‘There is a serious problem with using a church for a prayer breakfast.’

‘What?’

‘Churches do not serve breakfast.’

There was her lopsided look that passed for a grin. ‘All right. But no shoutin’, Bible-thumpin’, or altar calls.’

‘Not from me.’

‘And thanks for th’ business. While you’re at it, maybe you can pray for this place to keep runnin’ a black bottom line. Everything’s goin’ sky-high and nobody wants to do a day’s work.’

‘I will pray for that.’

‘So it’s okay to pray for a bottom line?’

‘Absolutely. God allowed this business to come into your hands. He gave you the gumption to work hard and give your customers honest value. He wants you to succeed.

‘So, there’s every reason to ask,’ he said, ‘and—to give thanks for his continued good favor.’

Wanda’s spirits appeared to brighten.

In breezed Omer, with his piano-key grin lighting up the place.

‘Flyboy!’ someone called. Omer threw up his hand, removed his cap, and turned to greet the proprietor. ‘The usual, please, ma’am.’

Wanda brightened a good deal more.

Why tarry? As soon as Wanda brought Omer’s glass of tea, he launched.

‘Omer. You’ve been single for a while?’ He was nonchalant as anything, eating his salad with grilled chicken.

‘Twelve, thirteen years.’

‘Any children? I can’t recall.’

‘No kids. Just a couple of ragwings.’

‘Would you be interested in meeting someone who plays Scrabble?’

Omer gave him an uncharacteristically dark look. ‘Who?’

He realized he should have talked to Omer before he said anything to Shirlene. What if Omer had enough Scrabble in his life and wasn’t interested?

‘Fancy Skinner’s sister, Shirlene. From Bristol.’ He was suddenly, mortally, uncomfortable.

‘Bristol,’ said Omer, staring at his tea glass. ‘Th’ woman with th’ spray gun who moved here?’

‘Right. There’s a story in last week’s Muse.’

‘I don’t know. I’m not handy at women.’

He hadn’t been handy at women, either, and look at him now. An old married guy trying to fix people up.

‘Guess it’s been too long. I’m just a gnarly ’Nam vet livin’ on four acres with a patch of potatoes and a dog. Not much goin’ on with me—a few yard sales, a little Scrabble online.’

The perfect demographic! Nailed! How often does that happen in life?

‘Pretty dull,’ said Omer.

‘Dull? Not in the least. How about your halfway house ministry? I wouldn’t call that dull. So maybe we could have lunch. With my wife. And Shirlene.’

‘Lunch,’ said Omer. ‘I don’t think so, Father.’

‘Coffee?’

‘I don’t drink coffee.’

This was a nut to crack.

‘What kind of dog?’

‘Mutt. Named Patsy.’ And there was Omer’s smile again.

‘I believe Shirlene is currently looking for a dog.’

‘Good for the head. By the way, I’ve been meaning to bring you some potatoes. I’ll drop ’em by th’ bookstore, guaranteed. Yukon Gold or russet?’

‘Either way. We like both. And thanks.’

This wasn’t going terribly well. He would have to ask Cynthia to give a hand here.

•   •   •

‘I DID IT BACKWARDS,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how I get myself into these things.’

‘Meddling, sweetheart, that’s how. You have a special knack for it.’

‘What to do?’ he said.

‘Leave it alone for a while. You didn’t name a time for lunch. You were vague, right?’

‘Vague. Yes. Which reminds me, I never told Shirlene that he’s over her maximum age limit.’

‘By how much?’

‘I don’t know. Five or six years. Maybe more.’

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘You trump me by six years and I don’t think any damage has been done. Not yet, anyway.’

‘It’s not over ’til it’s over, Kav’na.’

They were lying in bed, his favorite tryst for plain talk.

‘Your book. Is it ever going to end?’

‘I just began it in September. Really, sweetheart, it’s only November. This is what I do.’

‘Will you ever . . . retire?’ A disgraceful word, but there it was. ‘It is very consuming, your work.’

‘True. But why have work that isn’t consuming?’

He had no idea what to say to this. ‘You’re definitely worse than I am.’

‘In which of many ways?’

‘You never want to go anywhere,’ he said, ‘yet I’m the one with the reputation for never wanting to go anywhere.’

‘I told you I would love to take the RV trip. When everything is done here.’

‘What is everything? And what do you mean by done?’

She couldn’t answer this; she simply didn’t know; she would have to play it by ear, she said.

He switched off his bedside lamp and held her hand, and prayed something best suited, in his opinion, for early morning, though indeed it was never too late in the day for these ardent petitions.

‘Almighty and eternal God, so draw our hearts to you, so guide our minds, so fill our imaginations, so control our wills, that we may be wholly yours, utterly dedicated unto you, and then use us, we pray, as you will, and always to your glory and the welfare of your people, through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.’

‘Amen!’ said his wife.

•   •   •

WINTER COULD GET plenty long up here. In a few short months, they usually saw all of Mark Twain’s storied hundred and forty-nine weather modes.

After Christmas, the bookstore would be ‘quiet’ according to Hope and ‘dead’ according to Marcie. And he was at a standstill on the rose garden.

He didn’t want to ‘snuggle in’ for the winter. He wanted to do something that got his blood up and skip the depression he sometimes suffered when ‘earth stood hard as iron.’

There was the trail behind the hospital. Though he expected to be done at the bookstore when Hope’s sister came on in January, it could be May before weather was good to work outdoors. As for the planning and organizing of a project like this, he could work on that anytime—preferably right away.

He had swung into the trail when he was running on Tuesday. One had to be especially adroit to run back there. The many exposed tree roots and general wear and tear were dangerous for walkers and runners alike. Those were issues the town crew could work on. As for the trash, it wasn’t conveniently confined to the perimeter of the trail, but meandered far into the woods. He would crew that job himself.

He had made it to the turnaround, which seemed a popular spot for trash disposal, then got out of there. Was he nuts? Maybe, but he still wanted to see the place redeemed.

The town wouldn’t spring for amenities; he would need to provide appropriate trash bins and signage. Signage was important. A few hardy shrubs, topsoil, mulch. And later, way later, a couple of iron benches.

He and Sammy and Harley could walk the trail together, then spend a few evenings by the fire, thinking it through. Hadn’t Sammy’s woodland shade garden, which he saw the day he first met the boy, been something to marvel at?

Philosophy wasn’t his long suit. But in the scheme of things, of what real importance was a ruined walking trail or a neglected rose garden? Yesterday, he had selected a book at random and discovered this by Abraham Verghese in Cutting for Stone:

‘We are all fixing what is broken. It is the task of a lifetime.’

Only one problem. He was running out of money. There were a few CDs lying about and earning a drop in the bucket, but nothing was due to roll over anytime soon.

•   •   •

TRUMAN HAD DONE all in his power to move the imperial heart of Violet Number Four—or was it Five? Violet was having none of it. She was still offended, and still using the top of the refrigerator to remove herself from the rabble below.

The Old Gentleman was another matter. He had adopted the black-and-white stray after a considerable trial period, and life was good.

However—and there was always the however—Truman enjoyed getting out and about. Soon after the adoption, he and Cynthia had driven the little guy to Meadowgate, where Hal put an end to any future patrimony. The thorn of venturing through their neighborhood had been removed.