Chapter One
A Tea and a Half
The indoor plants were among the first to venture outside and
breathe the fresh, cold air of Mitford's early spring.
Eager for a dapple of sunlight, starved for the revival of mountain
breezes, dozens of begonias and ferns, Easter lilies and Wandering
Jews were set out, pot-bound and listless, on porches throughout the
village.
As the temperature soared into the low fifties, Winnie Ivey
thumped three begonias, a sullen gloxinia, and a Boston fern onto
the back steps of the house on Lilac Road, where she was now living.
Remembering the shamrock, which was covered with aphids, she
fetched it from the kitchen and set it on the railing.
"There!" she said, collecting a lungful of the sharp, pure air. "That
ought to fix th' lot of you."
When she opened the back door the following morning, she was
stricken at the sight. The carefully wintered plants had been turned
to mush by a stark raving freeze and minor snow that also wrenched
any notion of early bloom from the lilac bushes.
It was that blasted puzzle she'd worked until one o'clock in the
morning, which caused her to forget last night's weather news. There
she'd sat like a moron, her feet turning to ice as the temperature
plummeted, trying to figure out five letters across for a grove of trees.
Racked with guilt, she consoled herself with the fact that it had, at
least, been a chemical-free way to get rid of aphids.
At the hardware, Dora Pugh shook her head and sighed. Betrayed
by yesterday's dazzling sunshine, she had done display windows with
live baby chicks, wire garden fencing, seeds, and watering cans. Now
she might as well haul the snow shovels back and do a final clearance
on salt for driveways.
Coot Hendrick collected his bet of five dollars and an RC Cola
from Lew Boyd. "Ain't th' first time and won't be th' last you'll see
snow in May," he said, grinning. Lew Boyd hated it when Coot
grinned, showing his stubs for teeth. He mostly hated it that, concerning
weather in Mitford, the skeptics, cynics, and pessimists were
usually right.
"Rats!" said Cynthia Kavanagh, who had left a wet scatter rug
hanging over the rectory porch rail. Lifting it off the rail, she found it
frozen as a popsicle and able to stand perfectly upright.
Father Timothy Kavanagh, rector at the Chapel of our Lord and
Savior, had never heard such moaning and groaning about spring's
tedious delay, and encountered it even in Happy Endings Bookstore,
where, on yet another cold, overcast morning, he picked up a volume
entitled Hummingbirds in the Garden.
"Hummingbirds?" wailed young Hope Winchester, ringing the
sale. "What hummingbirds? I suppose you think a hummingbird
would dare stick its beak into this arctic tundra, this endless twilight,
this . this villatic barbican?"
"Villatic barbican" was a phrase she had learned only yesterday
from a book, and wanted to use it before she forgot it. She knew the
rector from Lord's Chapel was somebody she could use such words
with--he hadn't flinched when she said "empirical" only last week,
and seemed to know exactly what she was talking about.
While everyone else offered lamentations exceeding those of the
prophet Jeremiah, the rector felt smugly indifferent to complaints
that spring would never come. He had to admit, however, that last
Sunday was one of the few times he'd conducted an Easter service in
long johns and ski socks.
Turning up his collar, he leaned into a driving wind and headed
toward the office.
Hadn't winter dumped ice, snow, sleet, hail, and rainstorms on
the village since late October? Hadn't they been blanketed by fog so
thick you could cut it with a dull knife, time and time again?
With all that moisture seeping into the ground for so many long
months, didn't this foretell the most glorious springtime in years?
And wasn't that, after all, worth the endless assault?
"Absolutely!" he proclaimed aloud, trucking past the Irish Woolen
Shop. "No doubt about it!"
"See there?" said Hessie Mayhew, peering out the store window.
"It's got Father Tim talking to himself, it's that bad." She sighed.
"They say if sunlight doesn't get to your pineal glands for months on
end, your sex drive quits."
Minnie Lomax, who was writing sale tags for boiled wool
sweaters, looked up and blinked. "What do you know about pineal
glands?" She was afraid to ask what Hessie might know about sex
drive.
