"Speakin' of Harold, here he comes, he does not like me talkin' on long-distance."

Click. Beep.

"Father? Otis Bragg here. Wanted to send you a little present by one of my boys. You like bourbon? Scotch? You name it. How 'bout a little Wild Turkey? Somebody said you like sherry, but I must've heard wrong.

"Call my secretary on th' mainland, two-eight-two-four, and let 'er know, OK?"

Click. Beep.

"Hmmm," said his wife, puzzling over who had jumped into Mitford's mayoral race.

"Lew Boyd!" he said. "That's who I'd guess. Either Lew or Mule Skinner. Mule's mentioned doing it for years."

Cynthia furrowed her brow. "Would you like to see Fancy Skinner as first lady of Mitford?"

"It might add a certain . . ." He was at a loss for words.

"I don't know, I don't have a clue," said his wife, who was usually up for guessing games.

"What do you think about . . . no, no way . . . let's see . . ."

"Or maybe . . . ," said Cynthia, pondering deeply.

"Then again . . . but I don't think so."

"Oh, poop! If you don't call Emma back, I will!"

They raced into the sitting room and took their chairs. He dialed Emma's number.

" Who?" he inquired, when she answered the phone.

"Is this an owl?" asked Emma.

"I guess Lew Boyd!"

"Two more guesses."

He hated that she always made him do three guesses.

"Mule Skinner!"

"Wrong."

"J. C. Hogan!" shouted Cynthia, in a burst of supernatural insight.

"Is it J.C.?" asked Father Tim.

"Are you sittin' down?" inquired his erstwhile secretary.

"We are. Get on with it."

"Coot Hendrick!"

"Coot Hendrick?"

"He says his great-grandaddy founded th' whole town, and it's time he did something that carries on th' family tradition."

"I'll be darned."

"I personally couldn't vote for anybody who has stubs for teeth, but he says he's goin' to work hard to win."

"It's just as well we aren't there. I don't think I could go through another mayor's race," he said, still not fully over the last one.

While he cooked dinner, his wife sat in the kitchen window seat, looking out but not seeing. She was busy twisting a strand of hair around one finger and humming.

He didn't have to be as wise as Solomon to know that every time she got that glazed-over look and twisted her hair and hummed, something was up.

The fresh croaker sizzled in the skillet. "Cynthia?"

No reply. Still humming.

Blast. She definitely had that conjuring-up-a-book look. All of which meant she would soon stop riding her bicycle and lash herself to the drawing board for months on end, getting a crick in her neck and feeling grumpy. When people did what they profess to absolutely love, why didn't they smile and laugh and be carefree and upbeat?

Salt, pepper, a spritz of lemon . . .

Another book would mean this whole beach experience, which might have been relaxing for his overworked wife, would, in fact, be just another nose-to-the-grindstone deal. . . .

"Timothy," she said, "I've been thinking."

He sighed and flipped the croaker, without breaking it apart. He was getting good at this.

"You know how lovely everyone's been to us," she said.

"They have."

"How they've loved us. . . ."

"Right."

"We must do something that loves them back."

"Aha."

She turned to face him, looking fierce. "But not a Primrose Tea!" His wife had worked her fingers to the very bone doing two enormous and successful Primrose Teas in Mitford.

"I don't think there's a primrose within two hundred miles of here."

"Absolutely, positively not a Primrose Tea!" she said.

"I hear you, Kavanagh!"

"It's killing, you know."

"No Primrose Tea."

"Anyway, I'm not sure beach people drink tea. Hot tea, I mean, to go with things like scones or shortbread."

"I never thought much about it."

"It seems beach people would be more interested in . . . something cold, like lemonade, or a lovely punch with an ice ring of lime sherbet . . . and maybe lots of fresh fruit in a vast, icy watermelon carved with its own handle, to which we could attach a bouquet of flowers from our little garden. . . ."

"There you go!" Out of the pan, onto the plate, and done to perfection.

"And a beautiful cake, three or four layers with white icing-and wedding cookies, don't you think? Except they're so messy, all that powdered sugar falling on your shoes . . ."

"My mouth is watering." He spooned new potatoes onto the dinner plates, cheek by jowl with the fish. Now a dollop of butter, a sprinkle of fresh parsley . . .

"I think we should have everyone here, not at the parish hall," she said. "Parishioners like seeing how their priest lives."

"I'll help. You can count on me."

. . . and a dash of paprika, for color. He felt like a heel for thinking his wife was plotting to write a new book and get a crick in her neck when she was, in fact, intent on doing something exceedingly generous for others. Thank goodness he hadn't opened his big mouth and put his foot in it.

"And I'll probably try something wonderful with peaches, too, I don't know what yet, maybe tarts, very small like this." She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. "I hear the peaches are lovely this year!"

"Dinner is served," he announced, setting the plates on the table. "Come and get it."

She stared at the plates with surprise. "You angel !" She apparently hadn't noticed he was making dinner. "Croaker! And new potatoes and fresh asparagus! Oh, Timothy, I'm so glad you can cook."

"I'm even gladder that you can cook. You have kitchen duty for the next four evenings, I hope you recall."

"Four? Why four?"

"Meetings," he said "Choir practice. The Whitecap Fair Planning Commission. The vestry . . ."

"Umm," she said.

"Umm what?"

"Well, dearest, I've been thinking that maybe . . ."

"Yes?"

"It's so beautiful here, and so liberating, even Violet loves it, have you noticed?"

"I have."

She looked at him in that way he could never resist, with her head tilted slightly to one side and her sapphire eyes gleaming. "I thought I might begin right away . . . working on a new book."

"Let's bow in prayer," he said.

He dialed a number he easily remembered by heart.

"Esther? Is that you?" Esther Bolick didn't sound like herself.

"What's left of me."

His heart ached for his old friends; worse, he felt guilty that he wasn't there to go the mile with them.

"How's Gene?"

"Not good." He heard Esther sigh. He couldn't bear it when Esther sighed; Esther was not a sigher, she was a doer.

"We're praying," he said, "and believing Gene's going to be well and strong again. Now tell me about you, Esther, how're you doing?"

"I went yesterday to pick out my casket."

"You what?"

"It had to be done sometime. All this with Gene reminded me."

"Do you think this is the right time, I mean . . . ?"

"When Louise Parker went to Wesley to pick hers out, Reverend Sprouse went with her."

"Aha."

"There was nobody to go with me."

He felt very uncomfortable. It was the guilt again. "What about your interim? Couldn't he go?"

"Father Hayden? Lord help! He's so wet behind the ears, he's still on strained peas and applesauce!"

Father Hayden was forty-five if he was a day. "So what did you pick?" Might as well be upbeat about it.

"Do you know it costs four thousand dollars to get buried in Mitford? Can you believe it? I was goin' to be cremated, but there's nothin' to look at in a jar. I remember when we buried Mama, it was a comfort to see her in th' casket."

"Closure," he said.

"So I picked somethin' with a nice iv'ry satin lining. I always looked good in iv'ry."

"I seem to recall that." He honestly did.

"Then you think you're through with th' whole mess, and what happens?"

"What?" He was interested.

"They want to sell you a liner! Some bloomin' metal thing you drop th' casket down in, to keep it protected from dirt." Esther snorted.