‘In one pocket and out the other,’ he said. ‘Just what you were talking about with the trust.’

‘What are you going to do, Dad?’

‘About what?’

‘About Miss Pringle. About Sammy.’

He was fed up with being asked what he was going to do about Sammy.

‘I have no idea.’

‘Could he live with . . . ?’

‘No.’ No explanation necessary. ‘But here’s what we must all do. Pray. Are you praying?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Your brother needs full-time,’ he said.

‘He’s doin’ better.’

‘Miss Pringle is looking for much better. We have her to thank that he’s still there at all. In fact, you might thank her next time you see her. Take flowers.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Remember your trip to New York with Cynthia? Remember I gave you money just for flowers?’

‘I was buyin’ flowers all over th’ place.’

‘Remember the look on her face when you gave her the flowers? Any happiness there, any delight?’

‘Really. Big time.’

‘Flowers don’t solve anything, but they can improve most everything. Whether Sammy gets to stay is up to him. Either way, Miss Pringle has been a saint.’

‘Got it.’

‘Ask Jena Ivey to tie a few stems together with a ribbon, and deliver them by your own hand. Twenty bucks and not a penny less.’

‘In one pocket and out the other.’ Dooley hoisted himself onto the counter. ‘So, Dad. I’ve been thinking. How about a truck better than the one in Hendersonville? Long bed, stick shift, leather seats, red. It has a couple of features you aren’t lookin’ for, but you can’t be too choosy with used. Local owner, no traveling to pick it up.’

‘How local?’

‘I’ll make you a really good deal.’

‘Your truck?’

‘It’s too much truck for me. I was wrong; I hate t’ say it. I don’t need that much truck right now, not ’til I get th’ practice. But you do, Dad. You need a truck to do your landscape stuff with. It’s perfect. Crew cab for Harley and Sammy, the whole deal.

‘And when I hang out my shingle, I’ll buy it back. You won’t put many miles on it, you’ll take good care of it, and it’ll be broken in for th’ practice.’

‘How would you get around?’

‘I want to buy a truck I just saw in Wesley. Used, but it’s a better vehicle for me. For one thing, I don’t need a crew cab and a long bed right now.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back and sell it to th’ guy who does grounds maintenance at school.’

One more thing to think about felt like one more thing too much.

‘I’ll run it through the wash in Wesley. Tires already kicked.’

They went out to the curb.

‘What about that scratch on the passenger door?’

‘You’re in buyer’s mode, for sure. I’ll take care of that. A little touch-up with a paint stick.’

He opened the door, looked inside. Pretty clean, all things considered.

‘Take it around the block,’ said Dooley.

‘Why the straw bales in the bed?’

‘Goin’ to Meadowgate this afternoon, they’re fresh out of straw. I picked it up at th’ feed store in Wesley.’

He remembered bouncing around in the wagon with Louis in Holly Springs. The rutted farm roads, the smell of hay and horse sweat, the creek flashing in a hard summer sun . . .

‘Okay, I’ll do a quick test drive. How about Barnabas rides shotgun, and you and your crowd ride with Coot on the straw bales?’

‘Cool,’ said Dooley.

Coot was upstairs stuffing mouse holes with rags soaked in peppermint oil, a trick recommended in a Hint. He called up the stairs. ‘Coot! Let’s go have some fun that is funny!’

He had never used the sign so commonly employed by fellow merchants for a quick dash up the block. He turned it around to face the street.

Back in Fifteen Minutes

He was ready for a little wild liberty of his own.

•   •   •

HONKING. Playing country music—loud. Laughing. Waving. It was his early run-up to the Independence Day parade.

‘Country come to town!’ he hollered, rolling through the gas pump aisle at Lew’s.

They saw J.C. hoofing by the fire station, blew the horn. J.C. raised his camera, fired off a couple of shots. Avis threw up his hand. In the rearview mirror, he could see Coot, as excited as any country boy.

It felt good to make people happy, himself included, simply by tooling around in a truck full of kids and dogs.

•   •   •

BACK AT THE STORE, they hammered out the details. He would wire the money into Dooley’s account on Monday. Dooley would use the truck until tomorrow when the deal in Wesley was done.

‘Are you goin’ to buy it?’ asked Jessie.

‘You should buy it,’ said Pooh.

He put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder, not an easy thing to do with this tall kid.

‘Done deal,’ he said. ‘Sammy and I need a truck to get our rose garden finished. We’re going to build a stone wall.’ One way or another, come hell or high water.

‘Yay-y-y,’ said Jessie.

•   •   •

HE CALLED HOPE; Scott answered.

‘Bleeding again,’ said Scott. ‘Wilson’s coming over.’

‘What may I do?’

‘What you do best. Please.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘There’s good news,’ said Scott. ‘Hope’s sister, Louise, is moving back to Mitford in December. Her company is moving to Denver, so she’ll be running the store starting January first. I know you’re glad to hear it; you’ve had a long go at Happy Endings.’

‘I needed a long go. Louise is a lovely woman. I’m happy for all.’

‘There’s something more. We wanted to tell you earlier, Father . . . we’ve known since the first ultrasound, but . . . somehow, we were afraid to . . .’

The chaplain paused, cleared his throat. ‘It’s a girl!’

•   •   •

HE BUSIED HIMSELF WITH LOCATING the N for November banner and cleaning the coffee apparatus. He didn’t always know what to do when joy comingled with dread.

He tied a fresh bandanna around the neck of the Old Gentleman, as a kind of flag to heaven.

•   •   •

MOZART JOINED VOICES with Coot and Miss Mooney, hard at their task in the Poetry section.

The store phone. ‘Happy Endings! Good afternoon.’

‘Father Kavanagh?’

‘It is.’

‘Professor McCurdy was in to see you recently.’

A very professional-sounding woman.

‘Yes. And I hear the professor’s son, Hastings, is not well.’

‘He was admitted to Children’s Hospital at one o’clock today, his fever is a hundred and three.’ The caller’s voice wavered, she drew in her breath. ‘He’s very confused. Hastings is never confused. They say this is not a good thing.’

‘Is there a diagnosis?’

‘They believe it’s meningitis. Whether viral or bacterial, they don’t know. They’ve given him antibiotics and will go forward with a spinal tap.’ The hospital paging system sounding in the background. ‘This is all very serious, yet he’s on a gurney in the hallway. It’s a wonderful hospital, but the conditions . . .’

‘We hope to rectify this soon.’ What consolation was that? He disliked the sound of it.

‘Can you do something, please? I’m told you’re a longtime donor, could you get him into a room?’

‘I very much doubt it. I know the staff and trust them to do all they can for Hastings. There’s a shortage of beds . . .’

‘I don’t know any people of the cloth. I’ve read about you in the Muse. Would you . . . pray for Hastings?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘The professor is away. Do you think you might come to the hospital?’ He heard the urgency; the cool professionalism had gone.

‘I’m tied up until five. But I’ll come straight there.’

‘Should you see the professor again, please—don’t mention that we’ve spoken.’

‘You are Professor McCurdy’s . . . ?’

‘Wife.’

•   •   •

THE SLEEPING BOY APPEARED SMALLER still in the confines of the bed. The delicacy of the human eyelid had always astonished him—its silky thinness over such a vital organ; its bluish hue as pale as watercolor.