"Thank you," he said afterward, supremely happy.

Morris labored to rise from the bench, and stood by his instrument. "Thank you for listening, Father. You have an attentive and sympathetic ear."

Father Tim rose from the chair, which gave off the faint odor of old tobacco. "How I wish you might share your gift with . . ." It was hardly out of his mouth before he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

Morris's face grew hard. "Never speak of that again."

"I'm sorry," he said. "You have my word, I'll never speak of it again."

"The wine cellars were depleted years ago. I have nothing to offer you."

"You've given me more than I could possibly wish. Thank you, Morris, thank you. I'll go along, now. My dog will be furious that I've come without him."

Morris did not smile. "I'll walk you to the landing."

At the landing, he had a sudden urge to throw his arms around the man, shake his hand, make the sign of the cross over him-something, anything, to express his deep feeling. "You're faithfully in my prayers," he said.

His host's head jerked toward his shoulder. "Out! Out!"

Father Tim's heart pounded as he moved quickly down the stairs, angry with himself for failing to say the right thing, for the terrible alarm those words always ignited in his breast.

In the foyer, he turned briefly to look at Morris, then opened the door of Nouvelle Chanson and stepped into the October night.

He went at a trot-down the dark driveway under a hidden moon, over the wall, across the street, through the gate, up the steps to the back porch, and into the kitchen, panting. She probably had that sheriff out searching for him. He dreaded facing her. How could he have been so thoughtless and insensitive?

"Is that you, dearest?" Cynthia came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. "I hope you weren't waiting for me on the porch all this time. I started a new illustration and, well, you know how it is, I forgot." She looked at the kitchen clock. "Good heavens! Eight-thirty! I hope you haven't felt neglected."

"Oh, no, no! Don't even mention it," he said.

Jonathan was on antibiotics delivered from the pharmacy, and Cynthia would spend the day doctoring him for tomorrow's journey to Mitford.

He rose at six a.m., dressed more warmly than usual, and set off for Mona's.

It had definitely been a while since he'd had breakfast like he used to have at the Grill. It gave him a positive thrill to place his order.

"Two medium poached, whole wheat toast, hold the butter, and a side of grits."

"Do you want coffee?" asked the shy waitress, whom he hadn't seen before.

"The hard stuff, no cream, no sugar. Are you new?"

"Yessir, this is my first day. I'm kind of . . . nervous."

"I certainly didn't notice! I'm Father Kavanagh, glad to see you."

"I'm Misty Summers. My name tag says Missy, they got it wrong and have to do it over. Glad to meet you."

"Misty Summers! Now, there's a name for you. Very pretty name."

"Thank you," she said, blushing. "Would you like water? I can get you filtered, Mona serves filtered to special customers, I'm sure you must be special."

"Why on earth would you think so?"

"Your . . ." She indicated his neck. "You know."

"Ah. My collar."

"I've hardly ever met any Catholics."

"I'm Episcopalian."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I'll be right out with your water and your coffee."

"Thank you," he said, pleased to be here with a newspaper and the respite to read it. He really didn't want to make the Dorchester trek, but intended to get this day behind him, no matter what. Besides, when he called last night to say Cynthia and the boy weren't coming, Ella told him she was breaking out the damask tablecloth, which she hadn't used since her mother died and all the neighbors brought food and sat with her.

"There you go!" said Misty, setting a steaming mug before him. She looked like a milkmaid from a storybook, he thought. No makeup, long, chestnut hair caught in a ponytail, and a simple skirt and blouse under the cafe's signature green apron.

"Where are you from, Misty? Whitecap?"

"Oh, no, sir, Ocracoke. I just moved here two days ago, and was real blessed to get this job right off."

"I'm sure you'll do well. I believe you'll like Whitecap."

"Yessir," she said, pouring his coffee. He couldn't help but notice that her hand shook slightly.

"Try not to worry about getting everything right today," he said.

She lifted her gaze and he noticed her eyes for the first time. Warm. Trusting.

"I'll pray for you."

"Thank you, I really appreciate it. We'll have your order right out. Did you want ketchup?"

"Ketchup?"

"For your hash browns."

"Hash browns?"

She clapped her hand to her mouth. "Oh, gosh, I forgot, you're having grits!"

She fled to the kitchen, flustered.

As relaxed as if he had the whole day in which to do nothing, he opened his newspaper to the editorial page and settled happily into the green vinyl-covered seat of Mona's rear booth.

"Look here!" said Roanoke.

"Look here what?"

"Your hair's growed a good bit more'n I'd expect."

"Olive oil," said Father Tim, propped on the stool like a schoolboy.

"You rub olive oil on your head? I never heard of that one."

"Eat a lot of it on salads."

