Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (11 page)

He was wiping out too quickly this morning, but avoided looking at the memorial bench under the tree on the office lawn. That’s pretty much where he’d been standing when half the parish showed up for his Big Six-Oh. They had wheeled in a red motor scooter for their priest, who had given up driving a car eight years prior, and set him on the thing and turned the key. Drunk with astonishment and adrenaline, he had gunned it up the hill and out of view with everybody whooping and hollering like pagans.

Ah, but his bit of carless Lenten devotion had been exactly what was needed to put him on the street. Wearing out shoe leather was how he got to know his parish up close and personal—he wouldn’t take anything for those years. Was he looking for something like that again, and if so, wasn’t he bound to be disappointed?

He surprised himself by hooking a right straight to the bench, where he sat clutching the trash bag, grateful for shade. He felt the letter in his pocket, and considered taking it out and reading it again.

‘Timothy?’

Father Talbot stood in the doorway of the office, athletic, tall, and
good-looking. It was as if the Search Committee had been mandated to pick the polar opposite of Tim Kavanagh. A head full of chestnut-colored hair streaked with silver and a poster boy for the dazzling smile, Henry Talbot was said to wear a ‘piece’ and bleach his teeth, and what was wrong with that, after all?

The man had aged considerably since he had seen him before the Holly Springs trip. Talbot had come over to him at Rotary and wished him a happy birthday.

‘How did you know such a thing?’ he asked, flattered.

‘A very busy grapevine,’ Talbot had said.

He stood and shook the hand of his successor at Lord’s Chapel. ‘Just using your bench for a little R&R. How are you, Henry?’

‘You’re looking fit.’

‘Not so fit as yourself,’ he said. Talbot was what he would call a serious runner, replete with Nikes, who kept himself trim through all weathers. ‘Still running?’

‘When I can,’ Talbot said.

‘What’s your route?’

‘Up the hill and through the woods. There’s a path, you know, behind the hospital. No exhaust fumes.’

What was he sensing in Talbot’s demeanor? Exhaustion, perhaps, maybe depression, a kind of shocked daze, in any case. Perhaps it was something like his own daze during the early stages of diabetes. Burned out, strung out, a condition endemic to clergy, diabetic or not—that would be enough right there to cause rumors.

He felt he needed to keep moving, but was oddly stuck, uneasy.

‘Your laundry?’ asked Talbot in an attempt at humor.

‘Picked up a bit of trash.’

‘Ever helpful,’ Talbot said.

‘Well, then, off I go, and great to see you.’

‘Perhaps we could . . .’

In the north light, Talbot’s blue eyes were the color of water.

‘. . . get together . . .’

‘The tea shop,’ he said. ‘Lunch?’ He would have suggested a time, but Henry turned to go inside.

‘Best wishes to Mary.’

He sensed that Henry had purposely turned away at the offer of a meeting.

Depression—he could smell it. But surely this wasn’t the ‘grave matter’ the bishop wished to discuss. Depression was merely the heavy bear that went with a rising majority of the priesthood.

He huffed his way up Old Church Lane, carrying the plastic bag and remembering why it isn’t good to stop along the way—one lost momentum, and an extra push was needed to regain it.

There was Esther’s house at the end of the pebble drive, with its baskets of geraniums gasping their last since the first nipping frost, and how could he not knock on the door and say hello and tell her he was remembering Gene, and that he wouldn’t forget? The trouble with dying is that the living so quickly forgot.

He jogged up the drive.

Suffering. That’s what he’d tried to put his finger on. Henry Talbot was suffering.

•   •   •

E
VEN
E
STHER
B
OLICK
SEEMED
OLDER
since he’d seen her last, and smaller. How could she be stout last June and fragile in September? What was going on with people?

‘Come in, Father, come in, I’m tickled to see you.’

She was wearing what his grandmother had called a ‘housecoat’ and old slippers resembling rabbits with whiskers.

‘No, no, I won’t come in, Esther. Too sweaty. Just stopping to order an OMC and say I miss seeing Gene, I think of him often.’

‘He was my taster,’ she said, taking a tissue from her pocket.

‘I know.’

She wiped her eyes. ‘If you won’t come in, I’ll get you a glass of water and come out. You sit over there in the swing, you’re just what the doctor ordered.’

No way would he argue with the legendary baker of his wedding cake. He watched a female cardinal at the feeder until Esther came out.

