Hastings, it’s the one who lent you the Wordsworth, he might say when the boy woke up. But the Wordsworth had been a thorn. He sat by the bed and prayed.

Sharon McCurdy stood with her back to the wall, looking shocked and somewhat fierce. She was clearly uncomfortable with the priest, but wanted him there, nonetheless.

‘He’s a sweetie,’ said Nurse Robin. ‘We’re all thankful it’s not bacterial.’

Twice he’d been around the block with meningitis in young parishioners, both bacterial and far more serious.

He prayed from the heart for Hastings McCurdy, a boy who might have been himself at this age—reading in advance of his learning level, interested in the classics, and smaller in stature than other boys in his class. As for the outcome, he would most likely be released tomorrow or the next day.

‘Please sit,’ he said. Sharon McCurdy had earlier refused the chair and insisted he keep the closer watch.

‘I cannot,’ she said.

‘Does your husband know?’

‘I try not to trouble him. He’s at an important gathering of scholars.’

‘There’s an important scholar lying right here,’ he said.

She tossed her head. ‘There must be a room somewhere. All this rushing about in the hallway . . .’

‘I’ve watched them work many times over the years. All we’re missing here is three walls.’

‘I thought it was flu,’ she said, blaming herself. ‘And then the vomiting . . .’

‘Many similarities to flu when it presents.’

‘The spinal tap was hideously painful.’

‘Yes, but they know from the tap what to do.’

‘What can you do, Father?’ She was testy.

‘I’m praying.’

‘Is that enough?’

‘That’s a very good question. I often asked that in the early years of my calling. But yes, I believe it is fully enough. My common experience each and every day shows prayer to be fully enough.’

‘He could have some memory loss, they say. He knows so many wonderful things by heart. One of the poems in the book you lent, he was learning by memory.’

‘Which one, may I ask?’

She was close to tears. ‘“By the Seaside.” He asked me to define bemocked.’

She covered her face with her hands and turned to the wall.

The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest,

And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest . . .

•   •   •

THREE EMERGENCY ROOM ADMISSIONS and a funeral, all within a couple of weeks. While the stuff of life came in big batches for the full-time priest, the retiree was generally given the smaller batch. He certainly couldn’t complain of his modest handful, though a wedding in the mix would be a pleasant distraction.

He scrolled his emails.

Even communiqués from former parishioners occasionally arrived in batches. A kindhearted message from Sam and Marion Fieldwalker in Whitecap. Agnes from Holy Trinity had come online, albeit dial-up; wonders never ceasing! And there was Liam, though not a parishioner in the strict sense, sounding in from Sligo to say Bella had won an impressive award for her fiddling. There was no gathering of his parish under one roof—his flock was scattered from mountain to shore, and beyond to an emerald isle.

<Once more all is well. Wilson says keep doing what we’re doing. Thanks for your mighty prayers.

<Scott>

At the end, a message for which he had not waited with bated breath.

<Tuesdays with Emma

At the unheard of old rate

<GOING, GOING . . .

He took Barnabas out, then checked the stove (a habit said to be a sign of old age). As he was turning off the lamps in the study, he heard the message arrive in his computer in-box.

<GONE.

He had thought it would never end, and yet—it had ended.

He sat down in his desk chair, oddly bereft.

•   •   •

SHE UNDERSTOOD AT LAST why she had felt distant from the child beneath her heart. She had lived with an image of the trap her body was laying, and felt the guilt of it—all this shadowed by the sense of entrapment she’d once known, herself. In fearing the worst, she had missed months of happiness and intimations of joy.

Not days, not hours, but minutes, they had said. But not for everyone, only a few. She had been claiming as her own the tragedy of the certain few.

She turned her head on the pillow and searched the face of her sleeping husband. It was charted territory, this face she had been granted before the beginning of time. Their daughter must come into the world and know the benediction of her father’s deep tenderness—it was that simple.

She would choose happiness and, in the mysterious way of blood, share it with their daughter, beginning now.

Chapter Twenty-three

A cold rain began at first light on Monday, and showed no sign of abating. The heaters weren’t much help; they were painting with gloves on.

He and Sammy would work only a half-day, after which he’d run to the bookstore and put finishing touches on the N Sale.

They took a break and sat on opposite sides of a pew missing its end pieces. Sammy was digging into a bag of Cheetos; he was finishing a pack of raisins.

‘Thanks,’ said Sammy, not looking up.

It took a moment for this to sink in. ‘What for?’

‘Everything.’

Sammy rose abruptly, stuffed the bag in his pocket, and returned to putting a second coat of paint on the trellis.

•   •   •

‘OH, MY, not a soul stirring up here,’ said Hélène Pringle of her Tuesday vigil. ‘It’s the dismal weather, vous ne pensez pas? But Christmas is coming, Father, and things will pick up, I’m sure of it. I’ve a grand idea for December’s display window.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I believe you do not have a D for December Sale?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So the window would be quite free for a live Saint Nicholas! Sitting in that wing chair, reading a book! Très charmant, oui?’

‘Live?’

‘Yes, people would stop and peer in to see if he’s real and then they would come in and—don’t you see?—buy books!’

‘Hélène, you’re a marketing genius. Can you get home safely this evening?’ He heard what he thought to be Grieg in the background.

‘Oui. I walked up in my good boots; I shall be warm as toast. And I did have a sale this morning. Mrs. McGraw ordered three books by phone, to be mailed to her grandson in Germany, it’s his birthday. I’ve sent them across to the post with Mr. Hendrick—he is very handy.’

‘So you’re happy selling books? The honeymoon isn’t over?’

‘Oh, no, and I’m listening to Peer Gynt. Do you care for Grieg? I always found him very agreeable.’

‘Good,’ he said, not caring for Grieg.

‘He died peacefully in his sleep,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad for him, he deserved that.’

If he were a better person, he might have asked how things were going with Sammy. But no—as far as that was concerned, he was staying in the tall grass.

•   •   •

BEFORE DARK, he was sent on an errand by his wife.

‘Mac and cheese,’ he said to an astonished Coot Hendrick, who came to the door.

The dish was still hot.

He loved flinging carbs around.

•   •   •

‘I’M PAINTING WITH IRENE tomorrow and Friday,’ Cynthia said over dinner. ‘The auction will be here before we know it.’

Each time the auction was mentioned, he felt the guilt he’d already thoroughly wallowed in. Quite likely there was some ego involved here—he had been a donor for nearly twenty years. Nothing extravagant, merely steady; they counted on him. But now he had nothing significant to give, nor any contribution to make to the auction.

He had gone about the house looking for a desirable donation, but there was nothing he could part with. He considered the elaborate needlepoint of a verse from Proverbs, worked by Nanny Howard, Blessed be the Lord who daily loadeth us with benefits. That would fetch a good sum from a needlework collector, but no, he had nothing to give, selfish man that he was. Perhaps Dooley and Lace would want it when . . . if . . .