would be my recommendation.’

‘A cake! That reminds me. I need to stop by Esther Bolick’s and order a two-layer orange marmalade for Dooley’s visit home.’

Now Winnie seemed rattled.

‘What is it, Winnie?’

‘Oh, my. Well. Nothing, just . . . nothing!’

‘It wasn’t a cake we’re after,’ he said. ‘Let’s see . . .’ His mind was a complete blank.

‘Two teenagers, you said. That’s brownies for sure.’

‘Of course! That’s it. Your famous brownies. A panful, please. And two sugar-free lemon squares. And a chocolate pie. No, wait, we talked about the pie for Lace, for the weekend of the seventeenth.’

‘Of September?’

‘No, no. October.’ He was a basket case; he could handle only one social event at a time. ‘Let’s see. Yes! And a crème brûlée!’ For Harley, who had no teeth at all. ‘And a napoleon for Miss Pringle, she’s French, you know. And a pan of yeast rolls and two bags of hamburger buns.’ He was drained.

‘A pan of brownies,’ she said. ‘Two sugar-free lemon squares, a crème brûlée, a napoleon, a pan of yeast rolls, and two bags of buns. I can have it ready at nine-thirty, but that’s a long time for you to wait.’

‘No, no, I’ll be back at nine-thirty. I’ll just sit here a minute, if you don’t mind.’

‘I can’t turn th’ lights on in here ’til eight or they’ll be bangin’ on th’ door.’

‘Of course, that’s fine.’

‘How about a cup of coffee?’

‘Please, don’t trouble yourself, you have your hands full.’

‘Never too full for you, Father, you helped me hang on to this old place, remember?’

‘Well, then, black as coal, Winnie, and thank you.’

He felt eighteen years old as he withdrew the triple-folded sheet from the envelope. Her scent of wisteria . . .

She had gotten ahead of him by a mile, and with things going the way they were, he wouldn’t be able to turn his in ’til tomorrow. Sic vita est.

‘You look happy as a chigger,’ said Winnie, delivering his coffee in a real mug instead of Styrofoam.

He laid the folded letter by the coffee mug and waited. He would not be tempted to read it in haste, as her words would be wonderful and one must prepare, as best one ever can, for what is wonderful.

And maybe reading it here wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Maybe he should take it to the bench at the Methodist chapel, where there was a large bird feeder and a good bit of birdsong. He blew on the coffee to cool it down. For that matter, he would be running right by Lord’s Chapel, where he could sit on the bench in the rose garden he’d planted himself.

He saw her as she might have looked when writing it, the way she held her mouth when she worked—and yes, she would have worked on this, for his wife, like Flaubert, minded every word. She was earnest in all she undertook, and now this tangible gift, this endearing artifact of her affections . . .

He felt a slow flood of happiness, like a tide coming in, and made the sign of the cross and lifted the fold.

My dearest husband,

As a child with parents who scarcely knew me, I remember distinctly what I yearned for—to be somewhere safe with somebody good.

When I was recovering from the clumsy attempt to end my life and just awakening to His life in me, I remember asking, Please, God, let me be somewhere safe with somebody good.

Your goodness to me has been overwhelming. How tender you are, though I am often as tough as gristle. How patiently you have loved me since you made up your mind to love me always.

By His grace, I am safe at last. But to be safe with you is grace beyond measure.

Thomas Traherne said “We are as prone to love as the sun is to shine.”