"What does anybody know about pineal glands?" asked Hessie,
looking gloomy.
Uncle Billy Watson opened his back door and, without leaving
the threshold, lifted the hanging basket off the nail and hauled it
inside.
"Look what you've gone and done to that geranium!" snapped his
wife of nearly fifty years. "I've petted that thing the winter long, and
now it's dead as a doornail."
The old man looked guilt-stricken. "B'fore I hung it out there, hit
was already gone south!"
"Shut my mouth? Did you say shut my mouth?" Miss Rose, who
refused to wear hearing aids, glared at him.
"I said gone south! Dead! Yeller leaves!"
He went to the kitchen radiator and thumped the hanging basket
on top. "There!" he said, disgusted with trying to have a garden in a
climate like this. "That'll fire it up again."
The rector noted the spears of hosta that had congregated in beds
outside the church office. Now, there, as far as spring was concerned,
was something you could count on. Hosta was as sturdy a plant as
you could put in the ground. Like the postman, neither sleet nor
snow could drive it back. Once out of the ground, up it came, fiercely
defiant--only, of course, to have its broad leaves shredded like so
much Swiss cheese by Mitford's summer hail.
"It's a jungle out there," he sighed, unlocking his office door.
*
After the snow flurry and freeze came a day of rain followed by a
sudden storm of sleet that pecked against the windows like a flock of
house sparrows.
His wife, he noted, looked pale. She was sitting at the study window,
staring at the infernal weather and chewing her bottom lip. She
was also biting the cuticle of her thumb, wrapping a strand of hair
around one finger, tapping her foot, and generally amusing herself.
He, meanwhile, was reading yet another new book and doing something
productive.
A low fire crackled on the hearth.
"Amazing!" he said. "You'd never guess one of the things that attracts
butterflies."
"I don't have a clue," said Cynthia, appearing not to want one, either.
The sleet gusted against the windowpanes.
"Birdbaths!" he exclaimed. No response. "Ditto with honeysuckle!"
He tried again. "Thinking about the Primrose Tea, are you?"
The second edition of his wife's famous parish-wide tea was coming
in less than two weeks. Last year at this time, she was living on a
stepladder, frantically repainting the kitchen and dining room, removing
his octogenarian drapes, and knocking holes in the plaster to
affect an "old Italian villa" look. Now here she was, staring out the
window without any visible concern for the countless lemon squares,
miniature quiches, vegetable sandwiches, and other items she'd need
to feed a hundred and twenty-five women, nearly all of whom would
look upon the tea as lunch.
His dog, Barnabas, ambled in and crashed by the hearth, as if
drugged.
Cynthia tapped her foot and drummed her fingers on the chair
arm. "Hmmm," she said.
"Hmmm what?"
She looked at him. "T.D.A."
"T.D.A.?"
"The Dreaded Armoire, dearest."
His heart pounded. Please, no. Not the armoire. "What about it?"
he asked, fearing the answer.
"It's time to move it into our bedroom from the guest room. Remember?
We said we were going to do it in the spring!" She smiled at
him suddenly, as she was wont to do, and her sapphire-colored eyes
gleamed. After a year and a half of marriage, how was it that a certain
look from her still made him weak in the knees?
"Aha."
"So!" she said, lifting her hands and looking earnest.
"So? So, it's not spring!" He got up from the sofa and pointed toward
the window. "See that? You call that spring? This, Kavanagh, is
as far from spring as . as ."
"As Trieste is from Wesley," she said, helping out, "or the Red Sea
from Mitford Creek." He could never get over the way her mind
worked. "But do not look at the weather, Timothy, look at the calendar!
May third!"
Last fall, they had hauled the enormous armoire down her stairs,
down her back steps, through the hedge, up his back steps, along the
hall, and finally up the staircase to the guest room, where he had
wanted nothing more than to fall prostrate on the rug.