"Seems like God would've let a man have some say in where 'is hair grows, don't it? I mean, here you got all this hangin' down in back, an' not that much on top."

"Tell me about it."

Snip, snip.

"They say we'll prob'ly get a bad storm tonight," said Roanoke.

"I'm running up to Dor'ster. I hope it holds off 'til I get back."

"Temperature's droppin' pretty steady, too."

There was Elmo, sitting in the doorway to the book room and scowling at him as if he were a mangy hound. "Yo, Elmo!" he said.

At 9:25, according to the clock over Ernie's cash register, the entire room erupted into a bedlam of laughter, fish stories, and adrenaline-driven babble. He figured they wanted Ava and her sister to think this was a busy, prosperous enterprise, not some pokey little deal on a backwater island. Adding to the general vibration was the fact that Roger was nearly through burning, and would soon begin painting.

Father Tim had to admit that Junior was looking good. Instead of washing or ironing anything, however, he'd run across and bought new jeans, a shirt and jacket, and a new cap that read Go, Bulls.

"I'd take that off," said Roanoke.

"Why? She's seen my pictures, she knows my hair's a little . . . you know."

"That's not what I mean. I mean she might not like th' Bulls."

Junior looked stubborn. "I don't want to take it off," he said. "It's brand-new."

"Yeah, but what if she likes Carolina? You'd sure wish you was wearin' one that says Go, Heels."

Glowering, Junior snatched the hat off his head and threw it in the corner.

"Now, don't go upsettin' him!" said Ernie, picking up the hat. "If you feel good wearin' th' thing, put it back on."

Junior crammed the hat back on his head and sat stiffly, looking miserable.

"Tim, you ought to tell Junior how you caught that big yellowfin tuna, take everybody's mind off-"

The screen door slammed as Ava Goodnight walked in and stared anxiously at the roomful of men.

The silence was sudden, complete, and absolute.

Ernie appeared turned to stone, Roanoke's hand froze at his shirt pocket where he was reaching for a Marlboro, and Junior's mouth was hanging open.

"You must be Ava!" said Father Tim, walking over and shaking her hand.

"And you must be Father Tim," she said, smiling. "Betty will be here in a minute, Betty's my sister, she's next door in the ladies room." Ava caught her breath and looked as if she might change her mind and run out the way she'd come in.

"And this is Junior. Junior Bryson." As the only one still able to function around here, he guessed the social stuff was up to him.

Junior rose slowly from the table and walked toward Ava as if in a trance. Father Tim wished to heaven that Junior would close his mouth.

"How're you?" asked Junior.

Ava extended her hand. "I'm just fine. How're you?"

"Just fine, an' how 'bout you?"

"And this," he said, pushing on, "is Roanoke Clark. He's a friend of Junior's."

Roanoke grinned and touched his forehead, a remnant gesture, Father Tim supposed, from the days men tipped their hats to women. "Pleasure."

"That's Roger Templeton...."

"How do you do?" said Roger, standing respectfully.

"And I'm Ernie," said Ernie, recovering his speech and bounding over to shake Ava's hand. "We're glad to have you, nice to see you, come and sit down! We know you're goin' next door for coffee, but I could pour you a little somethin' in a cup, like a Cheerwine or a Dr Pepper, but you probably drink Coke, I could open you a Coke, how's that? On th' house!" Ernie was still shaking Ava's hand.

"Oh, no," said Ava, "I don't need a thing. But thanks a lot."

Father Tim figured somebody better make a move or Ava was out of here. "Ava, we're sorry we're a roomful of men. My wife would have come to meet you this morning, but we have a sick boy at home."

"I'm sorry," she said, appearing to mean it.

"Come and sit with us a minute," he said. "Roger, show Ava your duck."

Roger shyly held up his green-winged teal.

"Isn't that a marvel?" asked Father Tim, who was beginning to feel like the Perle Mesta of the Outer Banks.

Ava glanced at the door, looking for Betty. "Really nice! Really pretty!"

"We'd like you to feel welcome on Whitecap," said Father Tim. "Have you been here before?"

"No, sir, I never have. But my friend who lives on Tern Avenue-we've been meaning to get together for a long time."

Junior was currently grinning from ear to ear. He expanded his chest and adjusted his jacket sleeves, which Father Tim judged to be a mite on the short side.

"Oh, law!" said Betty, barging through the screen door. "Are we runnin' late, my watch has stopped, hey, y'all, I'm Ava's sister, her much older sister, who're you?"

"I'm Tim Kavanagh. Glad to see you, Betty." The Lord had sent an icebreaker, and not a moment too soon.

"Hey, Tim, how're you, I hope I don't have lipstick on my teeth, do I have lipstick on my teeth? I dropped my compact in th' ladies room and busted my mirror, but since I already had seven years of bad luck, I hope I'm off th' hook!"