‘What sort of man?’

‘Ex-Marine. Sixty-three. Hikes, stays fit, likes the mountains. Lost his wife to ovarian cancer two years ago. Very good at this kind of thing, though probably not available ’til January first. On the other hand, Father . . .’

The bishop returned to his chair, thoughtful.

‘On the other hand, you know your way around the cure, you’re a familiar figure and a trusted friend. That counts for a great deal.

‘We wouldn’t ask you to be the one for the short stint, to fill in ’til Father Brad comes in January. We’d be asking you to step in at once and stick with it ’til the Search Committee secures another priest.’

Good Lord.

‘I’m asking you to supply as vicar until we find the right candidate.’

He was fairly stunned. To be asked at all, and then to be asked for such a quick turnaround . . . the eighth of October was two weeks away.

‘This is scary,’ he said.

‘For both of us. Talbot’s movers arrive Monday morning, following the service on the seventh. The field would be clear for the interim to make a fresh start.’

He took a glass of water from the coffee tray, drank; collected himself. ‘What about his wife, Mary?’

The bishop gave a faint smile. ‘She’s said to refer to Mitford as a hick town. That happens often, you know—the spouse feeling disaffected. As it turns out, Talbot says she loves him unconditionally and doesn’t want to lose him—even in view of his misdeeds. He admits that he cares for her deeply, but sees divorce as punishment to himself. A selfish view, of course, that often masquerades as noble.’

‘She knows about the infidelity?’

‘He says he confessed it to her.’

‘His repentance . . .’

‘Is genuine, I feel. But it’s regretful that he didn’t confess the whole story to me, I would have liked that for his sake. What do you know about him?’

‘We got on well enough, but the parish was a bit standoffish and it was hard for him. He’s a man who likes to please and be accepted. But don’t we all?’

‘God help the fellow who follows a well-loved priest of sixteen years—a tricky business.’

‘I must discuss this with my wife, of course, and commit it to prayer. I can’t give you an answer today.’

He would say, What do you think? And she would say, What do you want? And he would say, I don’t know. And she would say, You’ll make the right choice. During this conversation, her eyes would do the real talking. Because she had watched his health go south when he was full-time, her eyes would say, No.

He had worked hard at being retired, at battling with the psychological upheaval of losing an entire identity—there were times when he even missed the stress of it—but he was running the course pretty well now; had actually gained a bit of momentum. Going full-time at this point would create another upheaval, one guaranteed to be deeper still.

But hadn’t he wanted something greater than the middling life, hadn’t he battered the door of heaven with his endless, What next, what now?

‘Though my retirement was pretty much doctor’s orders,’ he said, ‘some of the parish were upset by it. I don’t know how they’d take to a revolving door.’

‘You’re a healer, Father. Your former bishop, Stuart Cullen, says so, and I’m a Cullen fan.’

He’d never thought he was a healer; he’d always felt the need of healing, himself.

‘The way you brought the mountain parish back last year was most extraordinary—mite nigh impossible, as my Kentucky grandfather would say. The diocese is proud of what you did there with God’s help.’ Jack Martin rubbed his forehead, thoughtful. ‘What would you say you’re about as a priest?’

‘To see the useless made useful, the scattered made whole.’

‘The Coke and cake business. I trust there will be no more of that, whatever you decide.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘This invitation is somewhat unsettling, I should think. After several years of retirement, you may have found your sweet spot. But there’s what Bonhoeffer said: “We must be ready to allow ourselves to be interrupted by God.”

‘You understand that it would help to know right away. If you decline, we can find someone to supply for a few weeks and then the candidate from Colorado would step in, but that’s a lot to put a parish through. It would be lovely if . . .’

The bishop’s words hung in the air like mist in the hollows.

‘What can be done for Henry Talbot?’ he said.

‘We have three clinicians. He could see one or all, and all of it would be completely private. I told him this, but he doesn’t believe he deserves help. Perhaps that can change.’

They sat for a time, silent, looking at the fire. The bishop turned to him as if startled by a thought.

‘Let me pray for you, Father.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. He bowed his head, sentient to the rigors of the bishop’s distress and his own.

‘Lord of healing, Lord of grace, thank you for your servant, Timothy, whom you raised up to share with others your unconditional love. Thank you for his steadfast faith in you, and for his gentle ways among your flock. If Lord’s Chapel again be his charge, Father, equip his every need and send him out with strength and vigor to do your perfect will. May his shepherd’s heart be a healing balm to the parish, and a witness of your infinite love for each of us. Thank you, Lord, for your Holy Presence in our lives as we struggle to love one another as you love us. May your name be glorified now and forever, through Christ our Lord, Amen.’

‘Amen. Thank you.’

‘Whatever you decide, Father, I’d like you to be there on the seventh.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘To return to your wife for a moment—she’s well liked, as you know, a woman of considerable character and, it’s said, strong opinion.’

‘Alis volat propriis,’ he said.

‘Flies with her own wings.’ Jack Martin smiled. ‘I have such a one, myself, thank God. In any case, I’m sure Mrs. Kavanagh would be a great help to you, and we’ll help her however we can. If she’d like someone to talk with about this, have her call me.’

They stood and walked to the office door together and shook hands, each holding the gaze of the other.

‘Say nothing to anyone but close family. If you decide to step in, you’d begin October eighth. It will be a kind of holocaust for a time—I’ll look after you and send help when needed. You realize that the length of your stay at Lord’s Chapel could be six months, a year, possibly longer.’

‘Indefinite,’ he said. ‘Like everything else in life.’

‘The Lord be with you,’ said Jack Martin.

‘And also with you.’

They embraced, and he turned and walked down the hall and went into the nave, where he knelt at the silent rail.

His mind was clamor itself, a hectic marketplace with hawking on every side. They were coming up on the Feast Day of Saint Matthew, who quoted Christ’s injunction to forgive ‘seventy times seven.’ For some of the parish, that would not be enough. He envisioned himself standing once more in the Lord’s Chapel pulpit and felt a terrible thirst, not so much for water as for—what?

‘Jesus,’ he said, unable to form a further petition. He pressed his forehead against the railing. He would take any wisdom right now—not the big decision, that would be asking too much too soon; the smallest scrap would do. He remained at the railing for a time, then stood and bowed to the cross, and walked out a side door into the sublime mountain air.

•   •   •

THE SIGHT OF HER CAR coming up the hill was a benediction. ‘Good timing,’ he said, climbing in.

She handed him the box of raisins. ‘Did your six o’clock oatmeal see you through?’

‘Barely,’ he said, buckling up.

‘We’re off to the most divine spot for a real breakfast. I’ll take the scenic route.’

Along streets mottled by the shade of pin oaks, he told her everything.

‘What do you think?’ he said, swigging from a bottle of water.