Authors: Jan Karon
“Got anything else?” asked Father Tim.
Only a moment ago, in the simple act of walking across her kitchen floor, Hélène Pringle was startled to recognize that God had, in fact, revealed Himself to her.
He had revealed Himself by allowing her to help find Sammy Barlowe, and had arranged for her to stand on the landing while George Gaynor repeated the prayer on the phone.
It was an intimate revelation that gave her a deep gladness, and she thought again of the other evening, the night marked by that terrible fire, when her life had been altered for all time.
She had known it was discourteous to eavesdrop, but apparently God had been willing to overlook this small indiscretion to gain something of far greater importance.
Indeed, her heart had pounded into her throat as she repeated the lines of that simple prayer. She felt as if she’d been electrified.
Afterward, she wanted desperately to go to her room and kneel by her bed and speak to the other side of the curtain. She had instead gone downstairs to turn off the light, for she could not afford the extravagance of a lamp burning unnecessarily.
At the time, she had no idea what might come of the prayer she had uttered silently—perhaps nothing. Yet, she’d known she had to repeat it after George Gaynor; not to have done so would have been unthinkable.
By the time she’d gone up the stairs and into her room, she realized that the curtain so long imagined in her mind had vanished. And though she hadn’t actually seen Him sitting on what was once the other side, she hadn’t been surprised at all to realize He was there.
Hope Winchester was once again watching George Gaynor leave Mitford.
This time, he wasn’t leaving in a car with dark windows, driven by an FBI agent, he was riding with Father Tim and his dog in a red Mustang convertible with the top down.
She stood with Scott Murphy on the sidewalk, in the precise spot she’d occupied more than eight years ago, and waved goodbye as the car moved toward them from Wisteria Lane.
George had been standing at the bookstore this morning, bearing two cups of coffee from the Grill, when she arrived to open up. They had sat in his office, drinking coffee and saying goodbye, and he told her he was honored that she’d imagined herself in love with him, however briefly. They had laughed a little then, and he thanked her once more and said he would write and she said she would, too.
Then Scott had joined them in the office, where he stood with one hand on George’s shoulder and the other on hers, and prayed—for the power, consolation, and guidance of the Holy Spirit in George’s future, and in the life of Hope Winchester.
The men had embraced then, unashamed and oddly happy, and her own heart had been moved as George left, walking down to the yellow house to meet his ride to the Asheville airport.
As the Mustang drove by now, Father Tim beeped the horn twice and George threw up his hand and looked their way, beaming. Barnabas sat upright on the backseat, gazing straight ahead.
They watched until the red convertible drove around the monument and passed from view.
Scott cleared his throat and turned to her. “I need to pick up a book.”
She smiled. “You’ve come to the right place.”
He was paying for the book when he felt a sudden inspiration.
“Hope…”
“Yes!” She loved the sound of her name.
“I don’t suppose you would…”—he paused, looking for just the right word—“consider going to Wesley for dinner and a movie. Sometime.”
He knit his brow as if he expected to hear the worst.
“Why, yes, I…would enjoy considering it.”
She could count on one hand the times she’d been out for dinner and a movie—twice with her mother and sister, and once on a blind date.
“Good!” he said. “Great!”
He’d never before asked anyone out for dinner and a movie. When he was just nine years old, three of his grandparents had been killed in a car accident on their way home from dinner and a movie. Miraculously, his mother’s mother had survived, and was still living and active and always eager to hear what was happening in her grandson’s life.
He knew that he would call his grandmother tonight.
Although he’d heard the news, he was eager to see it in print, in black and white.
When the September seventh edition of the
Muse
hit their front lawn on Monday morning, Father Tim went out, barefoot, and carried the paper inside to the kitchen, where the coffee was brewing.
He read the headline, set in the largest type he’d ever seen in their hometown journal, and was moved to cross himself.
Portion of Mallory Land to Be Deeded to Town
According to Ed Coffey, employee and official spokesman for longtime Mitford resident, Ms. Edith Mallory, two acres of land at Ms. Mallory’s fire-ravaged home site on the ridge above Mitford will be given to the town.
Mr. Coffey states that Ms. Mallory had made legal arrangements to deed this plot of land to the town several days before fire destroyed her 8,000-square foot home in the early morning hours Saturday before last.
“Ms. Mallory has had the plot of land inspected by a team of archaeologists who found positive evidence of five grave sites.”
Mr. Coffey presented a written statement to the town, which was shared by Mayor Gregory with the
Mitford
Muse.
It states that the two-acre plot, which lies on the northeast edge of the Mallory property, contains “five visible depressions in the ground.” According to the statement, the archaeology team did not disturb the graves proper, as no excavation went deeper than necessary to identify the tops of the grave shafts, “and no remains were disinterred.”
Ms. Mallory’s gift of the two acres contains several restrictions.
No remains can be disinterred now or in the future.
No parking for automobiles will be allowed. Any markers the town wishes to erect may be erected. She especially requests that a marker identifying the founder of the town and pertinent dates be included. A walking trail may be created on the property which is largely wooded “with abundant wildflowers.” No admission to the site may ever be charged, and trespassing beyond the site will be strictly enforced.
Mayor Gregory says that town officials are “jubilant” over this act of “unsurpassed generosity.” The council will review costs for improving and marking the site and making it ready for public visitation, possibly in the spring of next year.
The Council will also review the cost of purchasing a shuttle bus to ferry visitors to and from the site.
