•   •   •

‘OUR SEXTON WAS COMING HOME from Wesley late last night.’ Bill Swanson was calling on the bookstore line. ‘Said he saw a wrecker towin’ your Mustang. Are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Just fine.’

‘Must have been somebody else’s, this one was totaled,’ he said. ‘Speaking of totaled, Bob Duncan’s boy, you know Bob, just had a bad accident on his bike, they took him to Children’s, but they’re out of beds and sent him to the hospital over here. The parish is going to get behind the new wing with you; I know you’ve been a big part of Children’s for a number of years.’

‘Not so big, Bill, but thanks. Thanks for anything you can do. This will be good medicine for the parish.’

‘Called to say you’re making a world of difference in the gardens. Can’t thank you enough.’

‘We’re just getting started.’

‘We could have the Youth Group give you a hand, but they’re pretty scattered.’

‘It’s my contribution to the plate.’ He wanted to work one-on-one with Sammy for a time, then maybe they would rouse a group.

‘Just so you know, Father—the parish is grateful.’

People on benches, talking, resting, looking up at the lacework of branches . . .

He tried to resurrect his earlier pleasure in that prospect, but could not.

•   •   •

‘I HAVE A WHOLE HOUR TODAY. I’m actually goin’ to read a poem.’

‘Congratulations!’

‘It’s sort of a payback,’ said Winnie, ‘for usin’ that space all these years.’

He was wiping off the sales counter, dumping extra change into the cash box, going through the motions.

‘Somethin’ I’ve never understood,’ she said, ‘is why bookstores let you read their books and magazines and put ’em back on the shelf like nothin’ ever happened. What if I let people sample my stuff? Like take a big chomp out of a jelly donut an’ put it back an’ keep movin’?’

‘You have a point,’ he said, smiling at Winnie—he could never resist smiling at Winnie. ‘You’re in early.’

‘They went through four trays of Danish this mornin’ an’ I don’t know how many cinnamon buns and turnovers, not to mention crème horns. Now they’re all out there clutterin’ up th’ parkway—it’s th’ leaves, you know. Leaves are really, really good for business.’

A kind of haze hovered about his spirit, like particulate matter over a valley.

‘I have a great idea,’ said Winnie, ‘but don’t tell Thomas. Our anniversary is comin’ up soon. Not our weddin’ anniversary—this is th’ anniversary of when we met on th’ cruise.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Winnie had taken off on a cruise with Velma Mosely and returned to Mitford with Thomas, a crackerjack baker now her husband.

‘Remember that great tan I came back with?’

‘Maybe. Sort of.’

‘An’ Thomas, he was totally bronze when I met him. So, I’m gettin’ us a spray tan package in honor of that wonderful time of our lives. It’s a two-for-one, this week only.’

It was viral, no stopping it. ‘And how many years?’

‘Five great years. Or eight thousand two hundred and fifty lemon squares. Give or take.’

‘Tempus fugit! Does Thomas ever get a break? I don’t see him hanging out up here.’

‘I cover for him every single Tuesday,’ she said. ‘Golf! He’s a golf maniac!’ And off she hasted to the poets.

He’d lain awake until two this morning and hadn’t run since Saturday, he was a wreck. There was the momentary image of turning the sign around, going home, sleeping. He stared out the window, checking the street, as the limousine glided into the parking space in front of the store.

He instinctively made the sign of the cross.

‘Father Kavanagh?’ The driver stepped inside, removed his cap.

‘Tim Kavanagh. Yes. Good morning.’

‘Wade Truitt.’ The driver walked to the sales counter, extended his hand.

‘A pleasure, Mr. Truitt.’

‘There’s someone in the car who would like to speak with you, sir.’

‘Who might that be, may I ask?’

‘Would you have time to step outside?’

There was the sense of being poised to dive without knowing if there was water in the pool. He had history with a black car with tinted windows, the kind of history that had soured him on the notion of fancy automobiles in general.

‘Winnie,’ he called. ‘I’m stepping out a minute.’

‘Take your time,’ she said, ‘you’re covered.’

It was as if he hadn’t quite seen the street before, or had seen it a very long time ago. Everything was clarified, as after a washing rain.

The driver opened the car door and he stooped and looked inside.

Irene McGraw.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Come in. And thank you.’

He climbed in, feeling foolish, as if this might be a joke and he the butt of it. He sat at the extreme end of the leather seat; the driver closed the door with a subtle click.

‘Who am I, Father?’

‘Why . . . you’re Irene.’

‘Irene who?’

‘Irene McGraw. I don’t understand.’ The voice, the clothes, the jewelry . . . not Irene, and yet . . .

She looked at him with an odd gravity. She was somehow more Irene than Irene; he was profoundly struck by her beauty. ‘This is life-changing for me. You have just acknowledged . . .’ She drew in her breath. ‘. . . something I’ve tried to confirm for several months—all my life, really. It is a great shock.’

He became aware of an insinuating fragrance—jasmine, perhaps—the interior of the car was infused with it.

‘Such a deluge of feeling,’ she said. ‘One wants something so fiercely, and when it comes . . . I’ve spent most of my life giving expression to the emotions of imaginary characters, now I must feel all this, own all this, for myself. It’s overwhelming.’ She bowed her head and put her hands to her face, weeping, yet silent as stone.

He was stunned by having moved from the airy vault of the bookstore into a confined space shared with someone he knew and yet didn’t know at all, only to be jarred awake by this hushed and visceral suffering.

What appeared to be an open script of some sort lay on the facing seat with a copy of this week’s Muse, a few magazines, a box of chocolates, a blow dryer . . .

‘I’m sorry, Father.’ She rummaged through a large bag. ‘My tissues . . . I don’t know. I’ve surely called you out of something you need to be doing.’

‘Not at all. May I ask . . . who you are?’

‘I’m Kim Dorsay.’ She extended her hand, and he took it. ‘From Los Angeles. Thank you for your kindness. I’ve been reading about you in your newspaper.’

‘Not that!’ he said.

She smiled a little. ‘I’ve been a subscriber for several months, since we found information that led to Mitford. I’ve even thought how I’d love to live here, how peaceful it must be. I’ve been seeking peace for a very long time.’

She searched again in the bag. ‘Do you know Irene well?’

‘Not well, but for some years.’

‘Is her husband Raymond or Chester?’

‘Chester. He died last February.’

‘Chester! All the pieces of the puzzle have come together, then.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘All the pieces. Do you have time . . . to talk?’

‘My time is yours.’

‘I was twelve days old,’ she said, ‘when my father gave me away.

‘My mother died when I was born. The woman who took me in was Norma Hudson, my father’s secretary. Norma was a girl who came out to Hollywood from Idaho in the forties, to try and make it in that treacherous world.

‘She was very beautiful, but by her own account had no acting talent—a minor role with Gregory Peck was the great highlight of her career. My father was a famous casting agent, the only child of immigrant parents from Warsaw. He rescued Norma from near-starvation, and she repaid him with ferocious loyalty. She would have laid down her life for him, really. Instead, he asked her to raise his daughters. There were two of us, you see.’

She tried to say more, but could not. She looked away, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.