They looked toward the corner, respectful.

‘Spray tan is a lifetime investment. But I’m bankin’ on it bein’ a big hit in Mitford.’ She blinked, close to tears.

‘That’s the spirit!’

He noticed a tic in his left eyelid. Where were the barbershops of yore, where a man could go for peace and understanding, a doze in the chair? Nowhere, that’s where. It was over, the good life was gone with the wind; a man was forced to seek the comfort of his own home.

‘I cannot find th’ gift cards,’ said Fancy. ‘I’ll have to hand-write th’ dern thing, or we can just call whoever it is and tell ’er to come in.’

Fancy was fishing for a name. ‘Hand-write it, then,’ he said, ‘and thank you.’

Shirlene circled their lone customer. ‘You would look gorgeous with a light application of spray tan, wouldn’t he, Fance?’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said.

‘I would definitely recommend th’ Miami for you. It’s not a real heavy beach look as much as a sun-kissed look, you know what I mean? It’s more like, Hello, I’ve been down at my summerhouse fishin’ for a couple of days.’

He pulled out his wallet. ‘How much?’

‘Depends if it’s full color, highlights, or both.’ Fancy drummed her fingers on the counter.

‘Both!’ he said, reckless. Definitely the last time he’d climb the stairs to this Gehenna.

Fancy popped in a stick of Dentyne; the chewing commenced. ‘You ought to get th’ conditionin’ treatment with that. Only fifteen dollars extra—it puts th’ shine back in. I personally use th’ conditionin’ treatment every time, otherwise you don’t get your money’s worth out of th’ highlights.’

‘Fine. Okay. The works.’ Though he cared very much about Esther Bolick, this was ridiculous. He gouged a couple of fifties from his wallet.

‘Keep goin’,’ said Fancy.

‘What’s that?’

‘Another fifty, an’ I’ll give you change.’

He was grinding his left molars. Keep calm and carry on, the Brits liked to say.

‘How’d you find your wife?’ asked Shirlene. ‘I hear you were pretty old when you got married.’

‘She moved next door and asked ’im to go steady,’ said Fancy.

Shirlene threw back her head and hooted with laughter. ‘That is so funny, I am crazy about that. Moved next door an’ asked you to go steady?’

‘It worked,’ he said.

•   •   •

HE HUNG A RIGHT toward Happy Endings. It was getting cooler. Breezy. Fall was in the air.

For the first time since coming home, he had the contentment of feeling rooted into Mitford like a turnip.

On impulse, he sat on the bench in front of the shoe store and dialed the unpainted house in the Mississippi countryside, the house with the swept yard and the gregarious garden patch and Sister’s pink Cadillac parked out front. God had opened a window for him in Holly Springs, with a view into lives he wouldn’t have known save for the note that read, Come home.

‘All right?’

‘Peggy!’ he said. ‘It’s Timothy.’

‘Oh, Timothy, we been talkin’ ’bout you, Henry was gon’ call if we didn’ hear.’

‘How is he?’

‘Not too good jus’ now, not too good. Bad rashes all over his skin—he has to stay greased up like a chicken, an’ his eyes so dry they sometimes stick shut.’

He felt the desperation of it in his bones.

‘An’ he’s droppin’ weight,’ said Peggy. ‘That’s what worry me.’

Keeping Henry in the clear was like keeping a feather in the air by the force of one’s own breath. ‘What do the doctors say?’

‘Say stay out of th’ sun, rest good, an’ keep th’ faith. It’s somethin’ like GVD, I don’ know . . .’

‘GVHD. Graft versus host disease. His cells recognize my cells as foreign and go on the attack.’

‘Somethin’ like that, yes.’

‘The good news is, the immune cells can also attack any leukemia cells that may be left.’ He was putting a shine on things for her sake, but felt a nauseous anxiety in his gut. ‘His medication seems to be doing the job?’

‘Oh, yes, he has it all, he’s gon’ be all right. God didn’t send you to save his life, then drop ’im like a hot potato.’

