‘I’m furious,’ he said, wiping his eyes.

•   •   •

HE STUCK THE VINEGAR in the yellow backpack. Nine-thirty. He had to get out of here. But while he was thinking of it, he went to the basement and checked the windows. They were small, but not too small. And one was unlatched.

•   •   •

LIGHTS, MUSIC, COFFEE.

The high-ceilinged room was originally a drugstore built and operated by the object of Miss Sadie’s unrequited love, Willard Porter. For some reason, the space had a calming effect on him. Add the smell of old wood, the companionable creak of heart pine floorboards, the light through the display windows . . .

He flipped the sign around: OPEN.

He would run tomorrow and again on Monday and Wednesday. As for the Thursday/Friday bookstore schedule, he would see how things progressed.

Chapter Eleven

While his first letter had sprouted on a dry stalk, now came the bush, ablaze with truth and ardor.

If he’d gone back to Lord’s Chapel, Cynthia would have let him off the letter-writing hook. As things stood, two days at the bookstore bought no acquittal. As it happened, the idea for the second letter had struck him quite forcibly; it was the lightbulb above the head of the cartoon character.

Zealous to capture every drop from this underground aquifer, he had written like the wind and now lacked only the ending.

How convenient it would be to trust the inspiration of Duff Cooper, a crackerjack writer of the love letter, but Cooper had stolen unashamedly from Jefferson. All’s fair in love, he knew that much, he could not speak for war.

He laid the pen aside and took a break, considering the many sermons he’d composed at this very hour during years of Saturdays. There had been more than a few, of course, that refused to compose—he’d gone into the pulpit on a wing and a prayer, as surprised as the congregation with what the Holy Spirit gave forth.

He was cooking tonight, and needed a few items from town, but first he would finish the letter—and seal it, so he couldn’t meddle with it later.

He picked up the pen. It wasn’t exactly Beethoven’s address to his Immortal Beloved, but with just the right touch at the end, this would be his finest hour. He couldn’t possibly top this.

•   •   •

FIRST HE SMELLED IT, then he saw it.

Next to the fireplace, the Old Gentleman had thrown up a fairly unrecognizable portion of . . . maybe a chipmunk.

Whatever he said caused his dog to crawl beneath the coffee table.

The miserable deed had been done, of course, when he walked Barnabas to a tried-and-true spot beyond the tulip bed. While his dog nosed around at the end of the leash, the parson had been oblivious—his mind on the afternoon light, on the chiaroscuro of the mountains, on Henry Talbot . . .

•   •   •

SAMMY WAS AVOIDING HIM, of course. But avoiding Sammy would lead nowhere.

Before he ran out to the Local, he popped through the hedge, crunched across the gravel, and knocked on the rectory’s basement door.

‘Hey, Father Tim! Come in, an’ ’scuse th’ mess.’

Kenny was tall and muscular, a bigger fellow than Dooley and Sammy, with a wide smile and the blue-green Barlowe eyes. Hearty, this one, without Sammy’s angst or Dooley’s steel resolve.

He embraced the boy. ‘How’s my timing?’

‘Good! It’s just me an’ Miss Pringle’s cat. Harley an’ Sam’s gone to Wesley for pizza.’

Kenny muted the sports channel. The place felt good, like home.

‘You can sit right there,’ said Kenny. ‘It’s th’ only chair in th’ house not upholstered with cat hair.’

Barbizon gave him a cool eye. Maybe a few too many pizza crusts for Miss Pringle’s cat, who was one hefty feline.

‘Thought I might catch Sammy,’ he said.

Kenny sat on the sofa, a relic from the glory days of the rectory. ‘He stole your cue, Harley said.’

‘But he put it back. I wanted Harley to know.’

‘Sammy had it th’ worst of any of us. Some people think our mother swappin’ me for a gallon of whisky was a tragic thing. Well, it was, but God worked it out to be a good thing.’ Barbizon climbed into Kenny’s lap.

‘Ed Sikes did me a favor droppin’ me off on his grandparents. Mom and Pop saved my life. Sammy didn’t have anybody to save his life. Our old man’s a goon, it’s a wonder Sammy made it out of there as good as he did.’

‘I agree.’

‘You can’t knock Dooley down, he’s th’ iron man, but you can knock Sammy down with a feather. It killed him when he busted that stick you gave him. He never said it, but he grieved that stick. He feels a lot of shame over what he did.’

‘Your brother and I need to talk. When do you think would be a good time?’

‘In the evenings, right after supper. Harley gets him up pretty early an’ they’re out of here by seven-thirty. Sam goes nuts in th’ morning, he don’t like to get up. I have to work on ’im, too, before I leave for th’ restaurant in Wesley. He’s stubborn. Man, is he stubborn.

‘An’ their work’s dryin’ up; Harley’s tryin’ to get him an’ Sammy a few handyman jobs for winter—like shovelin’ snow.’ Kenny grinned. ‘We’re prayin’ for snow around here.’

‘Never too early to pray for snow.’

‘Course, Sammy’s not prayin’ for anything. He don’t know th’ truth. I wouldn’t know it, either, if it wasn’t for my grandparents. I told you I think of them as my grandparents.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll go back to Oregon,’ said Kenny. ‘I’ll go back. Mom and Pop are old, they need me.’

In October, there would be Dinner One at a table across the driveway, with Dooley and Pooh and Jessie and their mother, Pauline—with Buck, of course. A painful piece of business, but he should mention it, at least. ‘You know Dooley’s coming home soon. There’ll be a couple of get-togethers at our place. All are welcome.’

‘Our mother’s comin’?’

‘To the first one, yes.’

‘Nossir, I’m not ready for that an’ Sammy’s definitely not ready for that. I know what Jesus says about forgiveness, but . . . no way. You did us a favor when you took Dooley in. What you did for Dooley has touched us all, an’ will keep on touchin’ us. You’ve done a lot for Sammy, too. I thank you.’

He had no words, only the certainty that he hadn’t done enough.

‘So you and Sammy and Harley are invited for the second night, okay?’

‘Yessir. Thanks.’

I believe we’ll see the day, he wanted to say, when we’ll all move back and forth through the hedge . . . like family. But he said nothing.

On the screen, figures racing toward the goal line.

‘You like the restaurant business?’

‘I try to give it my best an’ I’m savin’ everything I can. I guess if somebody asked me what I’d like to do, I’d have to say build bridges. That’s it for sure. But mostly, I just want to go to school. I want to learn, I want to know.’ Kenny’s voice was thick with feeling. ‘I want to fly.’

•   •   •

AVIS HAD BEEN PLEASED with the parson’s dinner menu.

Pan-seared scallops with roast potatoes and carrots. Endive in a light dressing of avocado oil and lemon juice with sea salt. A crusty bread from Sweet Stuff, and the Local’s most highly recommended chardonnay, listing to the oaky side. As always, Avis expected as full a report as the customer was willing to render.

But the letter. When he went to fetch it, he couldn’t find it. He sat at the desk and tried to remember any unusual movement he’d made or action he’d deployed.

It had simply vanished.

Where was his mind? What had happened? He remembered sealing the envelope, and yes, he’d been distracted by the chipmunk business—what a cleanup!—but how distracted could he have been? He searched all drawers and pawed through the wastebasket, experiencing a feeling akin to slipping off an ocean shelf into the fullness of the sea.

The letter had been his magnum opus. And while certain parts of it had come easily, other parts had been dredged from the deep, requiring the might of prayer and patience. He had been Michelangelo at the marble of David, if he did say so himself.