"Yes, she mentioned that to me."

"She asked me to name the pieces I bought from you, and was eager to learn whether anything was left in the attic. I told her no, it had all been cleaned out and given away. She asked whether relatives had taken anything, and I said I didn't really know."

"Curious."

"I thought so," said Andrew. "And by the way, your money doesn't spend here."

Andrew's wife joined them from the kitchen, looking flushed and happy.

"Put away, put back," said Anna, indicating his wallet. He thought Andrew's Italian bride of two years, who had come from the village of Lucera, bore a breathtaking resemblance to Sophia Loren.

"But . . ."

"It's our gift to you, our farewell present," Andrew insisted.

"Well, then. Thank you. Thank you so much! You've made a great contribution to Mitford, Miss Sadie would be proud to see Fernbank filled with light and laughter. Anna, Andrew-'til we meet again."

"Ciao!" cried Anna, throwing her arms around him and kissing both his cheeks. He loved Italians. "Go with God!"

"Father!" It was Tony, Anna's younger brother and Lucera's chef, running from the kitchen in his white hat and splattered apron. "Grazie al cielo! I thought I'd missed you!"

Tony embraced him vigorously, kissed both cheeks, then stood back and gripped his shoulders. Father Tim didn't know when he'd seen a handsomer fellow in Mitford. "Ciao!" said Tony, his dark eyes bright with feeling. "God be with you!"

"And also with you, my friend."

"Ciao!" they shouted from the car to Andrew and Anna, who came out to the porch as they drove away from Fernbank, away from the grand old house with the grand new life.

He was driving on the Parkway with the top down, when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw his Buick pulling up behind him.

Who was the driver? It was Dooley, with Barnabas sitting in the seat beside him, looking straight ahead.

Dooley was grinning from ear to ear; he could see him distinctly. Yet, when he looked again, the car was gone, vanished.

He woke up, peering into the darkness.

Two a.m., according to the clock by their bed. He sighed.

"Are you awake?" asked Cynthia.

"I had a dream."

"About what?"

"Dooley. He was driving my Buick."

"Oh. I can't sleep, I can never sleep before a long trip." She sighed, and he reached over and patted her shoulder.

"Maybe I could give Dooley the Buick next year. He could pay something for it, two or three thousand. . . ."

"Umm," she said.

Suddenly he had a brilliant idea. Not everybody could wake in the middle of the night and think so cleverly.

"Tell you what. Why don't I give you the Buick, and you let Dooley pay you a few thousand for the Mazda. I think he'd like your car better. It's newer, has more . . . youthful styling."

"Not on your life," she said. "I may be a preacher's wife, but I did not take a vow of poverty."

"Cynthia, the Buick drives like a dream."

"Dream on," she said. His wife was stubborn as a mule.

"It never needs any work."

"It is fourteen years old, the paint is faded, and there's rust on the right fender. The upholstery on the driver's side is smithereens, a church fan works better than the air conditioner, and it reeks of mildew."

He sighed. "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?"

She giggled.

He rolled over to her and they assumed their easy spoon position, which someone had called "the staple consolation of the marriage bed." She felt warm and easy in his arms.

"Listen," he said.

"To what?"

"I heard something just then. Music, I think."

They lay very still. The lightest notes from a piano floated through the window.

"A piano," he said.

"Chopin," she murmured.

Moments later, he heard her whiffling snore, found it calming, and fell asleep.

Hammer and tong.

That's how they were going at it in the yellow house.

The plan was to get on the road by eight o'clock, which was when Dooley reported to The Local.

Excited about the idea that had come to him in the dream, Father Tim asked Dooley to help tote the last of the cargo to the curb, where Violet was already in her cage on the rear floor of the Mustang.

The top was down, the day was bright and promising, and Barnabas had been walked around the monument at a trot.

"Ah!" Father Tim inhaled the summer morning air, then turned to Dooley, grinning.

"You're pretty happy," said Dooley.

"I'm happy to tell you that next summer, with only a modest outlay of funds on your part, Cynthia and I would like to make you the proud owner of . . . the Buick."

Dooley looked stunned.

"I ain't drivin' that thing!" he said, reverting to local vernacular and obviously highly insulted.

They were standing on the sidewalk as the Lord's Chapel bells chimed eight.

Puny and the twins were first in line, and he was up to bat.

"Say bye-bye to Granpaw," urged Puny.

"Bye-bye, Ba," said Sissy. She reached out to him, nearly sprawling out of Puny's arms.

He plucked her from her mother and held her, kissing her forehead. "God be with you, Sissy."

Her green eyes brimmed with tears. "Come back, Ba."

He set her down on chubby legs, wondering how he could go through with this. . . .

He hoisted the plump, sober Sassy, who was chewing a piece of toast, and kissed the damp tousle of red hair. "God's blessings, Sassy." Barnabas, who was sitting patiently on the sidewalk, licked Sissy's face.

Puny was openly bawling. Blast. He took it like a man and gave her a hug, feeling her great steadfastness, smelling the starch in her blouse, loving her goodness to him over the years. "You're always in our prayers," he told her, hoarse with feeling.

Puny wiped her nose with the hem of her apron. "We'll miss you."

"We'll be back before you know it."

Puny and the children fled into the yellow house, as Cynthia stood on tiptoe and gave Dooley a hug. "Take care of yourself, you big lug."

"I will."

"And write. Or call. A lot!"

"I will."

Father Tim clasped the boy to him, then stood back and gazed at him intently. "I'm counting on you to help Harley hold things together around here."

"Yes, sir. I will."

"We love you."

"I love you back." Dooley said it fair and square, looking them in the eye. Then he turned and ran to his red bicycle, leaped on it, and pedaled toward Main Street. Before he reached the corner, he stopped, looked back, and waved. "'Bye, Cynthia, 'bye, Dad!"

They waved as Dooley disappeared around the rhododendron bush.

Father Tim jingled the keys in his hand. "Harley, reckon you can sell the Buick for me?"

Harley looked skeptical, scratched his head, and gazed at the sidewalk.

"Would you . . . like to drive it while I'm gone?"

"Rev'rend, I 'preciate th' offer, but I'll stick to m' truck."

"Aha." Clearly, he had a vehicle he couldn't even give away, much less sell.

"Well, Harley . . ." He put his arm around the shoulders of the small, frail man who was now holding down the fort.

"Rev'rend, Cynthia . . . th' Lord go with you." Harley's chin trembled, and he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"'Bye, Harley," said Cynthia. "We love you."

Father Tim opened the passenger door and put the seat forward. "Come on, fellow, get in."

Barnabas leaped onto the leather seat, sniffed Violet's cage, and lay down, looking doleful.

"Don't even think about crying," he told his wife as they climbed in the car.

"The wind in our hair . . . ," she said, laughing through the tears.

He started the engine. "The cry of gulls wheeling above us . . ."

"The smell of salt air!"

He turned around in a driveway at the end of Wisteria Lane. Man alive, he liked the way this thing handled, and the seat . . . the seat felt like an easy chair.

They waved to Harley, who was rooted to the spot and waving back.

After hooking a right on Main Street, he drove slowly, as if they were a parade car. J. C. Hogan was just trotting into the Grill.

Father Tim hammered down on the horn and J.C. looked up, dumbstruck, as they waved.

Then he stepped on the gas and whipped around the monument, consciously avoiding a glance in the rearview mirror.

CHAPTER FOUR.

The Smell of Salt Air He was loving this.

"You're loving this!"crowed his wife.

He couldn't remember ever having such a sense of perfect freedom; he felt light as air, quick as mercury, transparent as glass.

And hot as blazes.