"It's certainly where her map led us, and the sign above the door said . . ." He sighed, dumbfounded.

"Let's try a lamp. Maybe the power's back on." It wasn't.

Barnabas sniffed the rugs and the sofa, with special interest in an unseen trail that led to the hallway. They followed him, numb with disappointment and fatigue.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator door stood ajar, as did several cabinet doors.

"Ugh!" she said. "I can't believe they'd do this to us. Surely they didn't think we were coming next week. Remember we originally told them it would be next week. Maybe somehow they got confused and the cleaning hasn't been done, yet. . . ." Her voice trailed off.

She was trying, but he wasn't buying. He wouldn't live in this dump if they sent the cleaning crew from the Ritz-Carlton in Paris, France. Just wait 'til he got hold of the senior warden. He'd had a round or two with senior wardens in his time; he was no babe in the woods when it came to what's what with senior wardens. . . .

"The phone, there must be a phone around here. We can call the Fieldwalkers, shine the light around."

They found a wall phone on the other side of the cabinets, but the line was dead.

"The bedrooms," she said, desperate.

At the end of the hallway, which was covered by a Persian runner, they found a cavernous bedroom, and surveyed it with the flashlight. Closet doors standing agape . . . windows open . . . curtains blowing . . . the bed made, but sopping wet.

"This can't be right, they wouldn't do this to us." He could tell his wife was teetering on the edge of hysteria. "Wait 'til I get my hands on that fine bishop of yours who would send you out to some . . . uninhabited wasteland, after the years of faithful service you've given him.

"That . . . that vainglorious dog!"

"Nothing personal," he told Barnabas, who was sniffing the closets.

Because they hadn't known what else to do at nearly midnight on a strange, dark island with no lights and no phone, they made the double bed in the guest room and got in it, Barnabas on the floor on one side and Violet in her open crate on the other, where his inconsolable wife sighed and fumed herself to sleep as he lay staring at the pale circle cast by the flashlight onto the ceiling, muttering words and thinking thoughts he never dreamed he would say or think, and feeling distinctly waterlogged even in a perfectly dry pair of pajamas from his bureau in Mitford, thanks be to God for small favors.

CHAPTER FIVE.

A Patch of Blue He sat up in bed, dazed.

Where in heaven's name . . . ?

Barnabas barked wildly, and someone was knocking on a door. As the room came into focus, he remembered the predicament they were in, and counted it odd that one should wake to, rather than from, a nightmare.

He glanced at his watch-seven o'clock-and bolted into the hallway without robe or slippers. He padded through the dark, paneled living room and opened the door, feeling anger rise in him again.

"Father? Father Kavanagh?"

"Yes!" he snapped, buttoning his pajama top.

"Sam Fieldwalker, sir, your senior warden." The tall, gentle-looking man appeared deeply puzzled.

"Sam . . ." He shook hands as Barnabas sniffed the stranger's shoes.

"We saw your car out front, and . . . well, you see, we waited for you and Mrs. Kavanagh 'til eleven o'clock last night-"

"Waited? Where?"

"In your cottage. Over there." He pointed off the porch.

"You mean . . . this isn't our cottage?"

"Well, no. I'm terribly sorry, I don't know how . . . it must have been the storm and no lights to see by . . ."

"The wrong cottage!" shouted his wife, peering around the hall door in her nightgown. "Thank heaven!"

Sam let Barnabas sniff his hand. "There you are, old fellow, smelling our little Bitsy. My gracious, Father, you all have a dog and a half there!"

"But that sign . . . ," said Cynthia, "that sign above the door . . ."

Sam glanced up, adjusting his glasses. "Oh, my goodness. Of course. Well, you see, this is one of the old Love Cottages. . . ."

Cynthia looked fierce. "It certainly doesn't live up to its name!"

"It's owned by the Redmon Love family, who started coming here in the forties. Gracious sakes, Father, Mrs. Kavanagh, I can't begin to tell you how sorry . . ."

Father Tim thought Sam Fieldwalker might burst into tears.

"Oh, no, please," he said. "I don't know how we could have thought for a moment . . . well, you see, it was dark as pitch, and we couldn't find the street sign in the hedge, the one Marion told us to look for. . . ."

"Ah, now I'm getting a clear picture!" Sam brightened considerably. "You turned into Love's old driveway, which is wide enough to look like a street-property wasn't so dear in the forties-and, of course, there's a shabby hedge bordering their property, as well. Oh, my, I'm sure Marion never thought of that."

"No harm done! We're glad the mystery is solved. But do the Loves always leave their house unlocked?"

"Hardly anyone on Whitecap locks their doors. And, of course, the Love children and their kids come and go during the summer, though not so much anymore."

"Aha." The sunlight was dazzling, his glasses were by the bed, and he was squinting like a monk at vespers.

"Let me help you move your things, Father. Marion's waiting at Dove Cottage to show you around and cook your breakfast. She's baking biscuits. . . ."

He felt covered with shame. How could he have mistrusted this kind person, believing even for a moment that this was the right cottage? Lord, forgive me.

". . . and," Sam continued, looking earnest, "she's found some nice, fresh perch, if . . . if that's all right."

At that moment, Father Tim heard his stomach rumble, and, at the thought of Marion Fieldwalker's fresh perch and biscuits, felt close to tears himself.

Marion met them on the porch of Dove Cottage, a tall, large-boned woman in an apron, with a pleasant face and snow-white hair like her husband.

