Miss Sadie had been very upset about liners, he remembered.

"Anyway, so I got th' dadblame thing, and now it's all taken care of and if I kick before Gene, everything's done, he can put his feet up! I even filled th' freezer in case I go first."

He didn't like this at all. Clearly, Esther was in denial about Gene's uncertain future; to avoid thinking of his, she was concentrating on her own.

"Lasagna, chicken divan, squash casserole-"

"Esther . . ."

"There's only only one problem," said his former parishioner.

"What's that?"

"I can't decide what to be buried in. Mama had her outfit hangin' in th' closet, ready to go, even panty hose. Course, it hung there so long, th' dress rotted off th' hanger and we had to dive in and come up with another outfit at th' last minute."

"Umhmm."

"So yesterday, Hessie came over and helped me go through th' closet. I laid out my royal blue suit, do you remember my royal blue suit?"

"I think so." He really did think so.

"But Hessie says it's too plain. So I laid out my pink dress with the chiffon sleeves. Do you remember my pink dress with the chiffon sleeves?"

"Ah . . . let's see . . ."

"I wore it to Fancy and Mule's anniversary party in their basement. It's Gene's favorite."

"Right." He felt like dropping onto the floor prostrate, and giving up the ghost.

"Well, that's what we finally decided on. But after Hessie left, it hit me-what if I die in th' winter?"

He hesitated. "I don't understand."

Esther sighed heavily, "Pink is a summer color!"

He gave her what was his only word of wisdom in the entire conversation.

"I recommend you surrender all this to the Lord, Esther. He'll be glad to take care of everything when the time comes."

She kissed him goodbye, one of those lingering kisses that he feared might come to a grinding halt when her book began. Seizing the moment, he kissed her back.

"Darling," she said, brushing his face with the tips of her fingers, "I think you need to take a day off."

"Why? We just got here!"

"We just got here six weeks ago, and you've been working nonstop. I mean, racing across to the hospital twice a week, and teaching adult Sunday School, and setting up the men's fall prayer breakfast, and working with Reverend Harmon . . ."

"But it all seems like a vacation, somehow."

"Trust me. You need to take a day off." She kissed him again, drawing him close in that protective way she sometimes had of making him feel both a man and a child.

He sighed. "I can't do it today."

"Rats!"

"But maybe tomorrow. . . ."

"I'll count on it, dearest."

Headed for St. John's, he ran down the steps of the cottage with Barnabas on the red leash.

Another glorious day! If they ever had to pay a price for the ambrosial weather they continually enjoyed, he shuddered to think how steep the cost might be.

Taking out his pocketknife, he stopped at their bed of cosmos and cut several stems for his office bookshelf.

Glory! He gazed at the cumulus clouds scudding overhead, and took a deep breath. The flowers, the everlasting gulls, the patch of blue beyond the dunes-it hit a man in the solar plexus, between the eyes, in the soul.

It was vastly different, this place, from the protected feeling he had in the mountains. There, summer was one long green embrace. Here, it was one long shining, and the sense of endless freedom.

Barnabas suddenly growled, then barked.

Father Tim glanced around for a stray dog or someone walking by. Nothing.

He quickly snipped two more blooms and put the small bouquet in his shirt pocket.

Trotting through the gate and into the narrow lane, he had the strange sense that someone was watching him. He turned to see if Cynthia might be standing on the porch, but she was not.

His parishioners had given him an earful about the uncaring, self-centered, musically gifted choir director who had abandoned his wife and children for St. John's married organist. Speaking of Jeffrey Tolson, a parishioner had quoted John Ruskin: "When a man's wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package."

He had frequently prayed for Jeffrey Tolson, but was unable to dismiss the hardness of heart he often felt when doing it. And, though he'd never laid eyes on St. John's former choir director, he knew precisely who it was when the tall, blond Scandanavian walked into the church office from the side door.

"Jeffrey Tolson," said his caller. He stood by the desk, arms crossed.

He couldn't help but notice that his caller wore leather clogs, and a full-sleeved white shirt in the manner of eighteenth-century poets.

"Jeffrey." Lord, give me the words, the wisdom, the heart for this, Your will be done. . . .

"I won't take much of your time."

He wanted to say, My time is yours, but could not. It was what he always liked to say to parishioners, no matter what the time constraints.

