‘You’re lookin’ like a wild man.’

‘Me? A wild man?’

‘Your hair is really long; you’re headed into a ponytail. You should let me cut it.’

He laughed and Dooley laughed with him. Dooley had cut his hair once. Not a good idea.

Wanda Basinger was on the move with her coffeepot. ‘I hear your boy’s in town,’ she said. ‘This him?’

‘Mrs. Basinger, Dooley Kavanagh.’

Dooley stood. ‘Pleased to meet you. Congratulations on your new place. Serious fries.’

‘Well, thanks,’ said Wanda. ‘Nice manners you’ve got there.’

‘Prep school.’ Dooley grinned. ‘They made me do it.’

•   •   •

LAST YEAR, he met the improbably named Bud Wyzer at the ball hall in Wesley, and watched Sammy shoot a few games with a trio of hustlers from the college. Sammy had whipped them badly, which had not gone down well with the college president’s son.

Bud was a good man, he would be helpful.

While Dooley was catching the deep sleep of the clinically exhausted and university-educated, he sat at the kitchen counter and consulted the phone book.

‘Bud, Tim Kavanagh. Hope to see you soon. Would you keep an eye out for our boy, Sammy Barlowe? You were kind to do that once before. If you see anything going on that shouldn’t be going on, I’d like to know about it. Grateful for your help, Bud, here’s my number.’

Little drops of water, little grains . . .

He rang Harley and made his proposal. Good. Okay. Done.

He made another quick call, put on his best jacket, and went to the kitchen. His wife was making egg salad, a Dooley favorite which wouldn’t be turned down next door, either.

‘I’m going to apply for a job,’ he announced.

‘About time,’ she said, giving him a smooch like he hadn’t enjoyed in some time.

‘Hooray!’ said Puny. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, that was Puny Guthrie on emergency call to catch up Dooley’s laundry.

‘Applying is one thing,’ he said, snapping on his clergy collar. ‘Getting the job is another.’

•   •   •

THEY SAT ON A MEMORIAL BENCH in the rear churchyard.

‘Something must be done about the hedge out front.’

‘Th’ hedge. Right.’

‘Pruning, feeding—and a new dressing of mulch wouldn’t hurt.’

Bill Swanson blinked.

‘The roses also need to be pruned back, hard. And right away. I recommend a light feeding of bone meal, fish meal, sulfur, magnesium sulfate, Epsom salts. But first, the beds will want refurbishing.’

‘Refurbishing,’ said the senior warden, blank as printer paper.

‘New soil, new mulch. New all around. And of course the old Sunday school has to be dealt with—get the vines off, dig out the roots, replace the gutters—or the building will come down in a heap one of these days.’

‘Right, right,’ said Bill, not knowing what else to say.

‘You may even want to go forward with liming and fertilizing the lawn.’

‘A lot of mowing comes with that. Who has time?’

‘So, if a parishioner volunteers to get the work done—fine! Great! If not, we’d like to have the job starting next week. When Father Brad comes, he may, of course, want to go another way—also fine.’

Bill looked at him, overwhelmed.

‘Free,’ he said. ‘We’ll do it for free, myself and a couple of helpers.’

‘Free? Since when have I turned down free?’ Swanson’s relieved smile, followed by a dark look. ‘Is that free labor and free materials or just free labor?’

‘Both,’ he said.

‘Wow,’ said Bill.

•   •   •

AS HE WAS WALKING HOME from Lord’s Chapel, a gust of wind plastered a vagrant piece of paper against his pant leg.

Attention Merchants Of Mitford’s Main Street:

Wash your windows—make ’em shine, people!!

Set an example—use the litter bins on Main!!

Sweep your sidewalks daily!!

And remember—no postings on display windows! It’s a town regulation!

Be living proof that—

Mitford Takes Care of Its Own!!!

Office of the Mayor

He stopped at the next trash bin, tossed in the broadside. No, no, he would never move to Linville. The laughs were better in Mitford.

•   •   •

AFTER DOOLEY’S NAP and the job interview and the communal Great Folding of Laundry, they dug out Dooley’s laptop.

‘Look up the top ten best-gas-mileage sedans,’ he said.

Toyota Prius. Volkswagen Jetta. Ford Fusion Hybrid. Toyota Camry Hybrid. Volkswagen Passat . . . too many websites, way too much information.

‘I surrender,’ he said. He had more fun walking, all those years ago. ‘Is the Minivan still your best shot?’

‘Mini Cooper. Yeah. Yes. Hatchback.’

‘What do we have to do?’ He was exhausted just thinking about buying a car.

‘We can run down the mountain tomorrow after church, the dealership opens at one o’clock, and I’ll leave from there for Athens.’

In his mind’s eye, there was the Mustang, backed in and headed out to pasture. For something like four thousand dollars, he could have it fixed and enjoy the manifold comforts of the old shoe.

‘It would still be an old car,’ said Dooley, reading his mind. ‘Four thousand today, a couple thousand tomorrow. YOLO, Dad.’

‘YOLO?’

‘You only live once.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

‘I already called. They have exactly what you need, you can drive it home. You’ll love it, Cynthia will love, it, Barnabas will love it. And it can kick a little asphalt if you’re in the mood.’

‘What color?’ he said.

‘Blue. Your favorite.’

High five. Dooley’s laughter.

‘Stick with me, Dad.’

‘I’m stickin’,’ he said.

•   •   •

SHE SAT IN HER CHAIR in the bedroom, eyes closed, barefoot. He pulled up the footstool, took one of her feet in his lap, massaged the instep. ‘It seems it’s always about me around here. What about you? What’s going on? How’s the book coming?’

‘My eyes . . .’ she said, giving them a rub.

‘Cornflower blue! The color of a volcanic lake!’

‘All those years of painting tiny feet and minuscule claws and infinitesimal whiskers.’

‘Voles,’ he said. ‘And cats, of course.’

‘Voles and cats and moles and mice and owls and baby birds—so many feathers with birds. The strain . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘Poor Miss Potter, her eyes were her undoing. That’s one reason I liked painting portraits in Ireland. People’s heads seemed so . . . huge; the strokes could be so bold. It took more than a single marten hair to get the job done.’

‘New glasses, maybe. I’ll drive you to the eye doc.’ He hated his need for her to be ever strong, fearless, and wise.

‘I think I’m beyond new glasses.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Surgery.’

The word frightened him, always had. ‘It could be the light in your workroom, there’s so little of it. The new room we talked about in Ireland—that would be the very thing. All those windows facing north! It would help, I promise.’ He felt a deep urgency to fix this for her.

‘Besides, your workroom shelves are groaning under the weight of your art—and no place to store anything else. Stacked around the walls, overflowing the hall closets . . .’

She smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’ll put some things in the auction.’

‘You need the new room, Kav’na. Let me do it.’

‘It would be a pain, all that banging and hammering.’

‘But the final result would give you pleasure.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It would. Let me finish this book and we’ll talk about it.’

‘When will you finish?’

‘May, I think. Or maybe June, July.’

He needed to remember that he went through something like this with every new book, worrying about her eyes, her right arm, her neck, her shoulders, her lower back. Who said art isn’t manual labor, right up there with digging ditches?

‘How about a long weekend in Whitecap?’

‘Not now, sweetheart. Let me finish the book.’ She plopped the other foot in his lap. ‘And maybe one day . . .’