Had she liked it in the guest room, after all that? No, indeed. She
had despised the very sight of it sitting there, and instantly came up
with a further plan, to be executed in the spring--all of which meant
more unloading of drawers and shelves, more lashing the doors
closed with a rope, and more hauling--this time across the landing
to their bedroom, where, he was convinced, it would tower over them
in the night like a five-story parking garage.
"What are you going to do about the tea?" he asked, hoping to
distract her.
"Not much at all 'til we get the armoire moved. You know how
they are, Timothy, they want to poke into every nook and cranny.
Last year, Hessie Mayhew was down on her very hands and knees,
peering into the laundry chute, I saw her with my own eyes. And
Georgia Moore opened every cabinet door in the kitchen, she said
she was looking for a water glass, when I know for a fact she was seeing
if the dishes were stacked to her liking. So, I certainly can't have
the armoire standing on that wall in the guest room where it is
clearly ." she paused and looked at him, "clearly out of place."
He was in for it.
*
He had managed to hold off the move for a full week, but in return
for the delay was required to make four pans of brownies (a specialty
since seminary), clean out the fireplace, black the andirons, and
prune the overgrown forsythia at the dining room windows.
Not bad, considering.
On Saturday morning before the big event the following Friday,
he rose early, prayed, studied Paul's first letter to the Corinthians, and
sat with his sermon notes; then he ran two miles with Barnabas on his
red leash, and returned home fit for anything.
His heart still pounding from the final sprint across Baxter Park,
he burst into the kitchen, which smelled of lemons, cinnamon, and
freshly brewed coffee. "Let's do it!" he cried.
And get it over with, he thought.
*
The drawers were out, the shelves were emptied, the doors were
lashed shut with a rope. This time, they were dragging it across the
floor on a chenille bedspread, left behind by a former rector.
". a better way of life."
Cynthia looked up. "What did you say, dearest?"
"I didn't say anything."
"Mack Stroupe will bring improvement, not change ."
They stepped to the open window of the stair landing and looked
down to the street. A new blue pickup truck with a public address
system was slowly cruising along Wisteria Lane, hauling a sign in the
bed. Mack for Mitford, it read, Mitford for Mack.
". improvement, not change. So, think about it, friends and
neighbors. And remember--here in Mitford, we already have the good life.
With Mack as Mayor, we'll all have a better life!" A loud blast of country
music followed: "If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for
anything. ."
She looked at her husband. "Mack Stroupe! Please, no."
He wrinkled his brow and frowned. "This is May. Elections aren't
'til November."
"Starting a mite early."
"I'll say," he agreed, feeling distinctly uneasy.
*
"He's done broke th' noise ordinance," said Chief Rodney Underwood,
hitching up his gun belt.
Rodney had stepped to the back of the Main Street Grill to say
hello to the early morning regulars in the rear booth. "Chapter five,
section five-two in the Mitford Code of Ordinance lays it out. No PA
systems for such a thing as political campaigns."
"Startin' off his public career as a pure criminal," said Mule Skinner.
"Which is th' dadgum law of the land for politicians!" Mitford
Muse editor J. C. Hogan mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
"Well, no harm done. I slapped a warning on 'im, that ordinance
is kind of new. Used to, politicians was haulin' a PA up and down th'
street, ever' whichaway."
"What about that truck with the sign?" asked Father Tim.
"He can haul th' sign around all he wants to, but th' truck has to
keep movin'. If he parks it on town property, I got 'im. I can run 'im
in and he can go to readin' Southern Livin'." The local jail was the
only detention center the rector ever heard of that kept neat stacks ofSouthern Living magazine in the cells.
"I hate to see a feller make a fool of hisself," said Rodney. "Ain'tnobody can whip Esther Cunningham--an' if you say I said that, I'll
say you lied."
"Right," agreed Mule.
"Course, she has told it around that one of these days, her an' Ray
are takin' off in th' RV and leave th' mayorin' to somebody else."