"In case you'd taken the ferry," said Marion, "we waited 'til eleven. Then, when you didn't come, we thought the storm had held you up and you'd stayed somewhere for the night."

"When we found the bridge was out, we thought it too far to turn back for a place to sleep," Cynthia said.

"And we nearly missed the ferry!" exclaimed Father Tim, oddly enjoying the account of their travail. "We made it with two minutes to spare."

"Oh, my poor souls! That bridge goes out if you hold your mouth wrong. You know the state bigwigs don't pay much attention to little specks of islands like they pay to big cities. Well, we're thrilled you're here, and I hope you like perch."

"We love perch!" they exclaimed in unison.

" 'Where two or more are gathered together in one accord . . .' " quoted the senior warden, laughing. Sam liked both the looks and the spirit of this pair.

In truth, he was vastly relieved that his prayers had been answered, and, as far as he could see, St. John's hadn't been delivered two pigs in a poke.

"Before we go inside," said Marion, "take a look at your rose."

"Ah!" said Cynthia.

They rushed to the trellis and buried their noses in the mass of blooms. "Lovely!" murmured his wife.

"It was running toward the street when we found it, and terribly trampled by the men who worked on the floors. But we loved it along and fed it, and came and watered it every day, and now . . ."

"What is it, do you think?"

"I have no idea. Marjorie Lamb and I searched our catalogs and rose books, but we can't identify it to save our lives."

"I believe I know exactly what it is," he said, adjusting his glasses and inspecting the petal formation.

"You do?"

"Yes. It's the Marion Climber."

"Oh, Father! Go on!"

"It is, I'd recognize it anywhere."

"The Marion Climber!" crowed Cynthia. "I never thought I'd live to see one. They're rare, you know."

"Oh, you two!" said Marion, flushed with delight.

"What do you think about your kitchen?" asked Sam.

Father Tim was a tad embarrassed to see tears brimming in his wife's eyes. "It's too beautiful for words!" she said.

"We couldn't like it better!"

If last night had been a nightmare, this was a dream come true. The sun streamed through a sparkling bay window and splashed across the broad window seat. Bare hardwood floors shone under a fresh coat of wax.

"One of our parishioners bought this cottage a few months ago and had it completely redone," said Sam. "Otis Bragg-you'll meet him tonight-Otis and his wife offered it to the parish for the new interim."

"You see just there?" Marion pointed out the window. "That patch of blue between the dunes? That's the ocean!" She proclaimed this as if the ocean belonged to her personally, and she was thrilled to share it.

"Come and have your breakfast," said Sam, holding the chair for Cynthia.

On a round table laid with a neat cloth, they saw a blue vase of watermelon-colored crepe myrtle, and the result of Marion Fieldwalker's labors: Fried perch, crisp and hot, on a platter. A pot of coffee, strong and fragrant. A pitcher of fresh orange juice. Cantaloupe, cut into thick, ripe slices. Biscuits mounded in a basket next to a golden round of cheese and a saucer of butter, with a school of jellies and preserves on the side.

"Homemade fig preserve," said Marion, pointing to the jam pots. "Raspberry jelly. Blueberry jam. And orange marmalade."

"Dearest, do you think it possible that yesterday in that brutal storm we somehow died, and are now in heaven?"

"Not only possible, but very likely!"

He'd faced it time and again in his years as a priest-how do you pour out a heart full of thanksgiving in a way that even dimly expresses your joy?

He reached for the hands of the Fieldwalkers and bowed his head.

"Father, You're so good. So good to bring us out of the storm into the light of this blessed new day, and into the company of these blessed new friends.

"Touch, Lord, the hands and heart and spirit of Marion, who prepared this food for us when she might have done something more important.

"Bless this good man for looking out for us, and waiting up for us, and gathering the workers who labored to make this a bright and shining home.

"Lord, we could be here all morning only thanking You, but we intend to press forward and enjoy the pleasures of this glorious feast which You have, by Your grace, put before us. We thank You again for Your goodness and mercy, and for tending to the needs of those less fortunate, in Jesus' name."

"Amen!"

Marion Fieldwalker smiled at him, her eyes shining. "Father, when you were talking to the Lord about me doing this instead of something more important, I think you should know . . . there was nothing more important!"

Their hostess passed the platter of fried perch to Cynthia, as Sam passed the hot biscuits to his new priest.

Oh, the ineffable holiness of small things, he thought, crossing himself.

Marion insisted on cleaning up the kitchen while they sat around the table, idle as jackdaws.

"You're welcome at the library anytime," she said, pouring everyone a last cup of coffee, "as long as it's Monday, Wednesday, or Saturday from nine 'til four!"

"We'll drop in next week," said Father Tim. "And that reminds me, how's the bookstore? I hear you have a small bookstore on the island."

Marion laughed. "It's mostly used paperbacks of Ernie's favorite author, Louis L'Amour!"

"Ernie doesn't sell anything he hasn't read first and totally approved." Sam's eyes twinkled. "I hope you like westerns."

"We've got fourteen boxes of books arriving on Monday," Cynthia announced. "We can open our own bookstore!"

"By the way," said Sam, "Ernie also offers a notary service and UPS pickup, and rents canes and crutches on the side."

"Diversified!"

"Actually, you'll pass Ernie's every morning as you walk to church. It's right up the road."

"Sounds like the place to be."

"Ernie has his quarters on one side of the building, Mona has hers on the other. In fact, they've got a yellow line painted down the center of the hall between their enterprises, and neither one steps over it except to conduct business."