"Our trek to Dorchester is coming up day after tomorrow," he said over the last of their lunch. "We'll try to keep it short. I know you have plenty to do."

"Jonathan may not be able to go," she said. "He has a miserable cough and his nose is dripping like a faucet."

"Allergies?"

"I don't think so, and besides, Timothy, I hear there's a storm front moving in."

"If we had to drop everything each time a storm came our way, we'd get absolutely nothing done around here!"

She looked bleak. "A lawsuit, a sick boy, a ten-hour drive, and a storm front . . ."

"When it rains, it pours," he said. "No pun intended."

Jonathan ran into the kitchen and clambered onto Cynthia's lap. "Heavens!" she exclaimed, wiping his nose with the lunch napkin. "Now, blow !"

"We're looking forward to seeing you, buddy."

"Me, too. Mama said Buck came in the other day, he's bunkin' with Harley, she says he lost weight an' all for th' wedding. Poo's wearin' a suit, I can't believe Poo in a suit."

"What are you wearing?"

"Umm," said Dooley. "A suit."

"Don't forget your shirt and tie-or, you could borrow one of my ties."

"Your ties are too . . ."

"Too what?"

"Boring."

For someone who was usually in a collar, he'd never thought much about ties. Maybe he needed to buy something . . . upbeat! Something Italian! "What time are you rolling into Mitford?"

" 'Bout eleven Friday morning."

"How are you feeling about the appearance before the judge?"

"Not too good."

"It'll go well, don't worry. And how are you feeling about Caroline?"

Dooley was shrugging; he could practically hear it. The boy was blushing; he could sense it.

"Ah . . ."

"Pretty good?"

"Well, yeah, she's really neat, really interesting. She does these great watercolors, like Cynthia. You should see the one she did of the mountains behind her school, it was exactly like real life, except better."

"I'll be darned."

"She's got this cool laugh, too, sort of like . . . like this." Dooley made an odd sound, something between a snort and a cackle. "That's not right, it's more like . . . I don't know!"

"I can kind of guess."

"Plus she's really funny."

Dooley Barlowe was a goner, as far as he could tell.

"We can't go, dearest, he's burning with fever. I hope it's only the flu. Nearly everyone in story group was croupy and sick on Wednesday; I'd never have taken him if I'd known. I have a call in to his doctor."

He felt the boy's head, he looked at his red eyes and runny nose, he listened to his labored breathing. Convinced that hauling Jonathan to Dorchester would only make things worse, he finally told her. "Jeffrey Tolson may be hanging about. I don't think he's dangerous, but there's no telling what he might do."

"He can do nothing here!" she said, looking fierce. "We'll keep the doors locked and you'll only be away in broad daylight, so there's no use at all to worry. I'll send Ella the lasagna I froze the other day. Single women almost never make lasagna!"

His wife could convince him of anything. Feeling mildly relieved, he went to the study and closed the door and sat in the chair and prayed about it. He had written Captain Larkin the other day to say he was coming, and the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint. Should he go, or move the trip to a later date?

After he prayed, he listened.

God would have him go. He felt certain of it.

The sky was gunmetal from horizon to horizon; it seemed as if a leaden weight had been clamped over Whitecap like a lid on a turkey roaster.

He paced the front porch, unable to think clearly, anxious about leaving tomorrow. Maybe he should skip the Ava business and leave early, but Ernie was as excited about this little gathering as any parent, a fact he didn't feel like treating lightly. Besides, he wanted to see Ava Goodnight, who, let's face it, had accumulated some pretty heavy mystique without even trying.

Cynthia would be fine, she'd insisted on it, and he'd call her from Ella's house at least once, maybe twice.

While he was thinking of it, why didn't he have a car phone? Everyone else seemed to be zooming around at top speed, yammering into one as if their lives depended on it. Yet there was nothing in the thought of a car phone that attracted him. Wouldn't people break into his car and steal it, or did they steal phones anymore? Maybe car phones were now so cheap and run-of-the-mill that no one wanted the hassle of smashing a window. Anyway, if he had one, wouldn't he have to keep the top up on the Mustang? Otherwise, they could just reach in and yank it off its hinge or whatever.

Why was he thinking such nonsense? He was thinking nonsense because he dreaded thinking the real thing; he was trying desperately to hide from the reality of the lawsuit.

He zipped his jacket and sat in his favorite rocker, looking into the gathering dusk.

The lawsuit dogged him like a dark cloud. What on earth could be the possible meaning behind it all? Thank God, Walter was more than a cousin who happened to practice law. Walter was a tough, no-nonsense attorney with a decent reputation and several heavyweight clients; surely he could help him hammer this thing through.

He realized he was wringing his hands, something he'd hardly ever caught himself doing, and stopped it at once.

Yet, even more than the fret and worry of being slammed with a lawsuit was the possibility of losing a third of the escrow, which included part of what Andrew Gregory had paid for Miss Sadie's antiques, and a third of what the money had earned in mutual funds, making Helene Pringle the possible recipient of around a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Miss Sadie had trusted him to be a good steward of all she left behind, and he'd never begrudged this enormous responsibility, not for a moment. Now he felt the full weight of it squarely on his shoulders, with no one to turn to but someone he'd known since childhood as Potato Head.

God hadn't given him much family, but God had given him Walter; perhaps, just as Mordecai said in the Book of Esther, for such a time as this.

So-he had excellent legal counsel, and he and Cynthia were praying the prayer that never fails. What more could be done, after all?

Aha! His neighbor was at it again, though he didn't recognize the music.

He walked to the north side of the porch and cupped his hands to his ears. Interesting. Very interesting.

He squatted, then sat on the end of the porch, swinging his legs over the side.

Yes! That's it, Morris! What you're doing with the bass, keep it up, great, beautiful, have at it. . . .