Mule shook his head. "Fifteen years is a long time to be hog-tied
to a thankless job, all right."
"Is that Mack's new truck?" asked Father Tim. As far he knew,
Mack never had two cents to rub together, as his hotdog stand across
from the gas station didn't seem to rake in much business.
"I don't know whose truck it is, it sure couldn't be Mack's. Well, I
ain't got all day to loaf, like you boys." Rodney headed for the register
to pick up his breakfast order. "See you in th' funny papers."
J.C. scowled. "I don't know that I'd say nobody can whip Esther.
Mack's for improvement, and we're due for a little improvement
around here, if you ask me."
"Nobody asked you," said Mule.
*
Father Tim dialed the number from his office. "Mayor!"
"So it's the preacher, is it? I've been lookin' for you."
"What's going on?"
"If that low-down scum thinks he can run me out of office, he's
got another think coming."
"Does this mean you're not going to quit and take off with Ray in
the RV?"
"Shoot! That's what I say just to hear my head roar. Listen--you
don't think the bum has a chance, do you?"
"To tell the truth, Esther, I believe he does have a chance. ."
Esther's voice lowered. "You do?"
"About the same chance as a snowball in July."
She laughed uproariously and then sobered. "Of course, there isone way that Mack Stroupe could come in here and sit behind th'
mayor's desk."
He was alarmed. "Really?"
"But only one. And that's over my dead body."
*
Something new was going on at home nearly every day.
On Tuesday evening, he found a large, framed watercolor hanging
in the rectory's once-gloomy hallway. It was of Violet, Cynthia's white
cat and the heroine of the award-winning children's books created by
his unstoppable wife. Violet sat on a brocade cloth, peering into a
vase filled with nasturtiums and a single, wide-eyed goldfish.
"Stunning!" he said. "Quite a change."
"Call it an improvement," she said, pleased.
On Wednesday, he found new chintz draperies in the dining
room and parlor, which gave the place a dazzling elegance that fairly
bowled him over. But--hadn't they agreed that neither would spend
more than a hundred bucks without the other's consent?
She read his mind. "So, the draperies cost five hundred, but since
the watercolor is worth that and more on the current market, it's a
wash."
"Aha."
"I'm also doing one of Barnabas, for your study. Which means,"
she said, "that the family coffers will respond by allotting new
draperies for our bedroom."
"You're a bookkeeping whiz, Kavanagh. But why new draperies
when we're retiring in eighteen months?"
"I've had them made so they can go anywhere and fit any kind of
windows. If worse comes to worst, I'll remake them into summer
dresses, and vestments for my clergyman."
"That's the spirit!"
Why did he feel his wife could get away with anything where he
was concerned? Was it because he'd waited sixty-two years, like a
stalled ox, to fall in love and marry?
*
If he and Cynthia had written a detailed petition on a piece of
paper and sent it heavenward, the weather couldn't have been more
glorious on the day of the talked-about tea.
Much to everyone's relief, the primroses actually bloomed. However,
no sooner had the eager blossoms appeared than Hessie Mayhew
bore down on them with a vengeance, in yards and hidden
nooks everywhere. She knew precisely the location of every cluster of
primroses in the village, not to mention the exact whereabouts of
each woods violet, lilac bush, and pussy willow.
"It's Hessie!" warned an innocent bystander on Hessie's early
morning run the day of the tea. "Stand back!"
Armed with a collection of baskets that she wore on her arms like
so many bracelets, Hessie did not allow help from the Episcopal
Church Women, nor any of her own presbyters. She worked alone,
she worked fast, and she worked smart.
After going at a trot through neighborhood gardens, huffing up
Old Church Lane to a secluded bower of early-blooming shrubs, and
combing four miles of country roadside, she showed up at the back
door of the rectory at precisely eleven a.m., looking triumphant.
Sodden with morning dew and black dirt, she delivered a vast
quantity of flowers, moss, and grapevine into the hands of the rector's
house help, Puny Guthrie, then flew home to bathe, dress, and put
antibiotic cream on her knees, which were skinned when she leaned
over to pick a wild trillium and fell sprawling.
