At Home in Mitford (60 page)

“His dextrostick was off the top of the scale. I think I know what’s going on,” Hoppy told Nurse Kennedy, coming along the hall behind the stretcher. “I want those lab results immediately.”

“But, Doctor, there’s nobody—”

"I don’t want to hear ’nobody,’ ” he snapped. “You do what has to be done. Pronto.”

“Yessir.”

“I’m praying,” said Cynthia.

He turned to the older nurse, who was waiting calmly for his directions. “Herman, he needs fluid and lots of it. Run a liter of half-normal saline wide open, then cut it back to 500 cc ’til we get the report.”

"Yes, Doctor.”

He was walking up a flight of stairs. They seemed to narrow to a point, with an opening at the end as small as the eye of a needle. A brilliant light shone beyond the opening. He didn’t know whether he could make it through. . . .

“Well, pal.”

He opened his eyes and stared at the doctor’s face, finding it an unutterably welcome sight.

“Well, what?” he croaked, glad for the sound of his own voice.

“You took a dive.”

“No kidding.”

“You’ve gone and gotten yourself the real thing.”

“Meaning?”

“The Big One. You’ll have to start giving yourself shots and peeing on a strip of paper. The nurses will be teaching you how to give yourself insulin, and I’ve ordered a glucometer so you can follow your blood sugar.”

“Bad news.”

“The good news is, you’re alive. Not always the usual after several hours in nonketotic hyperglycemic coma.”

With some effort, he realized that the good news was—he wouldn’t have to make a speech at that blasted Rose Festival.

Though he was feeling fine, he was strictly forbidden to have visitors.

“Except your neighbor,” said the doctor, without further comment.

He learned, to his surprise, that he would be up and around and better than new in only a few days, so there was no obstacle, after all, to his trip. There would be certain inconveniences, yes, like a daily shot that he’d have to administer himself, extreme caution with his diet, and plenty of exercise, none of which promised to enrich foreign travel.

In the meantime, Father Douglas was found to be willing to stir from his PC, after all, and agreed to deliver both sermons for the coming Sunday. Father Lewis in Wesley had cheerfully offered to celebrate.

By the second day, he’d received seven arrangements, a gloxinia, and a topiary, giving him the pleasure of knowing that Jena Ivey, at least, was profiting from his condition.

Cynthia came, wearing something emerald colored and flowing. “A bedtime story,” she said, opening a manila envelope containing her new manuscript. “See what you think.” She made herself comfortable on the foot of his bed and read aloud the story of the mouse in the manger.

What did he think? Merely that it was beautifully written, thought-provoking, and charming, not to mention touching, funny, and destined for certain recognition.

“All that?”

“All that and more.”

“I’ve heard that sickness softens the heart, but it’s made yours positively expansive!”

“Thank you for being there,” he said, taking her hand.

“When you didn’t come to fetch me for the Sturgeons, I thought you’d stood me up. I knew you hadn’t been thrilled about going, anyway. So I waited and waited and you didn’t come, and, finally, I popped through the hedge and knocked on your door and there was no answer, but Barnabas was in the kitchen, barking his head off. I called but couldn’t find you. I looked in the study, the garage, all over. And then I went upstairs and found you in bed clutching a pair of pants in your hand.”

“You did?”

“And with your shoes on!”

“The usual, then.”

She laughed. “But I could tell you weren’t sleeping. You looked so odd, and you were sweating and your mouth was moving, though nothing was coming out. I called the hospital and Hoppy wasn’t there, and I said it was an emergency, so they found him and sent him to your house, thanks be to God!”

He pressed her hand tightly. “I can’t remember anything at all. Nothing. The last thing I remember was eating Esther’s cake.”

“Esther’s cake?”

He looked at her helplessly. “I hope you won’t say anything to Hoppy.”

He saw the concern in her eyes. “I promise. But let it be a lesson to you, for Pete’s sake.”

“Will you come again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning down to brush his cheek with her lips. At the door, she turned around and waved. He thought she looked for a moment like a wistful child. “Sweet dreams,” she said, tilting her head to one side.

The faint scent of wisteria on his pillow was a comfort.

“I wouldn’t be kissin’ any Blarney Stone, if I was you,” said Puny, plumping up the cushions on the sofa. “When you think of how many folks has put their mouth on that thing, it gives me th’ shivers.”

“I have no intention of hanging over some precipice to kiss a rock,” said the rector, who was taking his prescribed midday rest in the study. “Instead, I will devote that time to shopping for one Puny Bradshaw and shipping her a surprise.”

“As if I didn’t have enough surprises,” she said tartly, dusting the mantle.

“Like what?”

“Like Joe Joe gittin’ shot, and you gittin’ in a coma and half dyin’. That’s been keepin’ me plenty surprised, thank you, not t’ mention busy.”

“Speaking of busy, would you keep doing the splendid things you do, for the priest who takes my place while I’m in Ireland?”

“I might,” she said cautiously. “I’d have t’ check ’im out. I don’t work for gripers, complainers, or hypocrites, not to mention bossy, mean, or stingy people.”

“A good policy. I wish I could say the same. If I’m still away when school starts, would you be able to live here and take care of Dooley ’til I get back?”

“Well . . .”

“Just think, Joe Joe wouldn’t have to drive all the way to Wesley to court you, he could just walk down the street.”

She flushed.

“Think about it. It would nearly double your salary, and all you’d need to cook for the boy would be bologna, which, if the priest is young enough, he’d probably like, too.”

