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‘Oh, my goodness!’ Hélène cried, as if seeing a ghost. ‘It’s you!’

Doing his best to keep up, he was praising the merits of biography, the raw vigor of Knut Hamsun, the earnest authenticity of the nearly forgotten Conrad Richter, the persistent charms of Mary Oliver and John O’Donahue, and the generous grace of Seamus Heaney . . .

Which fiction bestseller could he recommend? Did he have anything by Cynthia Rylant? How about John Grisham’s latest, or James Patterson before he went co-op, or the book that came out ages ago about Julia Child that really wasn’t Julia but someone who cooked in a tiny kitchen in New York City?

He was in over his head. Way in.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ he confessed to an English prof from Wesley.

‘Join the club,’ she said.

When he was priesting, people sat quietly, organized by rows, and listened—or pretended to. Now they scattered throughout the room like untended sheep, and when they had a question, as they often did, they rushed at him from every side. And of course there was no greeting them in an orderly fashion as they left the sanctuary of books. No, they simply went out into the world, packages under arm, and disappeared. Hardly any time to say, Have you read George Herbert or Patrick Kavanagh, and, Will I ever see you again, much less, Enjoy your book and peace be with you. They were customers, after all, not parishioners. Didn’t he know that?

‘How’s it going?’ he asked his wife.

‘Holy smoke,’ she said.

Miss Mooney was busy pinning a scrap to the corkboard.

IN A GOOD BOOK, THE BEST IS BETWEEN THE LINES. —Swedish proverb

She gave him a knowing smile. ‘So, Father, who’s your Saint Nicholas? He’s quite wonderful!’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘just someone who’s having a little fun that is funny.’

•   •   •

AT FIVE O’CLOCK, he met with his lighting techs. Last night, he had thought the thing through more clearly—why light only the tree in the upstairs window? He had a better plan. But how would they coordinate it?

Très simple, Father.’

Hélène presented Pooh and Jessie, who seemed pretty wired, and explained that he, Father Tim, would stand in front of the PO, under the streetlight, and when he raised his right arm, that would be their cue.

‘Got it,’ said Pooh.

‘Awesome,’ said Jessie, who would afterward post the results on Facebook.

‘Depend upon us!’ said Hélène, who refused to become a mere bystander at the PO.

At five-twenty, he wrangled the crowd across Main, whipped by a gusting wind—coattails flapping, one hat sailing.

In the light from streetlamps and angels, people thronged the sidewalk across from Happy Endings, hooting and coughing and waving to one another and generally being up for whatever might transpire.

There were Hoppy and Olivia, looking a handsome pair, and the mayor and his wife, and their new police chief with Puny and both sets of twins. There were Abe and his genial spouse, Sylvia, and Lew and Earlene, and, scattered among the legions, a major portion of the Cunningham troupe.

‘Look,’ said Cynthia. In the shadow beyond the light from an angel, Pauline and Buck.

He and Cynthia made their way to the lamppost where Bill Swanson and his grans—nine boys, to be exact—were congregated, and squeezed in among a contingent from Wesley, not to mention a few who wandered up from Holding, and a couple of Floridians looking dismayed in the wind . . .

Esther Bolick held fast to the arm of Adeline Douglas. ‘There is no tellin’,’ said Esther, ‘how many germs are bein’ exchanged out here.’

Adeline patted Esther’s hand. ‘Too cold for germs, honey.’

‘Okay,’ said Bill Swanson. ‘Tell us when.’

Only a soft lamplight shone forth from the bookstore’s darkened windows. He looked at his watch.

‘Go,’ he whispered.

‘Ten!’ chorused the Swanson brotherhood.

‘Nine!’

‘Eight!’

The crowd chimed in, he and Cynthia chimed in.

‘Seven!’

‘Six!’

‘Five!’

The wind had no mercy.

‘Four!’

‘Three!’

The goose bumps up his right leg, Cynthia’s breath vaporizing on the air.

‘Two!’

He raised his right arm as high as he could stretch it.

‘One!’

Good Lord! The crowd stepped back, incredulous.

It was a launch at Cape Canaveral, it was the Eiffel Tower lit by eight million kilowatts; it was their night, in their town, with every possibility lying open before them.

‘Ah!’ they said, and ‘Oh!’ and all the things that might be uttered in wonderment and surprise, and then they cheered and applauded and hugged their neighbors on either side.

The high window cast its colored light onto the awning and splashed into the street below—blue, yellow, green, the colors of the tree lights many had known as children. Angels danced at the tips of branches, ornaments shimmered and gleamed, and above all, at the very top—the single, shining star.

He drew out his handkerchief and passed it to his wife.

In the north window, Mary and Joseph waited with the wizened shepherd and his sheep . . .

In the south window, Saint Nicholas, just in from the third century and arrayed in the splendor of remnants, stood in the sudden halo of light. The crowd cheered and waved for dear life. The pectoral cross glittered as the old bishop leaned his crozier against the wing chair, then raised both arms and waved back.

‘Merry Christmas!’ someone shouted.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his glove.

‘Merry Christmas!’

‘Merry Christmas!’

‘C-cookies for ever’body!’ Sammy hollered. And looking both ways, they all fled across to the light, and the warmth, and the books, and the mystery.

Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good _6.jpg

Chapter Twenty-nine

Thank heaven for a chimney that, even in a strong wind, was drawing smoke sweetly up the flue.

On this gusty Sunday evening, their music was the sound of Sammy’s and Kenny’s laughter, punctuated by the sharp crack of cue tip against resin.

They turned their chairs to face the fire, rested their sock feet on the fender.

‘She’ll approve whatever we decide,’ said Cynthia.

‘There’s Vanita, of course.’ He was quite fond of Vanita, aka the Little Owl, as he sometimes called her privately. ‘But . . .’

‘But,’ said his wife.

Here was real news, and they couldn’t mess up. For the first time in history, the Muse might actually be a feed to the mighty Observer.

‘I’ll have to make a few calls,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to the right people, out of courtesy, but we can’t let Wesley scoop us on this. The story absolutely belongs to Mitford. Would you write it?’ Here was someone who made her living not only with pictures, but with words. Perfect.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Just . . . no?’

‘Yes. No.’

So. He could spill the beans to J.C., but the editor’s literary skills were on par with Vanita’s, minus the ardor for all-caps.

‘Would you gather the facts and write them down? It would eliminate the nuisance of an interview by the Muse and perhaps help deliver the truth in recognizable form.’

‘Consider it done,’ she said, smug as anything when thinking of the information she’d been given by phone a half hour ago.

Hessie. It would have to be Hessie. She would do an earnest and workmanlike job. On the other hand, Vanita would be devastated if passed over.

Before getting in a swivet, they prayed the prayer that never fails.

•   •   •

ACROSS THE DATES of December 24 through 31, he had scrawled: Dooley Home. Across December 24 through 28: Lace Home.

Dooley and Lace would be staying at Meadowgate with Marge and Hal Owen, Dooley subbing for Hal’s assistant, who was away for the holidays.

On Christmas Eve, he and Cynthia would finish decorating their tree and attend midnight mass in Wesley, and, on Christmas Day, drive out to Meadowgate with Dooley’s siblings. Hoppy and Olivia would join them, making a baker’s dozen around the farm table. It would be like going home, given the year he and Cynthia lived at the farm during the Owenses’ stint in France.