‘I’m done, Father. That’s that.’ She handed him the glass of water and sat in a wicker chair. ‘You’ll be takin’ your cake orders up th’ street. From this day on, Sweet Stuff is bakin’ th’ OMC.’

‘Good Lord, Esther. Surely not. Only you can bake the OMC.’ He was an ardent fan of her celebrated orange marmalade cake, even if it had nearly taken him out—one slice at the wrong time and he’d plunged into a nonketotic coma in which he enjoyed a lengthy dinner with Charles Spurgeon.

‘People have bootlegged my recipe for a hundred years without so much as a thank-you-ma’am. And what do they do with it? They
change
it—to make it their
own
, they say. Oh, no, they say, this is not
Esther’s
recipe, this is
my
recipe, new an’
improved
.

‘
Mangled
is what it is, when they get through dumpin’ nuts in th’ batter—nuts! Not to mention th’ screwy bunch that pours in a bucket of Cointreau. Can you believe it? No, you can’t believe it, because
that
is
un
believable.’

‘Absolutely!’ He was riled, himself.

‘Fame,’ she said, ‘is a wicked thing.’

‘Indeed it is.’ Not that he’d ever had any. ‘But why?’

‘My legs an’ my back. It’s either this or knee replacements.’ She gave him a fierce look. ‘Bakin’ is hard work, Father.’

‘It is, it is.’ He had baked a cake once, it half killed him. ‘But with you, it’s also an art form.’

‘I don’t want to quit,’ she said. ‘I’d bake th’ OMC ’til th’ cows come home, but my bakin’ days are over. Winnie and I signed th’ letter of
agreement yesterday afternoon. It says she’ll never, under any circumstances, add, delete, or falsify any part of th’ recipe. Where it says one tablespoon grated zest, that’s what I mean.
One
tablespoon grated zest
. Where it says five
large
eggs . . .’

‘You do not mean small or medium.’

‘That’s correct,’ she said, ‘I do not.’

‘I don’t know, Esther, this is kind of like losing the town monument.’

‘It’ll be advertised as Esther’s OMC, made from th’ recipe I’ve used for forty years. And you’ll never guess what she’s askin’ for every two-layer ten-inch she sells.’

He drained the glass, afraid to guess.

‘Thirty-five dollars! In this town! How ’bout
them
apples?’

‘People will come from all over,’ he said. ‘Wesley, Holding . . . shoot, maybe even Charlotte!’

‘And every one that flies out of her case, I get ten percent—for sittin’ on my behind readin’ Danielle Steel.’

‘Gene would be proud.’

‘Every cake I baked, he tasted th’ batter before it went in th’ pan. Hon, he’d say, this’ll be your best yet.’ She looked away, wistful. ‘Did you see th’ sign over town for Fancy’s sister? I ought to go up and get my hair dyed, I’ve never had my hair dyed. They’re runnin’ a special.’

‘Well, got to get these dry bones moving. It’s wonderful to see you.’

He went to her and stooped and kissed her forehead. Esther without Gene was a lost Esther.

She squinted up at him. ‘Do you think Mitford still takes care of its own? I’ve been thinkin’ about it. I don’t know.’

He didn’t know, either. Indeed, he had nearly left her house without offering what was needed most. ‘May I pray for you?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said. ‘It’s certainly nothin’ Father Talbot ever troubled himself to do. Set your bag down right there and go for it.’

•   •   •

‘I
DIDN
’
T
WANT
TO
SAY
anything ’til th’ sign went up and it was official.’

He hadn’t seen Winnie look so solemn since Edith Mallory tried to sabotage the lease on Sweet Stuff.

‘I mean, while I’m truly honored to bake th’ OMC, I’m against th’ whole idea.’

‘You are?’

‘Totally,’ she said. ‘Esther shouldn’t quit bakin’ th’ OMC, it’s her joy.’

He agreed.

‘But its official, Father, and I’m ready to put th’ sign in th’ window. Or do you think it should go on th’ door?’

‘On the door.’

They stood on the sidewalk and stared at the computer-generated sign, not speaking for a time.

‘The end of an era, Winnie.’

She looked at him. ‘Eras have a way of endin’ all over th’ place.’

•   •   •

P
UNY
MET
HIM
at the side door and took the bake shop bags.

‘They was a man here to see you,’ she said. ‘In a black car with tinted windows.’

He was floored. ‘What did he want?’

