Vanita honey

I am setting here on my loveseat with little Lisa May who is two. I am taking care of Mitford by taking care of Lisa May whose mother my next door neighbor on route four has to work two jobs. My great grandson Buddy who is twelve took this picture on his phone and printed it out at school. I am also taking care of Buddy for my DIL who is PG and works for NCDOT. So that is my 2 cents worth. Thank you and God bless you. Avice Porter

I am nine yers old and taking care of Mitford by being nice to people who don’t even deserve it. My Sunday School teacher says don’t worry about being nice to people who deserve it—that is easy. So here is a picture of me being nice to somebody (he is the blur on the right) who threw his stupid YUKKY lunch bag in our yard. I very nicely asked him to pick it up but when he didn’t I chased him down and gave him a whipping he will NOT forget. Yours truly, Wilma Faye Barkley, Dogwood Lane

Hessie Mayhew opened the door and stuck her head in.

‘Just wanted to say that is not my Helpful Hint in today’s paper, I hope you know that.’

‘I figured,’ he said.

‘While my Hints come from personal experience, she gets hers from a book. Who washes their bottles anymore? Do you wash your bottles?’

‘I don’t really have any to wash.’

‘You see? Useless, outdated information!’

The door jangled shut, and opened again to admit Esther Cunningham, who had broken out in a smattering of her old blotches.

‘When you were down at th’ church,’ she said, ‘we mostly saw you in th’ pulpit and out runnin’. Now you’re right here in one spot where we can get at you—in a manner of speakin’.’

He grinned. ‘I feel pretty gotten at, all right. How are you, Esther?’

‘I’m thinkin’ of pitchin’ my hat in again. What do you think?’

‘Do you really want all that commotion?’

‘I like commotion. I miss commotion. I operate on commotion.’

‘What does Ray think?’

‘He thinks I’m a nut case—what else is new? You reckon there’d be any opposition? Andrew Gregory says he wouldn’t run against me, provin’ what a brilliant thinker he is, after all.’

‘You were certainly one of the best . . .’

‘One of th’ best?’

He laughed. ‘You’re tough.’

‘I am not tough. I’m soft as th’ inside of a cathead biscuit, that’s why I was a good mayor. I don’t want you to talk about this, you hear? I want to keep it off th’ street ’til I’m good ’n ready.’

‘Got it. What would be your platform?’

‘Lord only knows. You think th’ old one still works?’

‘In my opinion, it’s working as we speak.’

‘We might need somethin’ fresh. Ray’s messin’ with it, he’s good at that. You know I’d have to hammer th’ merchants. They’re goin’ to sleep at th’ wheel.’

‘Hammering the merchants is your long suit.’

‘Can I count on you?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said. In truth, he was perfectly happy with Andrew Gregory’s administration.

‘What improvements do you think we need? I’m doin’ a limited survey. Very limited.’

‘The trail behind the hospital,’ he said. ‘A waste of good real estate. Overgrown, littered with debris. Isn’t that town property?’

‘It was deeded to th’ town in 1927. Twelve acres. The American Legion laid out th’ trail in ’52.’

‘Needs attention. That done, people will use it for the right reasons.’

‘I think it’s time to raise taxes. I promised I’d never raise taxes, but that was then, this is now. That dog won’t hunt anymore.’

‘What will we do with the tax dollars?’

‘Parkin’, for one thing. We’ve got to have it.’

‘Where would we put it?’

‘I say tear down Evie’s old house, put it on Main.’

‘I don’t know, Esther, you’ll have a fight on your hands.’

‘No pain, no gain.’

‘People are getting interested in the plan for an inn on that spot.’

‘Do we need parkin’ worse than we need six rooms with smelly potpourri and four-poster beds? I ask you! Main is th’ only place that makes sense. Otherwise parkin’ has to go to th’ old shoe barn—too far away, then we have to provide shuttles.’

‘There could be some traffic congestion if you put it on Main.’

‘We’d run ’em in on Main and out on Maple.’

‘Maple is a mighty narrow street. And what about charging for parking? You know locals don’t want to pay for parking.’

Esther gave him a look for which she was noted. ‘You let me handle it, Father.’

‘Glad to!’ he said.

•   •   •

‘DARLING! Any business up there?’

‘Spotty,’ he said.

‘You have a hundred and seventy-four votes.’

‘Never-ending.’

‘I need peppermint tea. Can you stop by the Local?’

‘Absolutely. What else?’

‘Two lemons. Lace will join us for lunch on Saturday. Peppermint is her favorite. Now. I have two great surprises.’

He had never enjoyed surprises, but people continued to foist them on him.

‘Guess who has a kitten?’

‘Not Violet.’

‘We do. Sammy brought it over. Wait ’til you see it.’

‘Sammy? A kitten?’

‘He said it needed a good home. Sammy seemed different, somehow. More . . . thoughtful, maybe. Something . . . I think it was the kitten, he was very tender with it.’

‘What kind of kitten?’

‘White as chalk with one black ear. Adorable. I was making the pimiento cheese for Lace’s visit and Sammy brought it over in a box. So I gave him a grilled cheese and we closed the door to the hall and put the kitten on the floor and he was perfectly at home.’

‘It’s a he? How does Violet feel about this?’

‘We don’t know yet. She’s on top of the refrigerator, where she goes to think things through.’

‘Do I need to drop by the hardware for a litter box?’

‘Sammy brought one.’

Sammy Barlowe had put two and two together? In this lifetime? Unbelievable!

‘I named him Truman.’

‘For Harry?’

‘For Truman Capote, who threw a famous Black and White Ball.’

‘Aha.’

Their big life was getting bigger by the minute.

‘So here’s the other surprise. Someone I think you will like very much is walking up to see you right now.’

‘Who?’

She laughed. ‘It’s a surprise.’

•   •   •

‘FATHER TIM?’

The priest held forth his hand. Blue eyes. A dazzling smile. Ruddy cheeks. Muscles, even.

No introduction needed. He threw his arms around Father Brad and slapped him on the back, jubilant.

‘Are we ever glad to see you!’ he said.

Chapter Nineteen

Snow.

He stood at the window and watched it fall, listening to Vivaldi’s ‘Winter.’

Unpredicted precipitation had begun around ten this morning—a thin offering which he thought would soon be over. But it had increased in volume and beauty and at eleven-thirty the town was vested in white.

Abe sailed by the window, threw up his hand, headed across to the post office. Mitford School had closed an hour ago; he saw buses ferrying home those they had recently delivered. He wondered whether the inveterate reader runs for a book when it snows, or if snow itself is entertainment enough.

A car nosed into a parking space across the street. Someone with mighty long legs was getting out, then waiting for traffic to pass. Beautiful, he could see that.

Good Lord! It was Lace.

Flashbacks of Lace teaching Harley about buffalo, and bark canoes. Lace bleeding from the lacerations to her back. Lace kneeling in the street beside his badly injured dog . . .

He hurried to the curb, glanced both ways, and met her halfway.

‘Thanks, Father! What a welcome committee!’

Snow in her hair, on the shoulders of her coat.

‘I left at six this morning,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy to be home. It’s lovely—like a Christmas card.’

Inside, he helped her out of her winter wrappings—coat, scarf, gloves—as proud as any father. Lace Harper wasn’t a girl anymore; she was a young woman at ease in her skin.