The Episcopal Church Women, who had arrived as one body at
ten-thirty, flew into the business of arranging "Hessie's truck," as they
called it, while Barnabas snored in the garage and Violet paced in her
carrier.
"Are you off?" asked Cynthia, as the rector came at a trot through
the hectic kitchen.
"Off and running. I finished polishing the mail slot, tidying the
slipcover on the sofa, and trimming the lavender by the front walk. I
also beat the sofa pillows for any incipient dust and coughed for a full
five minutes."
"Well done!" she said cheerily, giving him a hug.
"I'll be home at one-thirty to help the husbands park cars."
Help the husbands park cars? he thought as he sprinted toward
the office. He was a husband! After all these months, the thought still
occasionally slammed him in the solar plexus and took his breath
away.
*
Nine elderly guests, including the Kavanaghs' friend Louella, arrived
in the van from Hope House and were personally escorted up
the steps of the rectory and into the hands of the Altar Guild.
Up and down Wisteria Lane, men with armbands stitched with
primroses and a Jerusalem cross directed traffic, which quickly grew
snarled. At one point, the rector leaped into a stalled Chevrolet and
managed to roll it to the curb. Women came in car pools, husbands
dropped off spouses, daughters delivered mothers, and all in all, the
narrow street was as congested as a carnival in Rio.
"This is th' biggest thing to hit Mitford since th' blizzard two years
ago," said Mule Skinner, who was a Baptist, but offered to help out,
anyway.
The rector laughed. "That's one way to look at it." Didn't anybody
ever walk in this town?
"Look here?
It was Mack Stroupe in that blasted pickup truck, carting his sign
around in their tea traffic. Mack rolled by, chewing on a toothpick
and looking straight ahead.
"You comin' to the Primrose Tea?" snapped Mule. "If not, get this
vehicle out of here, we're tryin' to conduct a church function!"
Four choir members, consisting of a lyric soprano, a mezzo soprano,
and two altos, arrived in a convertible, looking windblown
and holding on to their hats.
"Hats is a big thing this year," observed Uncle Billy Watson, who
stood at the curb with Miss Rose and watched the proceedings. Uncle
Billy was the only man who showed up at last year's tea, and now
considered his presence at the event to be a tradition.
Uncle Billy walked out to the street with the help of his cane and
tapped Father Tim on the shoulder. "Hit's like a Chiney puzzle, don't
you know. If you 'uns'd move that'n off to th' side and git that'n to th'
curb, hit'd be done with."
"No more parking on Wisteria," Ron Malcolm reported to the
rector. "We'll direct the rest of the crowd to the church lot and shoot
'em back here in the Hope House van."
A UPS driver, who had clearly made an unwise turn onto Wisteria,
sat in his truck in front of the rectory, stunned by the sight of so
much traffic on the usually uneventful Holding/Mitford/Wesley run.
"Hit's what you call a standstill," Uncle Billy told J. C. Hogan,
who showed up with his Nikon and six rolls of Tri-X.
As traffic started to flow again, the rector saw Mack Stroupe turn
onto Wisteria Lane from Church Hill. Clearly, he was circling the
block.
"I'd like to whop him upside th' head with a two-by-four," said
Mule. He glared at Mack, who was reared back in the seat with both
windows down, listening to a country music station. Mack waved to
several women, who immediately turned their heads.
Mule snorted. "Th' dumb so-and-so! How would you like to have
that peckerwood for mayor?"
The rector wiped his perspiring forehead. "Watch your blood
pressure, buddyroe."
"He says he's goin' to campaign straight through spring and summer,
right up to election in November. Kind of like bein' tortured by
a drippin' faucet."
As the truck passed, Emma Newland stomped over. "I ought to
climb in that truck and slap his jaws. What's he doin', anyway, trying
to sway church people to his way of thinkin'?"