‘Does he feel like talking?’

‘Th’ nurse is with him. He’ll be awful sad to miss talkin’ to you, can he call you back?’

A car drove by, honked, he threw up his hand.

‘I’ll give him a shout this evening. How are you, Peggy? Are you all right?’

‘Holdin’ on,’ she said. ‘I’ll be ninety ’fore we know it. Sister took my broom away las’ week.’

‘Uh-oh.’ Peggy loved her yard-sweeping broom.

‘Said, Give me th’ keys to that broom, Mama, you flyin’ it over th’ speed limit.’

They had a small laugh, as they often had more than sixty years ago. ‘You and Henry and Sister are faithfully in our prayers. It’s wonderful to hear your voice.’

‘I thank you for the rest of my days, Timothy. We sho’ love you an’ your wonderful wife.’

‘We love you back,’ he said.

•   •   •

HOPE TURNED AWAY TO HIDE HER TEARS.

‘I’m sorry, Father. It’s just so hard right now. Dr. Wilson says I must go to bed at once. He sent me to the hospital in Wesley for an ultrasound and . . . it isn’t good. This is my last day at work, I don’t know for how long.’

‘Who will run the store?’

‘I really can’t afford . . . I mean, I don’t know. I thought of closing it, but . . . it’s . . . we just want the baby to be . . .’

She was sobbing. He had forgotten his handkerchief; it would have helped to have it.

The bookstore was operating on a shoestring, he knew that. Though the bottom line didn’t always show it, a lot of people would be seriously disappointed if it closed. He loved seeing schoolkids sprawled on the floor, drinking in a story, exercising their imaginations. Jefferson had famously said, I cannot live without books. How could they live without their bookstore? Happy Endings was an institution; right up there with church and school, it was a bridge from the uncivil to the civil. Where else could he take his dog and read Sunday’s Times on Monday morning?

And now, a baby, and something gone wrong.

‘My body is making a terrible trap for the baby. Please don’t tell anyone.’

‘You have my word,’ he said. ‘Please. Sit.’

He led her to a chair, brought her the box of tissues and a glass of water from the coffee station.

‘I can’t talk about it anymore right now.’ She gave in completely to her suffering; he sat close by, let her be. Her body making a trap . . .

‘I’ll give you a day a week,’ he said. He could hardly bear seeing her like this.

‘Oh, but Father, no, I couldn’t . . .’

‘Thursday!’ he said, suddenly wild with this dangerous notion.

•   •   •

ON HIS WAY TO LEW’S, he fingered the bookstore key in the pocket of his sweater, and noted a definite spring in his step.

Lew was waiting for him at the pumps. ‘Bud told me some stuff. Th’ driver said he had to get to the airport.’

‘What else?’

‘Bud said while I was checkin’ th’ oil, th’ guy opened th’ door behind th’ driver’s seat an’ a bag of some kind fell out. A big leather kind of bag, an’ he handed it back in an’ closed th’ door an’ stooped down and picked up whatever fell out of th’ bag an’ opened th’ door an’ handed that back in. Bud found somethin’ after they left, prob’ly rolled up under th’ chassis an’ th’ driver missed it.’

He walked inside with Lew, who reached under the counter and handed him a glasses case.

Two initials on the cover—KD—in what he reckoned could be actual gold. A light fragrance suggested itself when he opened the case. Empty. Soft leather; maybe kidskin.

‘Nice case,’ he said, handing it back.

‘Guess we’ll hold on to it if they come this way again.’

‘What else?’

‘That’s it.’

He walked to the Mazda, frowning. An old parishioner passing through, most likely. K.D. He ran a few names from the past. Kitty Duncan—not likely, she was in her eighties a decade ago. Katherine Daily. Married again, if he knew Katherine, and still serving artichoke dip too runny for the cracker, bless her heart. He being a slow learner and a hungry bachelor, her artichoke dip had landed on his shirtfront more than a few times.