If she stared herself blind, she could not see Muhammad Ali, but maybe Teddy Roosevelt if she strained herself. And clouds—Ray loved to study clouds. He could see such as Ben Hur driving the chariot behind a gazillion horses, and pigs, and angels, and somebody on a unicycle, and a woman looking at herself in a mirror.

Speaking of which, she pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. She had requested a style like the Queen always wore—a curl on either side of her forehead, with no part. Twice she had said, No part. But plain as day, in a straight shot down the middle, there was a part.

She made a left at Lilac and was putting on the turn signal for Church Hill when she spotted Father Tim walking up Lilac, quick as a field hare. What was he doing out this time of day at his age, and in this raw cold, plus walking uphill so fast? She didn’t believe in walking uphill if it could be avoided.

She remembered how he once swore off driving a car. He had hoofed it for seven or eight years, just gave up driving altogether, for Lent or Advent or some such. Baptists weren’t required to keep up with the church calendar, which was dandy with her. Easter was Easter and Christmas was Christmas, why confuse people with all those other holidays deeply unknown to the ordinary person, like sitting around in a dark sanctuary with no flowers on the altar, not even any candles burning, the way the crowd at Lord’s Chapel did at Advent, or was it Lent?

At least she’d gotten her hair done before the meeting with Andrew Gregory tomorrow. If the matter of age came up, she had a bulletproof vest, namely a list from the Internet that said, in part, ‘At one hundred, Grandma Moses was still painting. At eighty-five, Coco Chanel headed up a design firm in Paris, France. At eighty-nine, Albert Schweitzer was running a hospital in Africa.’ She was going into that meeting like Sherman took Atlanta, while Ray sat in the car and prayed.

•   •   •

AS HE CRESTED THE HILL, there were the blue-dark mountains and the hanging orb above. Jupiter was out, or maybe Saturn, he wasn’t so good with planets.

He was infernally pestered by the image of the empty slot in the rack. How had Sammy come in? They locked their doors now, it was a fact of life since three robberies in a neighborhood behind the hospital.

Sammy needed a lot of help, probably beyond anything he and Cynthia could give. Not least, he needed hard and satisfying work that wore deeply on the muscles and released the sleep-inducing cytokines currently making news. Hard work and hard rest may not solve everything, but maybe they could help. Harley’s lawn jobs around town were already drying up, leaving Sammy way too much time and energy.

He would immediately put Sammy on the Lord’s Chapel rose garden, which he heard was sorely neglected—out of sight, out of mind was the problem, it was too hidden. Maybe the nearly three dozen bushes should be moved to the lawn facing Main Street where more people could enjoy them. Right there was a task for a small army, with maybe a little something for Coot Hendrick to get at with rake and hoe.

He sat on the stone wall, barely cognizant of the panorama of the evening sky.

The hedge would be another project—the cleanup, pruning, and mulching would take a minimum of two days for Sammy, probably three—and the birdbaths would need scrubbing out. Sammy would take pride in all that. If they could make it happen before late October when Dooley came home . . .

As for the old Sunday school, circa 1916 or thereabouts, it was crammed to the rafters with decrepit pews, battered hymnals, moth-eaten banners—the detritus that comes from being an ecclesial storage unit. The youth group—that was the ticket—they could spend a few days cleaning it out and top things off with a yard sale. Of course, he’d heard the youth group was dwindling, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Then there was the issue of someone to assist him in the church office. Who, he had no clue; five-plus years is a long time to be off any turf, but Bill Swanson would know. Emma would be after him like a beagle after a fox, but he couldn’t do that again. Absolutely not. Someone young, upbeat, cheerful . . .

He felt the cold of the stone seeping into his very marrow—his body had been present on the wall for twenty minutes according to the illuminated face of his watch, but his mind had been down there—ripping out briars, fertilizing roses, working with the youth group as he’d done so happily in years past. And yet, when he tried to see himself in the pulpit at Lord’s Chapel, he could not.

The many petitions of his heart and Cynthia’s would serve, but in the end, one supplication alone was equipped with all that pleases God.

He prayed the prayer that never fails, then made his way home at a trot, eager to see the light in their window and feel the consolation of a fire.

•   •   •

‘I NEED TO TALK, SON. Is this a good time?’

‘Sure. What’s up?’

He walked around the room in robe and pajamas, the cell phone pressed to his ear. ‘This is confidential.’

‘Got it.’

‘I’ve been asked to come back to Lord’s Chapel. For an indefinite period. Until they find a new priest.’

‘Are you thinking about it?’

‘Constantly. I just don’t know what to think.’

‘I hear something in your voice. What’s th’ deal?’

‘Strictly for your ears and none other. Father Talbot is leaving the priesthood and divorcing his wife. There’ll be a good bit of outrage and instability in his wake.’ Dooley knew about rage and instability.

He was pleased that Dooley took his time with this.

‘That would be a really hard thing to take on,’ said Dooley. ‘Why would you want to do it?’

‘I need to make a decision, fast. Will you pray?’

‘I will. For sure.’

When he hung up, he realized he hadn’t answered Dooley’s question—a question he hadn’t honestly asked himself.

He slipped the cell phone into his robe pocket. Why would he want to do it?

The thought that followed literally took his breath away.

He didn’t want to do it.

Not at all.

Chapter Ten

That is a good book which is opened with expectation and closed with profit.—Amos Bronson Alcott

A good book has no ending.—RD Cumming

He read the quotes that had gone up, and with some satisfaction taped his own contribution to the glass:

wear the old coat and buy the new book {Austin Phelps

There. A community billboard of sorts.

‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘make me a blessing to someone today.’ That had been his mantra in years past when unlocking the door to the church office. He jiggled the key the way Hope had instructed. Not working. ‘It’s a very old lock,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve grown to like it.’ Hope was a romantic, bless her heart.

More jiggling.

‘Father, up to your old tricks?’ The owner of Village Shoes was unlocking his shop next door.

‘Abe! Which old tricks would that be?’

‘Breaking and entering!’

‘Ha. Right. I’m working here today, giving Hope a hand. Drop over for a cup of coffee if you get a chance.’

‘Will do. We’ll be proud to have you on the street. That lock is a coronary.’

The key found the sweet spot, the lock gave forth a soft click, the door opened.

Books! He could smell them. After being cooped up all night, they were crazy to give out their pulpy aromas.

As his dog sniffed about for the cat, he hurried to the finicky thermostat and cranked the heat up according to instructions.

Out of Dooley’s old yellow backpack he unloaded water bowl, food bowl, kibbles, coffee beans, a wrapped sandwich, an apple, an orange, a roll of toilet paper which Hope confessed was currently in short supply at Happy Endings, and a coffee mug printed with, I don’t have a short attention span, I just . . . oh, look! A squirrel!