‘I understand.’
Esther gave him a dark look. ‘High and mighty, stuck on himself, and God only knows what he brought home to his wife. Which is all I have to say about it.’
• • •
HE STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK with the cake box, looking up. There was Omer, flying like a Jack Russell. He and the twins threw up their hands as the yellow ragwing rattled south over Main.
• • •
‘THE BODY OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST, which was given for you, Hope, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you, and feed on him in your heart by faith, with thanksgiving.’
The throbbing purr of Margaret Ann at her side; the wafer on her tongue and the slow, sweet dissolve . . .
‘The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for you, Hope, preserve your body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for you, and be thankful.’
She allowed the wine to touch her lips but did not drink. ‘Amen,’ she said. And there was the warmth, so long gone from her, and some sense, at last, of her own living presence.
He packed up the communion box, and brought the cake to her and lifted the cover.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine making something so beautiful.’
‘Esther Bolick cares about you, she’s praying for you. So many are holding you fast in prayer.’
‘It’s embarrassing, all those signs saying “Pray for Hope,” and the stir in the newspaper . . .’
‘Why is it embarrassing?’
‘It seems to ask so much of people. Why should they pray for me when they have tribulations of their own?’
‘All the more reason to pray for you—it’s a healing exercise for us as well as for you. Further, you gave us a bookstore, which should be reason enough. Here’s an idea. Why don’t we pray for those who’re praying for you? Sort of a back-atcha that has its own loveliness in God’s eyes.’
He placed the cake on the chest of drawers and sat by the bed and took her hand. ‘What do you think?’
‘I would never . . . yes, let’s do it, yes.’
‘Thank you, Father, for every soul who lifts a petition for Hope, for Scott, and for this special child you’re giving into our lives. Bless those whom you call to pray for Hope, that they would be comforted in their own hard circumstances and shielded in their joy. Thank you for the supernatural connections that prayer creates among us, for the ties it so strongly binds. In the name of Jesus who is all hope, Amen.’
She felt composed enough now to speak it, to force the words out to someone who should know it was life or death.
‘Scott and I have done extensive research, as you might know we would. The doctors could lose us both. Not in days or in hours, but in minutes.’
‘That may be true, but I choose to believe otherwise.’
She smiled a little; he saw the light in her eyes. ‘You adimpleate my spirit,’ she said.
‘That’s the first arcane word you’ve given me in many moons.’
‘I haven’t been lolling about eating bonbons,’ she said. ‘I searched for that one.’
‘I have no idea what it means.’
‘Good! It will send you to the dictionary. Or the Internet, whichever comes first.’
‘Interested in a sales report?’
‘Always,’ she said, struggling to be cheerful.
‘I’m learning the hard realities of retail. Not every day can be a five-hundred-dollar day. A hundred and seventy-two plus change.’
‘Perfect. Thank you, Father. I miss my customers.’
‘They miss you.’
‘Will you thank them for all they’re doing?’
‘I will.’
‘I was happy to see Coot get a mention in the Muse. Coot loves books, did you know that? I’ve been meaning to say you can hire him to vacuum, I’m sure we need it, and dust, and anything else you and Marcie can think of.’
‘Consider it done. And you must call me anytime. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I have just four words to leave with you. Four words that have spoken volumes of truth into my life.’
He wanted the words to stay in the room, to remain long after he had gone. Though no one wished to hear Paul’s radical injunction, it had to be told.
‘In everything, give thanks.’
That was the lifeboat in any crisis. Over and over again, he had learned this, and over and over again, he had to be reminded.
‘In everything, Father?’
‘In everything.’
• • •
THE NIGHT WAS ALIVE with the scent of rain. He sniffed it like an animal as he carried the trash to the garage around ten o’clock.
He dumped it in the bin, making sure the lid was tightly closed against incursions from the wild. There were several loose boards through which raccoons made frequent calls, especially on evenings when Cynthia scented the air with roast chicken.
What was different out here?
The Mustang was missing.
• • •
HE RANG HARLEY.
‘Is Sammy home?’
‘Let me step in there an’ see if he’s back.’ Static, rustling. ‘Nossir, he ain’t. He went out a while ago, said he was goin’ down th’ street to Lew’s.’
It could have been anybody, the garage door had been left open for days because the remote needed a battery and he hadn’t gotten around to it. But he knew the truth and it made him sick. Literally.
‘Does he have a license?’
‘Yessir, he has.’
‘The Mustang isn’t in the garage. I’ll keep you posted.’
He walked out to the garage again and stared at the empty space beside the Mazda, as if his car might reappear, as if he’d only imagined it missing.
Should they go looking? Kenny was working tonight; he could drive around with Harley. But why? If the car was anything like the cue, the Mustang would be back in place at some point, and what would he, Tim, do then? His stomach did the churning thing it had done when, as a boy, he was faced with crisis.
Sammy had kicked it up a notch. It was the way of rage and woundedness to keep making things worse. The third-born of the Barlowe boys was clearly begging for punishment, and the whole scenario was skidding off the cliff.
He wanted to call Dooley, but wouldn’t, of course. His wife, so fond of the early bedtime, sat up with him. Kenny and Harley arrived at the side door at eleven-fifteen, in a downpour.
Alerting police about a teenager in a stolen car didn’t seem a good idea, but they were changing their minds when the doorbell buzzed at half-past eleven.
They bolted along the hall as a group.
Joe Joe.
‘He’s all right.’
‘Thanks be to God.’
‘But your Mustang’s totaled.’
Rain drummed on the porch roof.
‘Where and how?’
‘He ran it down a bank on the bypass, comin’ around th’ curve there at th’ lawn-mower repair. I’m a man short tonight and had to be on call, I happened to come around th’ curve right behind him.’
‘Where’s he at?’ said Harley.
‘In my car yonder with Officer Greene. A little banged up, a cut on his forehead. I offered to get medical assistance but he didn’t want any. He looks okay, but I have to tell you it’s a miracle. Did you let him take th’ car, Father?’
‘It was in bad shape. Transmission. Clutch. You name it. That could have been the cause . . .’
It was a blowing rain, slanting onto the porch.
‘Will you step in?’
‘No, sir, I’ll track up your floor, I’ve got to keep movin’. Did you know he was takin’ your car?’
‘He was not authorized to take it. No.’
‘Things could have been worse. We’ve lost two down that bank a little farther up. He said he didn’t care one way or th’ other if he killed himself.’
‘Lord A’mighty,’ Harley said, stricken.
‘Seat belt?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was he speeding, what was he doing?’
‘Went around th’ curve left of center, looked like he lost control, maybe hit a slick spot. No alcohol or drugs found in th’ car. He’s clean as far as I can tell. Do you want to press charges?’
‘I don’t want to press charges. No.’