Coot Hendrick, a town official who has worked to gather data on the site and bring its history to public recognition, said the evidence of five graves rather than one, is a credit to the character of his ancestor, Hezikiah
Hendrick, founder of Mitford. “for obvious reasons, if you think about it,” he said.
Mr. Hendrick stated that he would personally host a small celebration in the town hall for all town employees at noon tomorrow. Cookies and tea will be served. His mother, Mrs. Beulah Mae Hendrick, will sing.
He couldn’t believe J.C. had at last improved his spelling. He checked the story again to make certain he was seeing right, then moved along to the next item.
Town Announces
Fifty Dollar Fine for
Watering Yards
Put your sprinklers away and roll up your hoses.
After Forty days with no rain in Mitford and surrounding areas, CityManager Jim Sherrill has instituted a fifty dollar fine for using town water for lawns, flower beds, or any other outdoor purpose. Residents are also strongly cautioned against using washing machines and dishwashers at peak hours.
“There are no exceptions to the rule,” says Town Manager Jim Sherrill. He informed the
Mitford Muse
that our water table is 10 inches below normal.
Mayor Andrew Gregory is in full agreement with the decision to impose a penalty. “In view of the seriousness of our water shortage, the penalty is quite lenient. Everyone’s support is needed.”
While Cynthia had an animated conversation on the hall phone, he watched the five o’clock news and scrubbed two potatoes for baking.
“Who was it?” he asked his wife as she trotted into the kitchen.
“Guess!” she said, looking ecstatic.
“Please! I hate guessing.”
“One guess,” she said, just this side of jumping up and down.
He picked up the remote and hit mute. “The mayor decided to send Coot Hendrick to England with Emma, and Emma canceled her trip altogether.”
“Sammy wants to come for Thanksgiving and Lon Burtie is bringing him.”
“Alleluia!”
“Sammy wants to come here, he doesn’t want to see his mother.”
“That’ll take time. But what good news; we’ll call Dooley tonight.”
She thumped onto a stool. “I love good news,” she said.
He forked holes in the potatoes. “What don’t you love, my dear?”
“Labels that scratch the back of my neck, size-eight jeans that don’t fit anymore, and baked potatoes without sour cream.”
“Not to worry. I just found sour cream on the bottom shelf—it has a couple of hours to go before the shelf date expires.”
“Timothy, what’s that sound?”
They raised their heads, listening.
“Can it be?” he asked.
“Rain!” She hopped from the stool and ran to open the back door.
The cool, sweet air flowed in through the screen; the drops pounded the steps and the landing.
“Let’s go out in it!” she said.
“You go out in it.”
“Timothy…”
“You mean
out
out?”
“Of course! Walking, singing, whatever. Just this once, before we’re old and gray.”
“Kavanagh, I
am
old and gray.”
“We’ll go to Baxter Park…look, it’s pouring, that’s terrific, I always wanted to do this! Nobody will see us in Baxter Park, not a soul, put on your windbreaker….”
“I’ll need a raincoat,” he said, frowning.
“No, dearest, that’s not walking in the rain! Here, take this…that’s right! Good, darling! Wonderful! You’re the best….”
Not since he was a kid in Holly Springs had he been
out
out in the rain.
They hit the back steps running and sprinted east on their side of the hedge, shouting like wild things.
He dumped his sopping clothes on the floor of the bathroom and dried off with a towel while his wife took a shower. For his money, he’d just taken a shower, enough was enough.
She stuck her head around the curtain. “I just remembered…”
“What?”
“Today’s our anniversary. Did you forget?”
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. I remembered yesterday and then I forgot again.”
“Thank heaven I’m not the only one,” he said, meaning it.
“Should we celebrate?”
“We just did.” He grinned.
He pulled on a pair of worn sweats and, whistling, went downstairs with his dog to pick up where he’d left off.
He set the dial to 450 and was just popping the potatoes in the oven when the phone rang.
“Hello!”
“Hey, Dad!”
“Hey, son!”
“You won’t believe this.”
“Try me.”
“No, seriously, there’s no way you could believe it.”
Was it sheer, unbounded joy he heard in his boy’s voice? Whatever it was, he had never, ever heard it in Dooley’s voice before. It was something like jubilation.
“You’ve won the lottery!”
Dooley cackled. “Yeah, right.” A brief pause. “Lace called me back.”
“No way.”
“I was walking down the hall and the phone rang and I picked it up, like, ‘Hello, Tau Kappa Epsilon,’ and she said, ‘Dooley?’
Man.
”
“Man!” he echoed.
“She returned my call,” Dooley said again, as if trying to fully comprehend the truth.
“Never say never.” He was a temple of wisdom, all right.
“It only took her a year and a half.”
His grin was stretching clear around his head. “Oh, well, these are busy times.”
There was brief silence in which each sought to fully digest the miracle.
“Well, hey, look, Dad, I’ve got to go. Catch you later.”
“Alligator,” he whispered, hanging up.
He stood at the kitchen island, looking out to the rain that continued unabated. He’d completely forgotten to tell Dooley about Sammy. Later, he and Cynthia would call and tell him together.
“Timothy…”
His wife came into the room, wearing her bathrobe and slippers.
“You have tears in your eyes, what is it, sweetheart?”
“Life!” he said. “And love.”
He drew her to him, feeling her damp hair against his shoulder. They would talk about the phone call over dinner. It would be a great treat.
Now, he held her close, wordless, rocking her gently in his arms.