‘You had a good trip, Father?’

‘Very good, thanks.’ Broad windows with a mountain view, a fire on the hearth. ‘We took the parkway to Linville Falls, 221 to Marion, then I-40 here. The Alleluia Highway, we decided to call it.’

‘We, you say?’

‘My wife, Cynthia, is with me.’

‘Not waiting in reception, I trust.’

‘No, no. She’s in town at a bookstore.’

The bishop gestured toward one of two wing chairs before the fire.

‘They opened early for her visit; she’s signing a few editions of her work. She’s a writer and illustrator of children’s books.’

‘As I know very well.’ The bishop leaned to the table beside his chair, removed a book from a pile, displayed the cover of Violet Comes to Stay.

‘I sent out for her books when we returned from our trip. I now have them all, save one, which is shipping right away. They’ll end up with the grandchildren.’

‘She’ll be pleased. Many thanks.’ Two walls of books had already accumulated here.

It was fair to say he hadn’t been greatly alarmed by the bishop’s invitation and its cloak of mystery—curious and perplexed would be closer to the truth, though he was surprised now by a certain tension, even dread, that he hadn’t expected.

‘We’ll have coffee in a moment, then move straight along. As I’m sure you know, Father, I gave Mrs. Kavanagh my deepest regrets for the muddle of this whole business. Let me offer my apologies firsthand.’

‘None needed,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’

‘A comedy of errors. I couldn’t phone you from the island because we were quite remote, with no cell phone service. I had to give the matter into God’s hands entirely, where it belongs in any case.’

The modest rap on the door, and the bishop’s assistant with a coffee tray, and the standing and the introductions. While the bishop agreeably chose all that was offered, he declined cream, he eschewed sugar, and passed on the offer of a chocolate. The retreating assistant closed the door, soundless.

‘In a fairly short time, I’ve learned a great deal about you, Father. Good stuff. Good stuff. You married late.’

‘Never too late,’ he said. ‘But yes. Sixty-two.’

Jack Martin stirred his coffee. ‘I understand marriage suits you.’

‘I think I never knew much about who I really am until she told me. I like her version and I’m sticking with it.’

The bishop’s laughter was contained, but genuine.

Romantic, Cynthia had insisted from the beginning; deeply sensitive, a brilliant diviner of character—but that was his little secret. He smiled at the bishop, sipped his coffee. Definitely not church coffee. More secular.

‘You chose to settle in Mitford after you retired. Permanently?’

‘We have no aspiration to live elsewhere. It’s an easy town, quite beautiful in its hanging valley, and still with a certain innocence that appeals to us.’

‘You had sixteen years at the Chapel of Our Lord and Savior. Growth was steady, and I’m told you made a sizable addition to the building.’

‘A second-floor Sunday school, yes.’

‘It’s quite the reverse in many parishes, as you know.’

‘The parish is fortunate to have summer people who help pay the bills. A good mix—I was very fond of it all.’

‘Your retirement was for medical reasons. Complications of diabetes, I believe. How is your health currently?’

‘Stable. My wife doesn’t allow otherwise.’

‘Was there something about a suicidal Pepsi?’

‘Coke,’ he said. ‘I drank a Coke on an empty stomach, and my system went haywire. I drove my car into a stop sign and injured a dear friend who was out walking his dog. The dog was killed instantly.’

This was hard, painful; he despised it. ‘And cake,’ he said. ‘There was also a cake incident. So, there were two diabetic comas. I was rolling the dice—something I’m not known to do and something I’ll never do again.’

Jack Martin drew in his breath. ‘You’ve had a bout or two with depression.’

‘More than one or two.’

‘Chronic?’

‘No. But with some frequency in my forties—I was a priest without a heart for God. Then an especially tough time after what we call the Coke incident.’

‘You’re a straight shooter, Father. Nor am I one to roll the dice, to use your term. I’ve read your file very prayerfully and talked to several of your close associates.’

The bishop fingered the chain of his pectoral cross. ‘Together with a few people whose opinions I regard highly, I feel that you and your wife make a good model for marriage, a good model for living. Especially in the wake of a tragic model. Henry Talbot is divorcing his wife and leaving the church.’

Something went on with his heart, a beat or two skipped.

‘Talbot came to me just hours before we left the country. He confessed he’d let his parish down, and cheated on his wife for some years—I won’t go now into the details of who, what, and why. As desperate as that is, there’s more.’

Jack Martin sat back in the chair as if suddenly fatigued.

‘Other issues have surfaced. Less troubling by comparison, but there nonetheless.’ The bishop gazed toward the windows and the mountains beyond. ‘It’s a man breaking down in many ways at once. I’ve seen some disasters in my time, but this is a train wreck.’

Not just leaving the church, not just cheating on his wife, not just a divorce, but other issues as well. He was struck by the calamity of it.

‘I spoke with the senior warden at Lord’s Chapel.’

‘Bill Swanson,’ he said. ‘A good man.’

‘Bill says the vestry has been able to hold things together, but barely. Bill was ready to come to me, but Talbot beat him to it. Apparently, everyone knows something is terribly wrong, but very few know what or how much. When the truth breaks, the floodwaters will come in over our heads.’

He saw himself going to Talbot’s office, trying to find words to counsel or console, but it was a shallow offering. For the first time, he noted the sound of the hearth fire—the sharp spit and crackle of hardwood.

‘Any one of these issues begs immediate dismissal. It was imperative for Talbot to leave Lord’s Chapel at once, but he implored me to allow him a final voice. Your Methodist pastor, I believe you know her, will supply September thirtieth, and I agreed to give Talbot October seventh. He wants to make a type of confession to the congregation, an apology for letting them down, for not . . . caring for them as he’d hoped to do.’

The bishop took a folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, pressed it to his eyes. ‘He gets good marks for that.

‘He begged for this concession, and I granted it. I’ve made arrangements to be there, of course. I said earlier that I don’t gamble, but this is an exception. His apology to the parish could be healing for all concerned—or it could be a further disaster.’

He agreed, but said nothing.

‘Parishes seldom get closure when a priest leaves under strained circumstances. It could help them, and the interim, considerably.’

‘I saw him at the church office a day or two ago.’

‘He may have been there removing a few personal items—discreetly, I hope. We won’t say anything to the parish until the seventh. There’s no need to extend the agony over roughly two weeks. They’ll simply know the bishop is coming—which I hope will give us a stronger turnout and more people to hear Talbot’s remarks firsthand.’

‘Bill knows what’s going on?’

‘He does. And he knows I’m talking with you, but I trust him not to spread any of it. The parish was told that Talbot is taking a little time off with family, which I presume to be true.’

Jack Martin got up and used the poker to rearrange a log, then stood with his back to the fire. His eyes weren’t blue, they were green. Startling.

‘I need the right person to step in at once. On the eighth, actually, if such a miracle could be wrought.

‘There’s a priest from Colorado who would do well in this circumstance—he’s been through it all before. He would supply until the Search Committee finds the right candidate, then perhaps he’d be a candidate for the long haul.’