breath and allowed herself to examine again the wondrous possibilities.
In that light-filled room, there would be space for all three of her bookcases.
She would be able to use her mother’s lace curtains at the windows facing Main Street—without having measured, she knew they would fit.
The faded Aubusson rug, which had for years been her grandest possession, would look beautiful on the old pine floor.
Though customers had come in, she raced up the stairs to look again at the room with its three handsome, albeit unwashed, windows.
Halfway along the stairs, she paused.
What would she do for heat in the attic of this creaky old building? Suddenly weary, she sighed and sat down on the step.
Then, a proverbial truth struck:
Heat rises.
“By George!” Father Tim fairly whooped.
“What is it?” asked Andrew, looking up from a book on the Nativity.
“See here, sanding the surface makes this hateful color almost pleasing to the eye.”
“Why, yes! I agree. It’s just the color of my good wife’s pumpkin soup with a dash of cream, not bad at all. And I like the way the gilt underpainting comes forth on the sleeve.”
“Do you think we can get away with sanding only? No painting?” One could dream.
“We can’t know until you get at each one, but I’d say no, too easy. Let me have a go at one.”
Andrew put the book down and was examining an angel as Fred came in.
“What about me sittin’ in on this?” asked Fred, looking eager.
“Here’s a sheet of sandpaper, pull up a chair,” said Andrew. “The doorbell will tell us if we have visitors. Probably won’t see a soul ’til the Charleston decorator arrives at two.”
“I b’lieve I’ll try a sheep. My gran’daddy raised sheep, he let me feed th’ orphans on a bottle.”
“Splendid,” said Father Tim. “Go to it!”
“This figure has a truly beautiful countenance,” said Andrew. “What about her missing wing?”
“I don’t think I’ll tackle it.” Truth be told, he wasfrightened of trying to build something so crucial with plaster, which was as yet a foreign material to him—it could result in an onerous lump instead of an arched and lovely wing. And then there were the feathers he’d be forced to create in the wet plaster. No indeed, this was Nativity 101, not Rodin’s atelier. “Besides, think how the missing wing depicts the human condition!”
“A somewhat esoteric thought,” said Andrew, pulling at his chin. “Nonetheless, I’m in!”
As the men worked with easy absorption, Father Tim smelled the fresh coffee on the hob; he heard the busy whisk, whisk of sandpaper, and Beethoven’s “Pastorale” pouring from Andrew’s radio.
He felt a happy contentment flowing up in him, as a spring from a hidden source.
When Scott called in the afternoon, Hope told him all that she was thinking. He said he’d drop by after she closed the store, if that was OK, and help out. Would she like pizza with everything, or just cheese?
As long as she could remember, she’d had it with just cheese.
“Everything!” she said, suddenly filled with unspeakable happiness.
“Well, I’ll be . . .”
Avis Packard had locked up The Local and was going to his car in the alley, when he glanced north along the twilit street. It was the first time in memory that he’d seen a light above the bookstore.
As he walked Barnabas to the monument a little after nine o’clock, Father Tim noticed it, too.
He drew his wool scarf close against the chill October wind and mused how the light seemed to cheer the hushed and empty street.
T he first Sunday of Advent dawned bitterly cold and clear beneath the platinum sheen of a half moon.
Random gusts of wind whistled around houses, rattling shutters and downspouts. Smoke was snatched from the chimneys of early risers and hurtled east by a freezing westerly blow.
At the yellow house on Wisteria Lane, Father Tim let Barnabas into the yard, and whistled him in again. Then he read the
In that light-filled room, there would be space for all three of her bookcases.
She would be able to use her mother’s lace curtains at the windows facing Main Street—without having measured, she knew they would fit.
The faded Aubusson rug, which had for years been her grandest possession, would look beautiful on the old pine floor.
Though customers had come in, she raced up the stairs to look again at the room with its three handsome, albeit unwashed, windows.
Halfway along the stairs, she paused.
What would she do for heat in the attic of this creaky old building? Suddenly weary, she sighed and sat down on the step.
Then, a proverbial truth struck:
Heat rises.
“By George!” Father Tim fairly whooped.
“What is it?” asked Andrew, looking up from a book on the Nativity.
“See here, sanding the surface makes this hateful color almost pleasing to the eye.”
“Why, yes! I agree. It’s just the color of my good wife’s pumpkin soup with a dash of cream, not bad at all. And I like the way the gilt underpainting comes forth on the sleeve.”
“Do you think we can get away with sanding only? No painting?” One could dream.
“We can’t know until you get at each one, but I’d say no, too easy. Let me have a go at one.”
Andrew put the book down and was examining an angel as Fred came in.
“What about me sittin’ in on this?” asked Fred, looking eager.
“Here’s a sheet of sandpaper, pull up a chair,” said Andrew. “The doorbell will tell us if we have visitors. Probably won’t see a soul ’til the Charleston decorator arrives at two.”
“I b’lieve I’ll try a sheep. My gran’daddy raised sheep, he let me feed th’ orphans on a bottle.”
“Splendid,” said Father Tim. “Go to it!”
“This figure has a truly beautiful countenance,” said Andrew. “What about her missing wing?”
“I don’t think I’ll tackle it.” Truth be told, he wasfrightened of trying to build something so crucial with plaster, which was as yet a foreign material to him—it could result in an onerous lump instead of an arched and lovely wing. And then there were the feathers he’d be forced to create in the wet plaster. No indeed, this was Nativity 101, not Rodin’s atelier. “Besides, think how the missing wing depicts the human condition!”
“A somewhat esoteric thought,” said Andrew, pulling at his chin. “Nonetheless, I’m in!”
As the men worked with easy absorption, Father Tim smelled the fresh coffee on the hob; he heard the busy whisk, whisk of sandpaper, and Beethoven’s “Pastorale” pouring from Andrew’s radio.
He felt a happy contentment flowing up in him, as a spring from a hidden source.
When Scott called in the afternoon, Hope told him all that she was thinking. He said he’d drop by after she closed the store, if that was OK, and help out. Would she like pizza with everything, or just cheese?
As long as she could remember, she’d had it with just cheese.
“Everything!” she said, suddenly filled with unspeakable happiness.
“Well, I’ll be . . .”
Avis Packard had locked up The Local and was going to his car in the alley, when he glanced north along the twilit street. It was the first time in memory that he’d seen a light above the bookstore.
As he walked Barnabas to the monument a little after nine o’clock, Father Tim noticed it, too.
He drew his wool scarf close against the chill October wind and mused how the light seemed to cheer the hushed and empty street.
T he first Sunday of Advent dawned bitterly cold and clear beneath the platinum sheen of a half moon.
Random gusts of wind whistled around houses, rattling shutters and downspouts. Smoke was snatched from the chimneys of early risers and hurtled east by a freezing westerly blow.
At the yellow house on Wisteria Lane, Father Tim let Barnabas into the yard, and whistled him in again. Then he read the
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