‘Toys,’ said his wife. ‘Something to do with all that energy. Maybe a windup mouse.’

‘We don’t have time to wind up a mouse,’ he said.

‘A cat door,’ said Sammy.

‘How would we get one?’ she said.

‘Me an’ him could m-make you one.’

He had never been anything at all to Sammy. Not ‘this guy’ or ‘that man,’ and certainly not Dooley’s ‘dad.’ Now, at least, he was ‘him.’

•   •   •

AT A LITTLE PAST FIVE, he was rummaging around at his desk, still hoping to find the missing love letter. Talk about a complete and aggravating mystery . . .

He answered the knock at the side door.

‘In you come!’ he said to his French-born neighbor. ‘A cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you, Father. I smelled something cooking and knew you were home.’

‘Cynthia is painting with a friend and won’t be here ’til six. Will you sit at the counter while I stir the pot?’

‘The aroma drifted all the way to my porch—I pursued it through the hedge!’ She popped herself onto a stool.

‘Soup,’ he said. ‘Full of scraps, as soup must be. I’m using chicken, lamb, and beef bones for flavor.’

‘Very wartime,’ she said. ‘My grandmother fled Paris when it fell to the Germans. She went to Vichy, where she learned to cook like a paysan, the bone being always the chief ingredient of good soup.’

She watched him stir in the rice, positively mesmerized. If her news was bad, he wished she would get along with it.

‘Congratulations, Father, on being voted our leading citizen. A designation of great merit!’

‘Thank you,’ he said. His wife had advised him not to rattle on with self-conscious modesties.

‘You remember how I said I wished to help someone.’

‘I do remember.’

‘Thus I am going to the bookstore on Tuesdays and for my small effort, I have been revitalized, quite nouveau-née. Now I wish to do something more.’

He put the lid on the pot, and went around and sat at the counter with her.

‘Your Dooley brought me a bouquet. Trés chamant, Father! I suspect it was your idea, and a very lovely one. But that did not influence what I have to tell you.’

The other shoe was being dropped.

‘Sammy may stay, Father.’

‘Ah!’

‘But only as long as he minds the rules that must be laid down.’

‘Thank you, Hélène. You’ve been more than generous as it is. What are the rules?’

‘He may not smoke in the house at any time; he may smoke only at the rear of the house in the old garage—and he may not burn it down.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘He must keep current with his loyer.’

‘That’s rent, I believe?’

‘Oui. He may not leave any clutter of any kind on my porches.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Finis! But what if I have forgotten something he must not do and wish to add it later?’

‘Always good to have rules known beforehand. I’ll help you think.’

‘Perhaps I am acting too quickly in this decision, perhaps I should wait for further proof of good intentions. But Mr. Welch and Kenny seem to think there is . . .’ She sought words. ‘. . . un changement véritable en lui.’

‘He might easily have been killed when the car went down the bank. The police have seen people walk away from such accidents, but rarely. Perhaps, in some way, it waked him up.’

‘You have reminded me of another rule,’ she said. ‘He may not be arrested or have anything at all to do with violating the law.’

‘Yes. Good.’

‘If,’ she said, gripping her hands together, ‘he defies any one of these rules, Father, he will be . . . he will be . . .’ She looked to him.

‘Dismissed.’

‘At once,’ she said.

They were both relieved to have done with it.

‘I’m pleased for you that he’s doing better.’

‘Quite a bit, yes. He took it upon himself to go to the old garage for his tobacco doings, and removed his clutter from the porches. Kenny is a sensible influence, of course, so mature and wise. And Mr. Welch has done his utmost. Only yesterday, Sammy thanked me for the roast poulet I made for their supper.’

‘Highly deserving of thanks.’

‘If he is merely buttering me up, as they say, and such courtesy is soon to be ended, then—pardon me for repeating—he is poof!’

‘Understood.’

‘I always felt I owed you something because I stole your angel.’

‘You owe me nothing, Hélène. Please never think that again.’

‘You gave me a second chance, and I wish to do that for Sammy.’

‘Thank you. God bless you.’

‘Well, I must be going.’ She got down from the stool and made her way to the side door. ‘Please give my fondest greetings to Cynthia.’

‘It’s dark out there, Hélène. Let me walk you through the hedge.’

‘Non, non, merci. I left my flashlight on your stoop. Oh, and Father . . .’

Hélène had a particular gift for looking as if the sky might fall.

‘Could you loan us another roll of . . .’ She blushed.

‘Out again?’

‘When I send Mr. Hendrick to shop, we buy but one roll at a time—for the sake of frugality.’

‘No, no,’ he said, amused. ‘You must buy the large economy-size packs. We are operating a business for the public!’

•   •   •

HE WAS AWAKE AT FIRST LIGHT.

Hearing the patter of rain, he remained in bed, drowsing, dozing, a rare gift. He didn’t need to be early at the bookstore this morning, he would arrive a little before ten. Coot would be sitting in his truck around the corner, eager to begin.

At eight, he raised himself on one elbow and watched her sleep. He loved this woman.

She opened her eyes, smiled. ‘Hey. Was I snoring?’

‘Never. I’m here in an official capacity.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘I’m making a cold call.’

‘On who?’

‘You.’

‘What for?’

‘We’re going to need money for trash bins, signage, a few shrubs—and greasy fast-food for the crew.’

‘How much?’

‘Maybe two thousand.’

‘Two thousand?’

‘Trash bins have to be heavy-duty. Signage has to be on metal. With lag bolts.’

‘Lag bolts.’

‘Then there are the gutter guys at the Sunday school.’

‘The gutter guys. How much total?’

Probably three thousand. Then again, nothing ever came in on budget. ‘Thirty-five hundred.’

Like everybody else who was hammered for money, she looked grim.

‘All deductible!’ Just a reminder.

‘Four thousand,’ she said, ‘and not a penny more.’

More than he asked for. He had just experienced every development director’s dream.

Chapter Twenty-five

In the second week of November, here was weather so ardently wished for in October—Carolina-blue skies, the intoxicating dose of clear, keen air, and, though the planet had tilted some weeks ago, finally the slanting golden light and plangent cries of geese along Mitford Creek.

After long rains and snow muck, it was a delayed harvest of pure pleasure. Yet there were a number of people not inclined to enjoy the moment, preferring instead to noodle their noggins with the prospect of snow for Christmas.

Local fire chief and weather guru Hamp Floyd was number one of the above number. Amazingly, Hamp was generally more accurate than the woolly bear caterpillar so fondly celebrated in local folklore, albeit for different reasons. While the width of the woolly worm’s stripes were believed to forecast winter weather in general, Hamp’s predictions were for Christmas snows in particular.

Indeed, he had nailed three out of five Christmas snow forecasts in recent years, including one forecast of ‘no snow, zero,’ and had become known simply as the Worm—a distinction quite apart from the woolly worm itself, or the good fellow called Mr. Woolly Worm, a zealous aficionado of the aforesaid actual vermis.

Though Hamp’s Christmas forecast was usually announced around Thanksgiving, he said he felt ‘led’ to declare early this year.