"Let him be," Father Tim cautioned his secretary and on-line
computer whiz. After all, give Mack enough rope and .
*
Cynthia was lying in bed, moaning, as he came out of the shower.
He went into the bedroom, hastily drying off.
"Why are you moaning?" he asked, alarmed.
"Because it helps relieve exhaustion. I hope the windows are
closed so the neighbors can't hear."
"The only neighbor close enough to hear is no longer living in the
little yellow house next door. She is, in fact, lying right here, doing
the moaning."
She moaned again. "Moaning is good," she told him, her face
mashed into the pillow. "You should try it."
"I don't think so," he said.
Warm as a steamed clam from the shower, he put on his pajamas
and sat on the side of the bed. "I'm proud of you," he said, rubbing
her back. "That was a tea-and-a-half! The best! In fact, words fail.
You'll have a time topping that one."
"Don't tell me I'm supposed to top it!"
"Yes, well, not to worry. Next year, we can have Omer Cunningham
and his pilot buddies do a flyover. That'll give the ladies something
to talk about." He'd certainly given all of Mitford something to
talk about last May when he flew to Virginia with Omer in his ragwing
taildragger. Four hours in Omer's little plane had gained him
more credibility than thirty-six years in the pulpit.
"A little farther down," his wife implored. "Ugh. My lower back is
killing me from all the standing and baking."
"I got the reviews as your guests left."
"Only tell me the good ones. I don't want to hear about the cheese
straws, which were as limp as linguine."
"`Perfect' was a word they bandied around quite a bit, and the
lemon squares, of course, got their usual share of raves. Some wanted
me to know how charming they think you are, and others made lavish
remarks about your youth and beauty."
He leaned down and kissed her shoulder, inhaling the faintest
scent of wisteria. "You are beautiful, Kavanagh."
"Thanks."
"I don't suppose there are any special thanks you'd like to offer the
poor rube who helped unsnarl four thousand three hundred and
seventy-nine cars, trucks, and vans?"
She rolled over and looked at him, smiling. Then she held her
head to one side in that way he couldn't resist, and pulled him to her
and kissed him tenderly.
"Now you're talking," he said.
The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
Dooley! "Hey, yourself, buddy."
"Is Cynthia sending me a box of stuff she made for that tea? I can't
talk long."
"Two boxes. Went off today."
"Man! Thanks!"
"You're welcome. How's school?"
"Great."
Great? Dooley Barlowe was not one to use superlatives. "No kidding?"
"You're going to like my grades."
Was this the little guy he'd struggled to raise for nearly three years?
The Dooley who always shot himself in the foot? The self-assured
sound of the boy's voice made his hair fairly stand on end.
"We're going to like you coming home, even better. In just six or
seven weeks, you'll be here . . . . "
Silence. Was Dooley dreading to tell him he wanted to spend the
summer at Meadowgate Farm? The boy's decision to do that last year
had nearly broken his heart, not to mention Cynthia's. They had, of
course, gotten over it, as they watched the boy doing what he loved
best--learning more about veterinary medicine at the country practice
of Hal Owen.
"Of course," said the rector, pushing on, "we want you to go out
to Meadowgate, if that's what you'd like to do." He swallowed. This
year, he was stronger, he could let go.
"OK," said Dooley, "that's what I'd like to do."
"Fine. No problem. I'll call you tomorrow for our usual phone
visit. We love you."
"I love you back."
"Here's Cynthia."
"Hey," she said.
"Hey, yourself." It was their family greeting.
"So, you big galoot, we sent a box for you and one to share with
your friends."
"What's in it?"
"Lemon squares."
"I like lemon squares."
"Plus raspberry tarts, pecan truffles, and brownies made by the
preacher."
"Thanks."
"Are you OK?"
"Yes."
"No kidding?"
"Yep."
"Good!" said Cynthia. "Lace Turner asked about you the other
day."
"That dumb girl that dresses like a guy?"
"She doesn't dress like a guy anymore. Oh, and your friend Jenny
was asking about you, too."