She sighed. “I wonder why th’ Lord is always dishin’ out preachers t’ me.”

The rector lowered the latest edition of the
Muse
into his lap. The mail clerks at that prison had their work cut out for them.

“It’s Mr. Gregory,” announced Puny, wiping her hands on her apron.

He knew he should have shaved this morning. “Ask him to come in!”

He heard Andrew’s footsteps coming briskly down the hallway. “A bachelor’s paradise!” he said, seeing the book-lined study, the view of Baxter Park, and the bright face of Puny Bradshaw. He inhaled deeply, enjoying a fragrance that clearly had its source in the kitchen.

The rector got up and gave his favorite antiquarian a forceful embrace. “Sit down at once, my friend, and tell me everything. I haven’t seen you in . . . when have I seen you? You’d think that since we’re across the street from each other, we’d meet more often.”

“Life, Father, life,” said Andrew, sitting down in a wing chair and unbuttoning his jacket. “It is far too hurried.”

“Even in Mitford.”

“Particularly in Mitford, I sometimes believe. How are you feeling? Are you going to push along all right?”

“Oh, I think so. A bitter inconvenience, nothing more.”

“Would y’all like a cup of coffee or a glass of tea?” asked Puny. The rector thought she looked a picture in her new apron and dress, and her red hair caught up with a green ribbon.

“Tea!” Andrew responded eagerly. “No sugar, if you please.”

“I’ll have the same,” said the rector. He was tenderly amused to see that Puny, who appeared to be in awe of their handsome visitor, curtsied slightly as she left the room.

“Where on earth did you find such a gem?”

“Sent from heaven!”

“Speaking of heaven, I have a new shipment of books from a priory in Northamptonshire. Very rare. Exceptional. One day they won’t allow such treasures out of the country. There’s a very early
Imitation of Christ
. I thought you’d like to come and have a look.”

“I shall. It’s a good thing books aren’t bad for this aggravating condition, or I’d be a dead man. Any more sales on Uncle Billy’s drawings?”

“Why, yes. Four more, and I took him an envelope only yesterday. He likes cash, you know, not checks, and I fear he may be keeping it under his mattress.”

“Not a bad move, considering the times.”

Andrew laughed. “I read George Gaynor’s letter in the paper. And only yesterday, I heard that two of the three British-side dealers have been arrested in Norwich. Fascinating circumstances, really; I’ve tried to keep up with the account in the newspapers. Inspected all my table legs, but not one is worth a farthing!”

“What can you tell me about Ireland?”

“Ireland? Only a bit. Hopeless Anglophile, you know. Of course, there’s been a big trend to Irish antiques, but they’re not my cup of tea. Too primitive. Why do you ask?”

“I’m going in a matter of days. Thought you might have some suggestions. We’ll be staying in Sligo.”

“Ah! rough country. Undeveloped. But spectacularly beautiful, I’m told. Take a raincoat, mud boots, a waterproof watch . . .”

Blast, he thought, why bother to go to such a place at all?

“Your tea, sir,” said Puny, who had put the rectory’s best damask napkins on the tray and used their finest cut-glass water goblets.

Andrew took a sip of tea and pressed his mouth with the starched napkin. “I haven’t seen much of your neighbor. Is she still about?”

“Oh, very much about.”

“Clever lady.”

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

“Terribly attractive.”

“Rather pretty, yes.”

“Funny, actually.”

“I agree.”

“I can’t seem to make any headway with her, however. I suspect you know her a bit, being next door. Any suggestions?”

Tall, suave, trim, urbane Andrew Gregory was asking
him
?

He thought for a moment.

“Oh, she’d probably enjoy being invited to more of those fancy country club affairs, perhaps to play bridge, that sort of thing,” he lied. Forgive me, Lord, he prayed, I promise I won’t do it again.

As Puny saw Andrew to the door, the phone rang.

“Hello,” he said. He heard someone breathing. “Hello?”

“I prayed that prayer,” said a hoarse voice, and hung up.

“Was that by any chance Joe Joe?” Puny asked, eagerly, hurrying into the study.

“No, it wasn’t. I’m not sure who it was.” The voice had been oddly familiar, but no . . . no, it couldn’t have been who he was thinking.

“You don’t know who it was?”

“I didn’t recognize the voice, exactly, and then they hung up.”

“Wrong number!” said Puny, setting the glasses on the tray and taking it into the kitchen.

Absalom Greer looked at him steadily. “My brother, if I step into your pulpit, some of your flock will be gone when you return.”

“So be it.”

They were sitting on the steps of the country store, on a day so hot that both had taken their jackets off and rolled their shirtsleeves up.

“You know I’ll preach on sin.”

“Preach on it, then.”

“I’ll preach a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.”

“I fervently hope so.”

“And I’ll preach the cross.”

“That’s what we all need to hear. May God bless you, my friend.”

“And may he bless you, Timothy. I didn’t know when I quit my little churches last week to get a rest that th’ Lord would hitch me up again before he let th’ traces fall.” The old pastor laughed, happily. “I’ll see that Lottie dresses me proper, and I’ll keep my shoes shined and a handkerchief in my pocket.”

“That’s more than I usually manage. How thankful I am that your schedule allows this. It was a sudden inspiration in the middle of the night. I believe the Holy Spirit put it on my heart. Can you hold out for two months?”

“When it comes to preachin’, I’d a lot rather hold out than hold it in. I’ll answer this call at your place, then I’ll quit.”