As for her letter, he read it by the flame of three candles burning on the kitchen island. He was scarcely able to see his dinner, much less her small, eccentric scribbling. But she loved him, he knew that; he had known it all along and would always know it, and wasn’t that the point?

‘Can we quit?’ he said later, drying the skillet she had washed. ‘Writing letters, I mean.’

‘Sure. Okay.’

‘That was easy.’

She laughed. ‘I just wanted to see if we were paying attention.’

He put the skillet in the drawer. ‘And are we?’

‘We are. I loved learning that you’ll always think of me as the girl next door.’

‘In this letter, I was able to say other ways I think of you.’

She looked at him, happy. ‘But don’t tell me the ways,’ she said, scrubbing the roast pan. ‘I’ll wait for the letter.’

‘If we find it,’ he said. ‘A fresh pair of eyes. Sometimes that works.’

She dried her hands and made a beeline for the study.

‘I love this,’ she said, tearing into his bookshelves.

‘I wouldn’t have put it there.’

‘But if we look only where you would have put it, which you’ve already done, how will we ever find it?’

‘Go for it,’ he said.

•   •   •

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, he walked with Barnabas along the drowsing street, headed for the monument.

This time next Sunday, things would be different in Mitford. Henry Talbot would have spoken his piece, and perhaps, one hoped, made his peace. One chapter would end, another would begin—Father Brad would bring something of the young Colorado mountains to these ancient hills and life would flow on. He was dreading next Sunday, though he had no real responsibility. All he had to do was show up.

He buttoned his old flannel jacket. A few days ago it had felt like winter, then a bit like spring. Today, a genuine autumn was in the air and he savored it. The leaves would be turning soon, the maples doing their chorus line of scarlet and gold along Lilac Road . . .

He wanted to see Sammy this evening, but Harley had called to say the boy was down with a case of flu. ‘You don’t reckon ol’ Barbizon could carry th’ germs upstairs to Miss Pringle, do ye?’

‘No, no, I don’t reckon so at all,’ he said, putting a shine on things.

As he crossed Lilac at Town Hall, the air was stirred by a sweet drone. He braked his dog and looked up to a cloudless blue sky and felt a smile have its way with his face.

Omer Cunningham was out and about in his yellow ragwing.

Chapter Twelve

Make me a blessing . . .

He jiggled the key in the lock. Nothing.

More jiggling. More nothing.

‘I hear you don’t cuss,’ said Abe, obviously enjoying himself.

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘When I messed with that lock last summer, I personally could not help it. The air turned blue all the way to the bypass.’

Jiggle to the left, jiggle to the right, as per instructions.

‘Easy does it. You’re trying too hard. You have to be gentle with it.’

He felt blood thrumming between his ears.

‘Hey,’ said Coot, coming up at a trot.

‘Hey, yourself,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair.’

Coot thumped onto the Happy Endings bench, glad to find a little action on the street.

‘Good morning, Father!’ J.C.’s wife, Adele, was in full MPD gear and looking taller, somehow. ‘I see you’re keepin’ your hand in where criminal activity’s concerned.’

Abe and Coot had a laugh.

‘Ha, ha,’ he said, dry as a husk. Barnabas stuffed himself beneath the bench.

‘Want some help?’ asked Adele. ‘I’ve worked with that lock a couple of times.’

‘It takes a village,’ he said, jiggling.

‘Is that the right key?’

Of course it’s the right key. Why couldn’t a man have a little bloody privacy trying to enter his bloody workplace? Thank heaven for the Irish, who saved the day when it came to cussing.

‘How does Hope put up with this?’ he said to no one in particular.

‘It works fine for her. Most of the time, anyway.’ Abe crossed his arms, lounged against the display window. ‘Lieutenant Hogan here could use her piece on it. One shot and you’re open for business.’

Adele tapped the silver badge on her jacket. ‘Make that Captain Hogan, if you don’t mind.’

He wiped his sweaty palms on his khakis, shook her hand. ‘Congratulations, Captain. Well deserved.’

‘I’ve got to open up here pretty soon,’ said Abe. ‘So can th’ captain shoot th’ lock or not?’

More laughter. More additions to the crowd of onlookers. Coot passed around an open bag of Cheetos.

‘Why, hey, Father! Marie Sanders, remember me? I gave that armoire to th’ Bane and Blessin’ a few years back.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember your armoire.’ He had helped move it off the Sanderses’ truck. It weighed a ton. He had intensely disliked armoires, including his own, ever since.

‘It made a dandy entertainment center for the Bolicks,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am, I remember.’

‘We didn’t have a place for it anymore.’

It seemed the key wanted to veer right, into an inner sanctum unknown, perhaps, even to the lock-maker of yore.

‘Sometimes I miss it, it was very roomy. We kept th’ cat litter in there an’ th’ dog food, then th’ mice started comin’ in through a hole in the back.’

One more time and he was done, the whole town could have a go. He removed the key, waited a moment, and inserted it again, as if rebooting a computer.

‘It wasn’t a real big hole or anything,’ said Marie Sanders. ‘We patched it before we put it in th’ sale.’

‘Hold it right there! Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, Father, okay? Great! Super! Yay-y-y! What’s goin’ on?’

Vanita Bentley had arrived with her iPhone.

Click. The key found the sweet spot. A little short on breath, he escaped with his dog into the silent realm of ink and paper, and closed the door behind him.

Books! Man’s best friend.

Next to the dog, of course.

•   •   •

SANDWICH. APPLE. RAISINS. ALMONDS. Bottled water. Toilet tissue. Kibble. Winnie’s peanut-butter dog biscuits. Journal. Fountain pen. Pushpins. Flyer for the front door.

He stashed the empty backpack under the sales counter and moved on to the fun part.

Lights. Beethoven. Coffee.

Since retiring, he hadn’t been able to find the groove worn by all those years of priesting. Getting up at five had remained routine, as had Morning Prayer, but from there, routine staggered off the cliff around seven-thirty a.m. and perished on the rocks below. He had missed being in a groove, a fact he discovered by realizing he’d found one at Happy Endings.

Two days of routine and five of the wildly random. Most people would give anything for a plan like that.

He read Marcie’s note.

Fr Tim, Here’s our O for Oct. sale!!!! feels like we just had it yesterday—I could not do window on Wed. with O banner which we keep under stairway. Pls put banner on display window floor with stack of books on chair with O titles. U r an angel. Call if u need me. Use stuffed cat that looks like M Ann, also under stair.

PS Big box books arriving today U unpack I shelve OK?

He pinned his quote to the corkboard.

Tolle, lege: take up and read. —Augustine of Hippo

He carried the flyer to the front door and taped it to the glass. If Esther Cunningham came after him for this, he would go to the mat for the right to use the front door as a declamatory venue. He would bend but he would not break.

Open Wednesday,

Thursday & Friday

10 until 4:45

Come in &

Add A Literary Quote

To Our Billboard

He made the sign of the cross and turned the CLOSED sign around.

OPEN.

Yes.

•   •   •

‘MY DELIVERY TRUCK’S RUNNIN’ LATE,’ said J.C. ‘Here you go, hand-delivered.’ J.C. spread today’s edition of the Muse on the sales counter, tapped a story on the front page. ‘You can read that out loud in your preaching voice.’