Read Online Out to Canaan by Jan Karon - Free Book Online Page B

One had to be fleet to catch the moment in the middle, the mountaintop, when perfection was as brief as the visit of a butterfly to an outstretched palm.
    For this one rare moment, their garden was all gardens, the finest of gardens, as the wild blackberry he’d found last year had been the finest of blackberries.
    He remembered it distinctly, remembered looking at its unusual elongated form, and putting it in his mouth. The blackberry burst with flavor that transported him instantly to his childhood, to his age of innocence and bare feet and chiggers and freedom. The blackberry that fired his mouth with sweetness and his heart with memory was all the blackberry he would need for a very long time, it had done the work of hundreds of summer blackberries.
    He gazed at the canopy of pink dogwoods he had planted years ago, at the rhododendron buds, which were as large as old-fashioned Christmas tree lights, and at the canes of his French roses, which were the circumference of his index finger.
    Better still, every bed had been dressed with the richest, blackest compost he could find. He had driven to the country where the classic makers of fertilizer resided, and happened upon a farmer who agreed to deliver a truckload of rotted manure to his very door. He’d rather have it than bricks of gold . . . .
    He took a deep draught of the clean mountain air, and shut his eyes. Beauty had its limits with him, he could never gaze upon great beauty for long stretches; he had to take rest stops, as in music.
    â€œPraying, are you, dearest?”
    His wife appeared and sat beside him, slipping her arm around his waist.
    He nuzzled her hair. “There you are.”
    â€œI’ve never seen it so lovely,” she whispered.
    A chickadee dived into the bushes. A junco flew out.
    â€œWho loves a garden still his Eden keeps,” she said, quoting Bronson Alcott.
    He had looked upon this Eden, quite alone, for years. The old adage that having someone to love doubles our joy and divides our sorrow was, like most adages, full of plain truth.
    He wanted to say something to her, something to let her know that having her beside him meant the world to him, meant everything.
    â€œI’m going to buy us a new frying pan today,” he said.
    She drew away and looked at him. Then she burst into laughter, which caused the birds to start from the hedge like cannon shots.
    He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to say that at all!

CHAPTER FOUR
    A Full House
    He put two pounds of livermush and a pack of Kit Kats in a paper sack, and set out walking to Betty Craig’s.
    Thank heaven his wife wasn’t currently working on a book—they’d sat up talking like teenagers until midnight, feeling conspiratorial behind their closed bedroom door, and coming at last to the issue of Dooley’s siblings.
    â€œI don’t know, Timothy,” she said, looking dejected. “I don’t know how to find lost children.”
    Why did he always think his wife had the answers to tough questions? Even he had the sense to believe that milk cartons, though a noble gesture on someone’s part, probably weren’t the answer.
    â€œYou must press Pauline for details,” Cynthia told him. “She says she can’t remember certain things, but that’s because the memories are so painful—she has shut that part of herself down.” His wife leaned her head to one side. “I wouldn’t have your job, dearest.”
    People were always telling him that.
    He peered through Betty Craig’s screen door and called out.
    â€œIt’s th’ Father!” Betty exclaimed, hurrying to let him in.
    He gave her a hug and handed over the bag. “The usual,” he said, laughing.
    â€œLittle Poobaw’s taken after livermush like his granpaw! This won’t go far,” she said, peering at the contents.
    Russell Jacks shuffled into the kitchen with a smiling face.