Jeffrey Tolson removed his billfold from a rear pocket. "I'm back in Whitecap for a few days. I wanted Janette to have this." He withdrew a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Father Tim.

"You can't give it to her yourself?"

"She's in no mood to deal with me."

He looked at the money and had a fleeting vision of punching Jeffrey Tolson in the nose-squarely, no holds barred. Gone eight months and this was the only offering?

"I'll see that she gets it."

"I know you think hard of me, most people do. But Janette was no angel to live with. Moody, depressed, demanding. I'm a sensitive man, Father. It was like living with a wet blanket."

"How was it living with those children of yours?"

Jeffrey Tolson's face was suddenly hard. "Don't preach to me."

"Far from it, Mr. Tolson."

His heart was pounding, his mouth dry as he stood facing the man who had brought hurt and anger into the midst of St. John's.

Jeffrey Tolson turned and stomped from the office. He jerked open the door to the outside steps, then slammed it behind him.

He awoke to find Barnabas standing by the bed, his black nose barely an inch from his face.

"Don't let him kid you, Timothy, I've already taken him out to the garden."

He rolled over and put his arm around his wife.

A day off! He'd have to swallow down the guilt before he could get up and enjoy it.

"Timothy . . ." He knew that tone of voice; she could read him like a book.

"Umm?"

"I hear your wheels turning already, clickety-clack! You're going over all the things you should be doing today at church."

"Right. You see, we're working with Marion and her staff to organize and catalog St. John's library, which means-"

"I'm hoping you'll rent a bike and go riding with me today."

Barnabas licked him on the ear and wagged his tail, urgent. His dog was never completely satisfied with Cynthia's idea of a morning constitutional.

"But first," she said, "I think you should walk down to Ernie's after morning prayer and look over his books. You've been wanting to do it ever since we came."

"Ernie's . . . I don't know."

"It's six-thirty. You could have breakfast at Mona's and maybe read the paper like you used to do at the Grill . . ."

He had missed that sort of thing.

". . . then, meet me back here at nine and we'll go to Mike's Bikes and-"

"I thought I'd make your breakfast," he said.

"You're always looking for something to do for someone." She stroked his cheek. "It might be good if you spent a little time doing . . . whatever it is that men do."

What did men do? He'd never figured it out.

He yawned. "The next thing I know, you'll be packing me off for a day of deep-sea fishing."

She looked at him and burst into laughter. "How did you guess? I can't believe it! I just bought you a ticket on Captain Willie's charter boat!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A Little Night Music At seven a.m., the day was already sultry; forecasts were for ninety-nine degrees by noon.

He broke a sweat before he reached Mona's, where he found Ernie paying for a sausage biscuit and a cup of coffee at his wife's cash register.

"I'm only allowed over th' yellow line as a payin' customer," said the genial proprietor from next door. "Get your order and come over to my side-chew th' fat awhile."

"Well . . . ," he said, pleased to be asked, "don't mind if I do."

"That'll be two bucks." Mona extended her hand to her husband, who shelled out the tab, mostly in change.

"I'll have what he's having," said Father Tim.

The red-haired Mona had a no-nonsense look behind a pair of glasses with brightly painted frames. "So you're hangin' with the guys this mornin'?"

He nodded, feeling suddenly shy and excited about having someone to hang with.

"They get too rough for you," said Mona, "come on back to where it's civilized."

"Right," he said.

"This yellow line . . . ," said Father Tim, stepping over it, "it must be a real conversation piece."

"Thing was, Mona kept nosin' around my side sayin' old books wouldn't pay th' light bill. Then I'd go over to her side raisin' Cain because she hadn't hiked her prices in four years. We nearly ended up in divorce court."

"Aha."

"We had to learn to mind our own business, you might say. Thing is, I've come to believe all married people ought t' have a yellow line of some kind or another."

Ernie held the screen door open to Books, Bait & Tackle.

"Welcome to where th' elite meet to eat. Boys, watch your language, Preacher Kavanagh's goin' to join us this mornin'."

"Tim," said the preacher, nodding to the assembly. "Call me Tim."

Ernie set his bag on one of the scarred tables by the drink machines. "You remember Roanoke, he don't much like preachers. But he's harmless."

Roanoke nodded curtly and poured a packet of sugar into a Styrofoam cup.