wishin’ they hadn’t!”
“I’ll run over to Wesley one of these days,” he said, trying to mean it.
He was sitting on the sofa in the study when he heard Puny and his wife discussing their neighbor.
“I don’t think she’s the marrying kind,” said Cynthia, rinsing mixed greens for a salad.
“Yes, but she’s a nice-lookin’ woman, seems it’d be good for her to have a husband.”
“Maybe. But who on earth would it be? I mean, this is Mitford !”
“Watch it!” he called into the kitchen. “Mitford, after all, is where you found yours truly.”
Puny giggled. “I think she’s kind of soft on th’ father.”
“Yes, well,” said his wife, “she can get over it!”
There! He was thrilled to hear this. Feeling expansive, he kicked off his loafers.
“What about the Collar Button man?” asked Puny, setting dinner plates on the island.
“I don’t think he’s the marrying kind.”
“Mr. Omer,” said Puny. “He has a nice, big smile.”
“Omer Cunningham is a teddy bear, but not her sort. Darling, who are the bachelors in Mitford?”
“Ummm. Let’s see. Avis Packard!”
“Too strange!” said his wife, rolling her eyes.
“Scott Murphy!” he called from the study.
“Timothy! Scott and Miss Pringle wouldn’t be suited in the least. What are you thinking ?”
“I’m not trying to make matches here, you asked me who the bachelors are. I’d like to see Scott find someone, though, if you have any ideas on the distaff side.”
“Then, of course,” said Cynthia, dismissing his agenda for Scott Murphy, “there’s Andrew Gregory’s brother-in-law, Tony, a handsome fellow, and Catholic like Miss Pringle, but quite clearly—”
“Too young !” declared Puny.
“This is hard.” He scratched his head. “Old Man Mueller?”
“Timothy, for heaven’s sake !”
“Remember, I’m not proposing anything, I’m only naming bachelors, as I was asked to do. Lew Boyd!” Lew had been a widower for a number of years.
His wife didn’t acknowledge this contribution.
He threw up his hands, naming the only other bachelor he could possibly think of. “Coot Hendrick!”
“You see?” Cynthia said to Puny. “There’s absolutely nobody in Mitford for a nice French lady who teaches piano.”
He and Cynthia were hammering down on the front and side yards of the yellow house. Mayor Gregory had poured on the coal for their annual Rose Day, advertising the event in newspapers as far away as Charlotte, Asheville, Winston-Salem, and Raleigh. Now everybody was breaking their necks to get cleaned up for the tourists just days hence. While former Mayor Esther Cunningham had despised the very word tourist , Andrew Gregory thought otherwise, arguing that controlled tourism was an economy that produced no factory emissions or water pollution. The merchants, while fond enough of the Cunningham reign, clearly favored the Gregory renaissance.
Though five projects had been marked off Father Tim’s list, the following remained:
Add lkspr to front bds, cut wisteria off garage, grub honeyskle/ivy at steps, cultivate/mulch/spray roses, whlbarrow from H. Pringle, new hose/ nzzl.
Could he finish in time? Had his list been too ambitious? And then there was Cynthia’s list, which was considerably longer than the one in his shirt pocket. He leaned on the garden spade and wiped his perspiring forehead with a worn handkerchief. “No rest for the wicked,” he said.
“And th’ righteous don’t need none!” crowed his wife, completing a proverb favored by Uncle Billy Watson. She was squatting with a weeder, going full throttle at an infestation of wire grass in the perennial bed facing Wisteria Lane.
He heard a car brake suddenly in the street, squawking to the curb. “There she is!” a voice called.
He looked up as the driver and passenger leaped from a Buick, the motor still running, and dashed across the sidewalk to the perennial bed. Both callers wore muumuus, though of different
“I’ll run over to Wesley one of these days,” he said, trying to mean it.
He was sitting on the sofa in the study when he heard Puny and his wife discussing their neighbor.
“I don’t think she’s the marrying kind,” said Cynthia, rinsing mixed greens for a salad.
“Yes, but she’s a nice-lookin’ woman, seems it’d be good for her to have a husband.”
“Maybe. But who on earth would it be? I mean, this is Mitford !”
“Watch it!” he called into the kitchen. “Mitford, after all, is where you found yours truly.”
Puny giggled. “I think she’s kind of soft on th’ father.”
“Yes, well,” said his wife, “she can get over it!”
There! He was thrilled to hear this. Feeling expansive, he kicked off his loafers.
“What about the Collar Button man?” asked Puny, setting dinner plates on the island.
“I don’t think he’s the marrying kind.”
“Mr. Omer,” said Puny. “He has a nice, big smile.”
“Omer Cunningham is a teddy bear, but not her sort. Darling, who are the bachelors in Mitford?”
“Ummm. Let’s see. Avis Packard!”
“Too strange!” said his wife, rolling her eyes.
“Scott Murphy!” he called from the study.
“Timothy! Scott and Miss Pringle wouldn’t be suited in the least. What are you thinking ?”
“I’m not trying to make matches here, you asked me who the bachelors are. I’d like to see Scott find someone, though, if you have any ideas on the distaff side.”
“Then, of course,” said Cynthia, dismissing his agenda for Scott Murphy, “there’s Andrew Gregory’s brother-in-law, Tony, a handsome fellow, and Catholic like Miss Pringle, but quite clearly—”
“Too young !” declared Puny.
“This is hard.” He scratched his head. “Old Man Mueller?”
“Timothy, for heaven’s sake !”
“Remember, I’m not proposing anything, I’m only naming bachelors, as I was asked to do. Lew Boyd!” Lew had been a widower for a number of years.
His wife didn’t acknowledge this contribution.
He threw up his hands, naming the only other bachelor he could possibly think of. “Coot Hendrick!”
“You see?” Cynthia said to Puny. “There’s absolutely nobody in Mitford for a nice French lady who teaches piano.”
He and Cynthia were hammering down on the front and side yards of the yellow house. Mayor Gregory had poured on the coal for their annual Rose Day, advertising the event in newspapers as far away as Charlotte, Asheville, Winston-Salem, and Raleigh. Now everybody was breaking their necks to get cleaned up for the tourists just days hence. While former Mayor Esther Cunningham had despised the very word tourist , Andrew Gregory thought otherwise, arguing that controlled tourism was an economy that produced no factory emissions or water pollution. The merchants, while fond enough of the Cunningham reign, clearly favored the Gregory renaissance.
Though five projects had been marked off Father Tim’s list, the following remained:
Add lkspr to front bds, cut wisteria off garage, grub honeyskle/ivy at steps, cultivate/mulch/spray roses, whlbarrow from H. Pringle, new hose/ nzzl.
Could he finish in time? Had his list been too ambitious? And then there was Cynthia’s list, which was considerably longer than the one in his shirt pocket. He leaned on the garden spade and wiped his perspiring forehead with a worn handkerchief. “No rest for the wicked,” he said.
“And th’ righteous don’t need none!” crowed his wife, completing a proverb favored by Uncle Billy Watson. She was squatting with a weeder, going full throttle at an infestation of wire grass in the perennial bed facing Wisteria Lane.
He heard a car brake suddenly in the street, squawking to the curb. “There she is!” a voice called.
He looked up as the driver and passenger leaped from a Buick, the motor still running, and dashed across the sidewalk to the perennial bed. Both callers wore muumuus, though of different
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