‘Did you know about Talbot?’

‘Nothing specific, just that clergy have their struggles; I thought his disconnect might eventually turn around. Olivia has had real concerns about him, but frankly, I’ve been too caught up in the Sudan business to pay much attention. How are you feeling?’

He had no words for how he was feeling. ‘What if I take it on and can’t go the distance? That would be twice for the parish. You know they resented my retirement.’

‘Yes, but not everyone. Most people understood. What they resented was you swigging down that Coke and eating the bloody cake. My guess is, they’ll kiss your ring.’

‘Come on.’

‘Trust me. As for your medical aptitude, Wilson says your cholesterol is good and the diabetes is under control. But you know how fast that can go off the cliff.

‘If you move forward with picking up Talbot’s pieces, you’ll need help. You’re prone to try doing it all, which took you out of full-time in the first place. To do it all and deprive others of doing is . . .’ Hoppy studied the puzzle. ‘. . . a misguided notion.’

‘And how many years were you burning the candle at both ends and calling for more wax?’

Hoppy laughed. ‘Touché, Father. In any case, whatever happens, Wilson is up to handling it. Your job is to avoid giving him anything to handle.’

Hoppy turned to a bank of drawers beneath the window seat, pulled one out, removed an open bag of jelly beans, and offered a sampling. ‘Have a green, they’re the best.’

He did as prescribed. ‘I thought you were on the wagon.’

His former doctor laughed, popped a jelly bean. ‘I was, and will be again. No jelly beans in Yida.’

Hoppy adjusted his reading glasses, bent over the puzzle. ‘Ecclesiastical setback. Blank, p, blank, blank.’

‘Apse,’ he said.

•   •   •

HE CHECKED HIS COMMITMENTS FOR TODAY.

Lunch @ Feel Good.

Mustang diagnostic

Another big day on the calendar.

How would he like going from zero to a hundred and sixty mph? Why couldn’t there be some reasonable in-between? He loathed zero and despised a hundred and sixty. Why couldn’t he ever find a cruising speed?

The pressure of the open-ended timetable was too much; he had to have a cutoff date. ‘Jesus,’ he said under his breath.

Barnabas looked up from his bed at the hearth. Good! His dog had not lost his hearing. It was he, Timothy, who had lost his, for he was getting no feedback. Zero.

What about Thursday? Maybe he could take a week to make the decision, but he couldn’t bear the pressure of it for a week. He wanted, needed it to happen quickly, as quickly as God would permit. Thursday would be extremely fair to all. ‘But late Thursday,’ he declared to his dog.

He consulted his calendar.

Written with a kind of slapdash joy in the slot for Thursday:

Happy Endings 9 a.m.

The Happy Endings stint had completely slipped his mind. He had planned to go in early, take his own beans, and learn to operate a coffee maker that also did the grinding. But how could he think about stuffing a full day’s commitment at the bookstore into Thursday’s need for an urgent decision?

Friday was open, a total blank; he could call the bishop on Friday. For that matter, he could do the bookstore on Friday—Friday was payday in these parts, a good day for buying books; he would notify Hope, who, he felt certain, would be just as grateful for help on Friday.

Barnabas came over, lay at his feet, looked up.

No. Thursday was the day he would call the bishop. And Thursday was the day he would work at the bookstore—no way would he disappoint Hope, and no way would he disappoint his dog, who, he believed, was definitely up for sooner rather than later.

•   •   •

‘IT’S YOUR CARBURETOR,’ said Jeb Adderholt.

Jeb paused to allow for shocked silence or possibly an enjoyable stream of strong language, but he could not bestow this small pleasure upon Jeb Adderholt.

The phone line between Mitford and Wesley enjoyed its characteristic crackle and hum. Something about a throttle shaft . . .

‘Plus your radiator’s rotted out pretty bad.’

‘Ah.’

‘An’ your heater, you know that heater’s never worked right. Th’ old folks say this’ll be th’ worst winter in a decade.’

‘They say that every year.’ He was now old folks, himself, and as far as he was concerned, the winter could do whatever it pleased.

Jeb cleared his throat, moving in for the kill. ‘Have you noticed your clutch is slippin’?’

‘How would I notice that?’

‘When you’re goin’ uphill,’ said Jeb as if speaking to someone from a foreign country.

‘Right. Yes, I’ve noticed that. Anything else?’

‘It’s gon’ cost more to fix than it’s worth.’ Jeb named a price, but given the hum, it was muffled and indistinct.

He would pick it up tomorrow and pay Jeb for the diagnostic. So much for his sharp little ride.

Having driven previously used vehicles all his life, he had no idea how to buy a new car. Before the vintage Mustang, there was the motor scooter, and before that, eight years of foot travel, and before that, the antiquated Buick, and prior to the Buick, he could scarcely remember. He would subscribe to Consumer Reports or Lew would probably know, or Dooley. Dooley! Of course. Dooley would go nuts over helping him buy a new vehicle.

He left Dooley a voice message, feeling better already.

•   •   •

‘ARE YOU HAVING LUNCH with the turkeys?’ His wife was whipped from yesterday, and so was he. But would they give in and lie down or whatever people do when they’re whipped?

‘I don’t feel I should have lunch. Things are too . . .’ He shrugged.

‘But it’s the day the sign goes up, sweetheart.’ She dumped coffee grounds into the kitchen compost bin. ‘I think you should have lunch.’

‘All that boondoggling . . .’ he said, vague.

‘Boondoggling beats sitting around trying to figure out what God is up to. He’s given you a target date, which I think you should let Bishop Martin know.’

‘Why let the bishop know that I don’t know?’

‘You’d be letting him know that you’ll know by Thursday. He could relax a little. But what do I know about bishops? Maybe they don’t need to relax. We, however, need to keep praying and trusting God, and moving ahead to things like lunch and dry-cleaning and a dozen eggs at the Local.’

She was right, of course, but still . . .

‘Puny’s coming in today instead of tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and bringing the boys.’ She rubbed her eyes, something she did more often these days. ‘As for me, I’m having lunch in Wesley with Irene McGraw, she’s just back from Georgia.’

‘Tell her I enjoyed breaking into her house. Nice artwork.’

‘The capital campaign meeting is after lunch. I’ll have a report. In the meantime, you and I need to plan something fun—like dinner and a movie. All we ever do is dinner. What was the last movie we saw?’

‘Babe, I think. Do we have a VCR player?’

‘VCRs went out of style ages ago. It’s DVDs now. Just a disc. Like a CD.’

‘Do we have any?’ he said.

‘No. We would have to order a movie that comes in through our TV.’

‘Do you know how to do that?’

‘I’ve never done it,’ she said. ‘All I know how to do is watch 60 Minutes and PBS.’

‘Puny knows technology. Get her to show you,’ he said.

‘Get her to show you, and I’ll make dinner.’

He was supposed to know this stuff, but he had never, not once, known this stuff. He was pretty good at softball and handy with a hammer and paintbrush, which should be enough for anybody.

‘What do other people do in the evenings?’

‘Shirlene Hatfield plays Scrabble online. J. C. Hogan once confessed he cleans Adele’s Glock .45. Let’s see—Mule and Fancy watch reality TV.’

‘How do you know these things?’

‘People talk,’ he said. ‘Then there’s Esther Bolick. She sleeps in her recliner for a couple of hours after dinner, then goes to bed and watches Johnny Carson reruns.’