hold your breath on that deal,” said Mule.
Sophia came over and hugged the rector around the neck, as Liza clasped his waist and clung for a moment. “We love you, Father,” said Sophia. He leaned down and kissed Liza on the forehead.
“Lord have mercy,” said Mule, as Liza and Sophia left. “I don’t know what these people will do when you retire. I hate t‘ think about it.”
“Then don’t,” snapped the rector.
He saw the surprised look on his friend’s face. He hadn’t meant to use that tone of voice.
“Line up and collect your baskets,” hollered Esther Cunningham, “and hot foot it out of here! This is not a cold-cut dinner you’re deliverin‘.”
The delivery squad obediently queued up at the kitchen door.
“If you could knock th‘ Baptists out of this deal,” said Charlie Tucker, “we’d have somethin’ left to go in these baskets. Baptists eat like they’re bein‘ raptured before dark.”
“It wasn’t the Baptists who gobbled up the turkey,” said Esther Bolick, appearing to know.
“Well, it sure wasn’t the Methodists,” retorted Jena Ivey, taking it personally. “We like fried chicken!”
“It was the dadgum Lutherans!” announced Mule, picking up the basket for Coot Hendrick’s mother. “Outlanders from Wesley!”
Everyone howled with laughter, including the Lutherans, who had personally observed the Episcopalians eating enough turkey to sink an oil freighter.
Abner Hickman came in the back door of the parish hall, returned from taking his kids home.
“Y‘all want to see a sunset?”
A little murmur of excitement ran through the cleanup crew. Mitford was a place where showy sunsets were valued.
“Better get up to th‘ wall,” declared Abner, “and step on it.”
Esther Bolick parked her carpet sweeper in a corner. “Drop everything and let’s go! Life is short.”
They piled into vans and cars and screeched out of the parking lot, gunning their engines all the way to the steep crest of Old Church Lane, where they tumbled out and raced to the stone wall that overlooked the Land of Counterpane.
“Good heavens!”
“That’s a big ‘un, all right.”
Little by little, the sharp intakes of breath and the murmurs and whooping subsided, and they stood there, lined up along the wall, gazing at the wonder of a sunset that blazed across the heavens. Where the sun was sinking, the skies ran with molten crimson that spread above the mountains like watercolor, changing to orange and pink, lavender and gold. A cool fire of platinum rimmed the profile of Gabriel Mountain and the dark, swelling ridges on either side.
He put one arm around Dooley’s shoulders and the other around Cynthia’s waist. The fullness of his heart was inexpressible.
All is safely gathered in ...
He knew it could not always be this way. No, nothing ever remained the same. If he had learned anything in life, he had learned that such moments were fragile beyond knowing.
Ere the winter storms begin ...
CHAPTER FOUR
Passing the Torch
THE LIGHT from the street lamp in front of the rectory shone through the hall window, reflected into the mirror at the top of his dresser, and bounced softly onto the bedroom ceiling.
Because a mimosa tree had grown up beside the old street lamp, the light gleamed through its leaves, casting shadows overhead. He could tell when a breeze was up, as the shadow of the leaves danced above him.
“Timothy?”
“Hmmm?”
Cynthia turned over and lay facing him. “I can feel you lying there stiff as a board. Something’s on your mind, I just know it. Can’t you tell me?”
He didn’t want to say it to himself, much less to anyone else. “It’s Dooley.”
“Yes.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“I’ve been wondering that, too.”
“He’s different. Was I so wrong to send him away to school?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “At least he isn’t saying ‘ain’t.’ But that’s no consolation.”
“God’s truth, as much as I
Sophia came over and hugged the rector around the neck, as Liza clasped his waist and clung for a moment. “We love you, Father,” said Sophia. He leaned down and kissed Liza on the forehead.
“Lord have mercy,” said Mule, as Liza and Sophia left. “I don’t know what these people will do when you retire. I hate t‘ think about it.”
“Then don’t,” snapped the rector.
He saw the surprised look on his friend’s face. He hadn’t meant to use that tone of voice.
“Line up and collect your baskets,” hollered Esther Cunningham, “and hot foot it out of here! This is not a cold-cut dinner you’re deliverin‘.”
The delivery squad obediently queued up at the kitchen door.
“If you could knock th‘ Baptists out of this deal,” said Charlie Tucker, “we’d have somethin’ left to go in these baskets. Baptists eat like they’re bein‘ raptured before dark.”
“It wasn’t the Baptists who gobbled up the turkey,” said Esther Bolick, appearing to know.
“Well, it sure wasn’t the Methodists,” retorted Jena Ivey, taking it personally. “We like fried chicken!”
“It was the dadgum Lutherans!” announced Mule, picking up the basket for Coot Hendrick’s mother. “Outlanders from Wesley!”
Everyone howled with laughter, including the Lutherans, who had personally observed the Episcopalians eating enough turkey to sink an oil freighter.
Abner Hickman came in the back door of the parish hall, returned from taking his kids home.
“Y‘all want to see a sunset?”
A little murmur of excitement ran through the cleanup crew. Mitford was a place where showy sunsets were valued.
“Better get up to th‘ wall,” declared Abner, “and step on it.”
Esther Bolick parked her carpet sweeper in a corner. “Drop everything and let’s go! Life is short.”
They piled into vans and cars and screeched out of the parking lot, gunning their engines all the way to the steep crest of Old Church Lane, where they tumbled out and raced to the stone wall that overlooked the Land of Counterpane.
“Good heavens!”
“That’s a big ‘un, all right.”
Little by little, the sharp intakes of breath and the murmurs and whooping subsided, and they stood there, lined up along the wall, gazing at the wonder of a sunset that blazed across the heavens. Where the sun was sinking, the skies ran with molten crimson that spread above the mountains like watercolor, changing to orange and pink, lavender and gold. A cool fire of platinum rimmed the profile of Gabriel Mountain and the dark, swelling ridges on either side.
He put one arm around Dooley’s shoulders and the other around Cynthia’s waist. The fullness of his heart was inexpressible.
All is safely gathered in ...
He knew it could not always be this way. No, nothing ever remained the same. If he had learned anything in life, he had learned that such moments were fragile beyond knowing.
Ere the winter storms begin ...
CHAPTER FOUR
Passing the Torch
THE LIGHT from the street lamp in front of the rectory shone through the hall window, reflected into the mirror at the top of his dresser, and bounced softly onto the bedroom ceiling.
Because a mimosa tree had grown up beside the old street lamp, the light gleamed through its leaves, casting shadows overhead. He could tell when a breeze was up, as the shadow of the leaves danced above him.
“Timothy?”
“Hmmm?”
Cynthia turned over and lay facing him. “I can feel you lying there stiff as a board. Something’s on your mind, I just know it. Can’t you tell me?”
He didn’t want to say it to himself, much less to anyone else. “It’s Dooley.”
“Yes.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“I’ve been wondering that, too.”
“He’s different. Was I so wrong to send him away to school?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “At least he isn’t saying ‘ain’t.’ But that’s no consolation.”
“God’s truth, as much as I
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