‘He wanted to see you an’ I said you were out runnin’ and then ’is cell started beepin’ an’ he answered an’ said yes, ma’am, a whole lot of times an’ then he said they had to git down th’ mountain an’ off he went in a hurry.’

‘It wasn’t Ed Coffey?’

‘Definitely not Ed Coffey. Had on these really dark wraparound
glasses an’ a uniform like I never seen on anybody. But not armed services or anything.’

‘He said
they
had to go?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Nothin.’ Miss Cynthy told me to answer th’ phone an’ th’ door, she’s workin’.’

‘How did he ask for me?’

‘He said, Is Father Timothy Kavanagh available? That’s when I said you were out runnin’.’

‘He didn’t ask where?’

‘No, that’s when ’is cell phone beeped.’

‘He said they had to go down the mountain? Those were his words?’

‘Exactly.’

Yes, ma’am
. The driver was southern.
They
. There would have been another person with him, or two.
Down the mountain
. Usually only people who lived
on
the mountain said
down
the mountain.

He sat on a kitchen stool, fairly whipped from the run and the heat. ‘Aren’t you here late?’

‘I’m leavin’ in ten minutes. I tol’ Miss Cynthy I have to bring th’ babies to work on Monday. Can you stand it?’

‘I’ll eat my Wheaties,’ he said. ‘Any calls?’

‘Mr. Skinner left a message, I couldn’t git to th’ phone right then. He said, Tea shop today, high noon. Th’ only other call was th’ man who said bring your car in tomorrow mornin’—first thing, he said, or it’ll be late next week ’til he can take a look at it. Here’s your raisins.’

He ate the raisins, dutiful, walked Barnabas to their side of the hedge, went to the studio and looked at what his wife had done today, which was bloody amazing, thanked her for the letter, and said, More later, and went upstairs and showered and put on a knit shirt
and a pair of khakis. He had time to clean the outdoor grill for tonight before he went to lunch. Run, clean the grill, go to lunch. Life was short, how long could he afford to do nothing? In the afternoon, he would work on his own letter. God help him.

So Mule was over his huff about the tea shop, and J.C. would probably show up, too.

What next? What now?

And how long could he avoid J.C.? The answer was, not long. Nobody had mentioned the
Muse
piece today, so he wasn’t the only one dismissing local reportage as rubbish and twaddle. He crossed himself, lifted a prayer, forgave the old so-and-so, and went downstairs to report the real news, which was Esther’s.

•   •   •

‘Y
OU
DIDN
’
T
LIKE
IT
,’ said J.C. ‘I can tell.’

‘I didn’t, you’re right.’

‘I think you’ll change your mind.’

‘Good. I hope so.’ His wife had the winning strategy; she laughed at nonsense. He wanted to learn how to do that.

‘So let’s be productive today,’ said Mule, joining them at the table, ‘an’ name this place.’

‘In the interest of time,’ said J.C., ‘we ordered for you.’

‘What did you order?’

‘Surprise,’ said J.C.

‘A children’s plate,’ he said, ‘with chocolate pie.’

‘Fancy told me last night I have to quit chocolate.’

‘Oh, boy,’ said J.C.

‘Okay, okay, but just this once,’ said Mule. ‘Here’s th’ deal—I thought about it a lot last night. The Lunch Box!’

‘How about this place is also open for dinner and that won’t get it?’ said J.C.

‘Okay, here’s one that comes off of th’ fact we’re at thirty-six hundred feet above sea level. High country, mountains, like that. So how about . . .’ Mule leaned in, confidential. ‘. . . Pie in the Sky?’

‘Too much of a dessert theme. People are tryin’ to lose weight.’

‘Man,’ said Mule. ‘This is hard. Those were my best shots. How about Foggy Mountain Dew?’

‘What?’

‘Kind of senseless, but kind of intriguin’.’

‘Way off message,’ he said. He knew that much about marketing.

‘What’s th’ message?’

‘Good food, reasonable prices, come and get it.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mule. ‘Maybe we should leave it alone, it’s none of our business what th’ name is. Chelsea Tea Shop—fine with me. But what’s a Chelsea? I’ve been meanin’ to ask for a couple of years.’

‘A district in London,’ he said.

‘There you go,’ said J.C. ‘Definitely not th’ local feeling we’re lookin’ for. Th’ family thing might be good to weave in. My mother called us to th’ table saying, Soup’s on. How about Soup’s On?’

‘Then they think the menu’s all soup,’ said Mule.