‘I can’t say that I have any confidence in coincidence. I have confidence that God is with us in all things, both tender and tough.’

She glanced out to the street. ‘I must hurry. It drives me crazy that God, if there is one, doesn’t allow himself to be seen. It seems all smoke and mirrors, a fabrication of the silliest sort. How are we supposed to believe?’

‘“All that I have seen,” Mr. Emerson said and I say with him, “teaches me to trust the Creator for all that I have not seen.”’

‘I don’t know. All these years and I don’t know. How does one pray? If I don’t believe in God, why would I pray? And yet I feel a great need to pray. About . . . something. Many things. Would God hear me? Must I believe to be heard? What would I say?’

‘You would say whatever is in your heart.’

‘I can’t imagine that. It’s frightening to even think it. You’re saying, just . . . whatever?’

‘When Hastings cries out to you, the door of your heart opens, just as prayer opens God’s heart to us. There’s a sense in which the questions you’re asking are themselves a kind of prayer.’

‘I cannot speak to God, it seems a sham. Why would he respond to what is shallow and forced?’

‘God answers all our heartfelt petitions. He may answer no, or yes, or wait, or maybe. Yet there’s one prayer for which he has only one answer, and the answer is yes.’

‘Tell me,’ she said, sharp.

‘Thy will be done.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it. There is a caveat.’

‘There is always a caveat,’ she said, bitter.

‘One must pray it with a surrendered heart.’

She turned away from him, covered her face with her hand. ‘My God.’

He was concerned for her, for the snow coming hard on their mountain roads . . .

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea and see you on your way.’

‘There’s no time to think, to ask the right questions,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There’s never enough time for anything, ever.’

He went at once to the coffee station and she followed.

‘I’ll pray for you,’ he said.

‘Pray for me now,’ she said. ‘Now! No one has ever prayed for me. Pray for Hastings, pray for my husband, who has Parkinson’s. My God, pray for this crazy world, for the mess we’re making of it.’

He switched on the kettle, and they went to the Poetry section and stood by a bookcase and he held forth his hands and she let him clasp her own.

‘Lord, for the longing of Sharon McCurdy’s heart and for her safety on these roads, for Professor McCurdy and the longings of his own heart, for the well-being of the bright and gifted Hastings and his rich curiosity, and yes, Lord, for the mess we’re making of your inexpressible beauty, we ask one thing: Thy will be done. Thank you for your boundless grace, for your unconditional love, for your mighty power to heal. And thank you for making yourself present to Sharon in a way she is fully able to receive with joy. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

She was weeping.

‘When I speak of God’s will, it helps to know that he wants the best for us. If you can’t believe he’s there, pray anyway. If you feel he’s cheap and withholding, thank him anyway. There will come a time when you’ll thank him even for the hard places.’

‘Perhaps somewhere I have the smallest bit of faith,’ she said, ‘something left over from my childhood. But it’s almost nothing, not enough . . .’

‘If you yield it up, God will make it enough.’

He put the tea bag in a to-go cup and poured hot water from the kettle.

She wiped her eyes with a paper napkin and composed herself. ‘Two sugars,’ she said.

•   •   •

HE WALKED HOME, the snow falling thickly. Louise had stopped in for a quick tutorial and he had done a mite of housekeeping, thus the bank had closed before he could get there. He would make the deposit after Christmas.

‘You’re our miracle on Main Street,’ Hope had said. ‘We’re up twenty-seven percent over last year.’

Twenty-seven percent. Above all they could ask or think, a dream more than fulfilled. Indeed, the whole experience seemed a dream.

Another chapter had already begun. He wanted to see this present moment as clearly as possible—the procession of lighted angels wearing crowns of snow, an old Jeep moving along the street, slow as a dirge, the gnashing sounds of machinery plowing along Main.

He was grateful for his fleece-lined jacket with the hood, and the warmth of his mortal flesh. He walked faster, head bowed into the flurry.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you . . .’ he whispered into the gathered dark. His breath was vapor on the mountain air.

Chapter Thirty

Mark my words,’ said the weatherman on the six o’clock news. ‘It’ll be over around seven.’

Viewers marked his words but it wasn’t over. By the end of the newscast, the precip had piled up to seven-plus inches, and was still coming down.

He and Cynthia would not attend midnight mass in Wesley. And very likely wouldn’t make it out to Meadowgate tomorrow.

Because he had for years celebrated a mass, and often two, on Christmas Eve, he was never able to figure the best time to open gifts. Exhausted both on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning by the second-busiest season of the church calendar, he considered it a toss-up. Christmas Eve was certainly Nanny Howard’s preferred time. ‘While the house is still warm!’ she always said.

This year, they decided to do a little of both—open one present each tonight, and in the morning, all the rest. He was plenty curious about Sammy’s gift in its simple wrap of newspaper and recycled ribbon, and eager to open his first Christmas present from his brother, to whom he’d sent a rare edition of the work of Henry’s first poet hero, Dunbar.

In the meantime, there was the big box from Cynthia with his name on it, and the gifts from Dooley and Lace . . .

He pulled on his snow boots. He would blaze a trail for his dog to the bed where their tulip bulbs lay dreaming. ‘Deep in their roots,’ Roethke had said, ‘all flowers keep the light.’

When he stepped out with Barnabas, he stuck in a yardstick. A little over eight inches. Definitely above his ankles and still coming down.

He imagined Hamp Floyd, hunkered behind his house with his own yardstick. This was serious business for the Worm.

‘It’s plenty deep,’ he said, stomping snow onto the mat inside the door.

‘We’re going,’ she said.

‘You’re sure about this?’

‘We’re going. How could we not?’

How could they not?

Harley rang. ‘Don’t you worry, Rev’ren’. We gon’ have you shoveled out to th’ street in plenty of time. You sure you don’t want to take y’r truck?’

‘Nossir,’ he said, ‘we’re traveling up by camel.’

•   •   •

SHE HAD SET a small table in the study, where they could have dinner and see the tree strung with colored lights and ornaments of mixed vintage.

They were leaving the sign, DO NOT OPEN TIL CHRISTMAS, on the cat door. If Truman went out in this, they might not find him ’til the spring thaw.

Before dinner, she took the box from under the tree and presented it to him.

‘It was going to arrive in January, but here it is by some miracle I won’t even attempt to understand. Please try it on, I’m dying to see you in it.’

‘Is this what I was measured for?’ He was mildly dubious.

‘It is,’ she said. ‘Please, honey.’

He tried it on.

A perfect fit. Already hemmed and ready to roll. He was vainer than he imagined. He stood looking in the mirror in their bedroom with a kind of delicious astonishment. He wasn’t so fat. He wasn’t so abbreviated in height. He even appeared to have more hair.

He wore the tuxedo, cummerbund, bow tie, the works, as they sat by the fire having a glass of champagne. She was in what she called her New Darling, the rather grand replacement robe for the one left behind in Ireland for cleaning rags.