"How's Tommy?"
"Missing you. Just as we do. So hurry home, even if you are going
to spend the summer at Meadowgate, you big creep."
Dooley cackled.
"We love you."
"I love you back."
Cynthia placed the receiver on the hook, smiling happily.
"Now, you poor rube," she said, "where were we?"
*
He sat on the study sofa and took the rubber band off the Mitford
Muse.
Good grief! There he was on the front page, standing bewildered
in front of the UPS truck with his nose looking, as usual, like a turnip
or a tulip bulb. Why did J. C. Hogan run this odious picture, when
he might have photographed his hardworking, good-looking, and
thoroughly deserving wife?
Primrose Tee Draws
Stand-Out Crowd
Clearly, Hessie had not written this story, which on first glance
appeared to be about golf, but had given her notes to J.C., who
forged ahead without checking his spelling.
Good time had by all . same time next year . a hundred and
thirty guests . nine gallons of tea, ten dozen lemon squares, eight
dozen raspberry tarts . traffic jam .
The phone gave a sharp blast.
"Hello?"
"Timothy ."
"Hal! I've just been thinking of you and Marge."
"Good. And we of you. I've got some . hard news, and wanted
you to know."
Hal and Marge Owen were two of his closest, most valued friends.
He was afraid to know.
"I've just hired a full-time assistant."
"That's the bad news? It sounds good to me, you work like a
Trojan."
"Yes, but . we won't be able to have Dooley this summer. My
assistant is a young fellow, just starting out, and I'll have to give him
a lot of time and attention. Also, we're putting him up in Dooley's
room until he gets established." Hal sighed.
"But that's terrific. We know Dooley looked forward to being at
Meadowgate--however, circumstances alter cases, as my Mississippi
kin used to say."
"There's a large riding stable coming in about a mile down the
road, they've asked me to vet the horses. That could be a full-time job
right there."
"I understand. Of course. Your practice is growing."
"We'll miss the boy, Tim, you know how we feel about him, how
Rebecca Jane loves him. But look, we'll have him out to stay the first
two weeks he's home from school--if that works for you."
"Absolutely."
"Oh, and Tim ."
"Yes?"
"Will you tell him?"
"I will. I'll talk to him about it, get him thinking of what to do
this summer. Be good for him."
"So why don't you and Cynthia plan to spend the day when you
bring him out? Bring Barnabas, too. Marge will make your favorite."
Deep-dish chicken pie, with a crust like French pastry. "We'll be
there!" he said, meaning it.
*
"Will you tell him?" he asked Cynthia.
"No way," she said.
Nobody wanted to tell Dooley Barlowe that he couldn't spend the
summer doing what he loved more than anything on earth.
*
She opened her eyes and rolled over to find him sitting up in bed.
"Oh, my dear! Oh, my goodness! What happened?"
He loved the look on his wife's face; he wanted to savor it. "It's
already turned a few colors," he said, removing his hand from his right
temple.
She peered at him as if he were a butterfly on a pin. "Yes! Black .
and blue and . the tiniest bit of yellow."
"My old school colors," he said.
"But what happened?" He never heard such tsking and gasping.
"T.D.A.," he replied.
"The Dreaded Armoire? What do you mean?"
"I mean that I got up in the middle of the night, in the dark, and
went out to the landing and opened the windows to give Barnabas a
cool breeze. As I careened through the bedroom on my way to the
bathroom, I slammed into the blasted thing."
"Oh, no! Oh, heavens. What can I do? And tomorrow's Sunday!"
"Spousal abuse," he muttered. "In today's TV news climate, my
congregation will pick up on it immediately."
"Timothy, dearest, I'm so sorry. I'll get something for you, I don't
know what, but something. Just stay right there and don't move."
She put on her slippers and robe and flew downstairs, Barnabas
barking at her heels.
T.D.A. might stand for "The Dreaded Armoire" as far as his wife
was concerned. As far as he was concerned, it stood for something
else entirely.