He slipped off the porch, trotted to the rear gate and unlatched it, then went into the twilit street, where he stood for a moment, listening.

His wife would not like him pulling a disappearing act, no, indeed, but he'd be gone only five, maybe ten minutes, she'd never miss him; his dog, however, was another matter. If Barnabas knew he'd gone on a joyride without him . . .

He dropped to the ground on the other side of the wall, and found himself jogging along the driveway.

When he reached the house, he thumped into his chair under the window, and listened.

He alternately nodded enthusiastically and wagged his head. He wagged his head at the foreboding passages in the music, though he knew they gave greater light to the passages of illumination.

Man alive, that Casavant was blowing the roof off.

When the music ended, he felt tears on his cheeks. He waited a few moments.

"Morris?" he shouted.

"It's you, Father."

"Yes."

There was a long, oddly comfortable silence.

"I'm going away for a few days and I came to say . . ." There was a sudden lump in his throat. "I came to say I think the music is . . ." The music is what? Moving? Powerful? How did critics manage to make a living with a language that must often fail them?

"Wonderful!" he shouted. Full of wonder! That was the best he could do for the moment.

"Perhaps you'd like to come in . . . and see the Casavant."

Had he heard right? He wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. "Why, yes, thank you, I'd like that." His wife would be frantic, but this was an extraordinary invitation. He was stunned. . . .

"The door is open. Take the stairs. I'll meet you on the landing."

He bolted from the chair, careful not to stumble over the uprooted bricks that once paved the entranceway.

The heavy front door opened easily, and he stepped into a dimly lit foyer. The light appeared to come from a single bulb in a wall sconce, though a large chandelier loomed above his head.

There was definitely a musty smell, but everything looked clean and orderly. Ornately carved armchairs stood on either side of a heavy mirror in which he was startled to see himself. On the floor, a pattern of black and white tiles, and to the right, a curving stairwell and a vast, lighted oil painting on the high wall. The painting was of rolling countryside, somewhere in Europe, perhaps, with a church spire and a procession of people in a lane.

"Father."

He looked toward the landing and saw Morris standing at the rail.

"Morris!"

"Come up."

He went up, as if in a dream. There was absolutely no sense of reality about where he suddenly found himself. He knew only that he needed to be here, was supposed to be here. . . .

Morris held his hands behind his back, apparently declining a handshake, as Father Tim looked directly into his eyes. He noted Morris's prominent forehead and the deep, vertical furrow between his heavy brows.

"You are not surprised," Morris said flatly.

"No, not at all."

"Come with me," said his host.

He was surprised, however, to see that Morris walked with such difficulty. As if sensing his curiosity, Morris turned and said, "Spinal stenosis, aggravated by arthritis. It is not uncommon to my condition. We're in here." Morris stood aside so that he might enter first.

As he stepped over the threshold, he drew in his breath. There, in a room illumined by lamplight, stood the Casavant, regal beneath the rank of elaborately stenciled facade pipes. With its ornamented mahogany casework, he thought the organ possessed the aura of a great throne.

He might have gaped interminably, but turned his gaze to the room itself, which was paneled with walnut. His eyes moved along the intricately detailed dentil moldings and carved inlays, to the open window where Morris must stand when talking with him; it was free of draperies, with only a simple pelmet above, perhaps to enhance the acoustics of the room.

Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a bare, polished floor, velvet-covered chairs sagging with use, a love seat in a far corner . . .

"Beautiful!" he said, gawking unashamedly. Yet, a prison, nonetheless. He felt the awful weight of the room on his spirit, as if the only thing that ever stirred the air might be the music.

He sensed Morris's eyes on him. "Thank you for asking me in. I'm grateful to be here."

"My housekeeper comes every other day-Mamie has been with me since childhood-and my organ tuner comes as needed. I'm not completely without social intercourse."

"I'm glad. It's one of the things that keeps us soldiering on in this life."

"We strive to keep up appearances in this part of the house, but the grounds are without hope. My grandfather planted a jungle. It cannot be beaten back, and we long ago gave up trying."

Morris's head suddenly wrenched toward his right shoulder, jerking in a manner that seemed uncontrollable. "Out!" he growled. "Out!"

Father Tim walked to the organ, making a conscious effort to appear oblivious to what he'd just seen. "The pedals . . ."

"Yes," said Morris, as the tic passed. "Casavant provided a second pedal board for me, elevated one position above the standard pedal board.

"I've considered what I might play for you . . . the Widor Toccata, perhaps. You may know that the Casavant is designed for French voicing. The company founders spent a great deal of time in France, and scaled the pipes to play French repertoire especially well."

Morris slid stiffly onto the bench and pulled the chain of a green-shaded lamp over the keyboards. "You'll find this piece quite vibrant. It demonstrates all the tonal colors of the instrument. Listen to the reed stops, if you will. They're very distinctive, and altogether different from the more mellow English reed stops."

Father Tim stood by the organ, enthralled.

"Please sit," said Morris.

Father Tim hurried to a slipcovered armchair and sat, closing his eyes as the music began. Flashy and flamboyant, upbeat and positive, Widor made the hair stand up along his right arm and leg. Ah, the difference in being in the room with the music rather than sitting outside as a lowly trespasser!

The music so filled him with a nervous and exuberant energy that it flowed out at the climax as laughter.

"Wonderful!" Couldn't he come up with something less tiresome, for heaven's sake? "Marvelous! Bravo!"

Morris reflected for a moment. "And now, perhaps Bach's Great Prelude and Fugue in G Minor. . . ."

As the fugue subject unfolded, he wondered, as he always did when he heard this favorite composition, how a theme in a minor key could express such confident joy and abiding faith. The music soared around the room like a bird set loose from its cage, causing his scalp to prickle.