Dearly Beloved "Dearly beloved: We have come together in the presence of God, to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony."

He knew most of the service by heart, never liking to see a priest's eyes glued to the prayer book instead of the congregation. He spoke the words today with unusually tender feeling.

"The bond and covenant of marriage was established by God in creation, and our Lord Jesus Christ adorned this manner of life by His presence and first miracle at a wedding in Cana of Galilee. It signifies to us the mystery of the union between Christ and His Church, and Holy Scripture commends it to be honored among all people.

"The union of husband and wife in heart, body, and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy; for the help and comfort given one another in prosperity and adversity . . ."

In the front row, Jessie played with the ruffle on her new dress, Poo gave the proceedings his absorbed attention, Dooley looked oddly proud and moved. Cynthia was beaming.

". . . therefore, marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately, and in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted by God.

"Into this holy union, Pauline Barlowe and Bernard Leeper now come to be joined."

There were enough teeth showing in Omer Cunningham's grin to play the Wedding March.

"Pauline, will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?"

Pauline's response was a fervent whisper. "I will!"

Otis Bragg pulled a handkerchief from his plaid sport coat and blew his nose. Marion Fieldwalker dabbed at her eyes; Sam appeared personally pleased, as if the whole lot of Barlowes were, at the very least, first cousins.

"Bernard, will you have this woman to be your wife; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?"

He saw Buck's eyes mist with tears. Then Buck cleared his throat and spoke in a voice that could be heard to the ceiling joists.

"I will!"

"Will all of you witnessing these promises do all in your power to uphold these two persons in their marriage?"

Dooley spontaneously stood, then sat again, as those assembled chorused in unison, "We will !"

He was choking up, himself. He touched his ear, a signal to his wife to pray for him, and step on it.

"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?"

Dooley rose from the pew and came forward, white-faced. Though his heart hammered with anxiety at the responsibility he was about to bear, he felt powerfully certain that this was a good thing; his mother would have someone to care for her, and for the first time ever, his brother and sister would have a real family.

The wedding feast was laid in the basement fellowship hall of First Baptist, where a motley collection of portable generators helped create the welcome aromas of garlic, coffee, hot rolls, and other comestibles, lightly dressed with the scent of gasoline from the generators.

The feast tables were covered with blue paper cloths, and decorated with boughs of red berries purloined from a stand of nandina behind the Sunday School. Votives glimmered on the tables, and along the top of the spinet by the kitchen door.

"Here they come!" someone shouted.

Laughing and excited, St. John's choir, joined by a baritone and soprano from First Baptist, assembled breathlessly in the middle of the room.

As the bride and groom entered, a cheer went up from all who had attended Stanley Harmon's morning service and were thus invited to the feast; then followed the exultant voices of the choir.

"Praise, my soul, the King of heaven

to his feet thy tribute bring;

ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,

evermore his praises sing:

Alleluia, alleluia!

Praise the everlasting King!"

Pauline Leeper put both hands over her face like an unbelieving schoolgirl, and felt the arm of her husband go around her shoulders. Then she heard the oohs and aahs of her children, who stood beside her. She thought she might never again see, or be blessed with, anything so wondrous.

Following the blessing and subsequent hymn, Father Tim had a moment's thought of Jeffrey Tolson and the earnest choir he had abandoned. His heart felt suddenly moved toward the man; he wondered where he might be, whether he'd escaped harm during the storm, and if he ever longed for his children. Father Tim watched with both sadness and delight as Jeffrey's son made a beeline toward him with an Oreo cookie in each hand, eager to share one. He squatted and proffered the palm of his own hand, eager to receive it.

"Law, where'd this cake come from?"

"I don't know, plus, who could bake a cake without electricity? Does anybody know who brought it?"

"I heard it was flown in special."

"I declare, this is th' best cake I ever put in my mouth."

"I'd give an arm an' a leg for th' recipe, wouldn't you?"

"If nobody minds, I'm goin' to just scrape off these crumbs that're left and give 'em to Mama-then somebody, meanin' me, can lick th' plate it came on."

He had reserved a piece of the cake, which he wrapped in foil.

He also retrieved a large chunk of lasagna, the drumstick of a baked chicken, four slices of ham, and two biscuits, which he loaded onto a heavy-duty paper plate with a border of irises. He went to the cupboards and found a deluxe-size plastic cup, and stuffed it with potato salad.

Morris Love had been on his mind, and he couldn't shake the thought. He was alone in that dark, rambling house with only candles to light his way, and apparently no clue how to feed himself, unless Mamie was there to do it for him. Even so, she wouldn't have power for cooking, and no Stinson Voyager hauling in victuals.

Aha. A maverick deviled egg. He was tempted to eat it himself, being inordinately fond of deviled eggs, but popped it into a Ziploc sandwich bag. Oh, the infinite resources of a church kitchen . . .

He rummaged around until he found a large, empty jar, took the lid off, and sniffed it. Pickles. He rinsed it out with water from a plastic jug, and filled it with sweet tea.

"I'll be right back," he told his wife. "Looks like this will go on for at least another hour."

"Where on earth . . . ?" she asked, wondering at the bulging plastic grocery bag.

"I'll tell you later." He gave her a jovial kiss, square on the mouth.

Things were different now that the weather had turned cooler. There was no open window to shout to.

At the door, he stood on one foot and then the other, and scratched his head.

Why not ring the bell? That was an original thought!

He pressed the bell, but heard no results from inside. Maybe the bell had a quirk, like most doorbells, and had to be pressed in a certain way. He pressed again. Nothing. What Morris Love needed was a dog, for Pete's sake.

When he carved out the chunk of lasagna at church, it was still warm. If he kept standing here, it would be cold.

Hardly believing his audacity, he opened the door and stuck his head into the dim foyer.

"Morris!" he yelled, loudly enough to be heard upstairs. "Morris, it's me, Tim Kavanagh! I've brought your supper!"

There, that ought to get a rise out of a man who was, for all he knew, subsisting on Fig Newtons.

"Father ..."

He nearly jumped out of his skin. Morris Love appeared from behind the stairwell, a ghostly apparition if he'd ever seen one.

"Holy smoke, Morris, sorry I was yelling when you were standing right there."

"Come in," Morris said, not appearing to mean it.

He followed Morris into the cold and cavernous kitchen, illumined only by two small windows above the sink, and set the bag on the table.

"The lasagna is still warm," he said. "I hope you'll eat it soon."

He felt like a mother coaxing a child, and stood back from the table, suddenly awkward.

"Thank you," said Morris, standing with his hands in the pockets of a burgundy bathrobe.

Thank you? A mere thank you? He wanted to see the man tear open the bag and dive in!

Father Tim opened the bag and pulled out the heavy plate and set it on the table. "It's on a plate," he said, feeling progressively uneasy. "You can just peel off the aluminum foil. And here's some tea, I put lemon in it. . . ."

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three o'clock. "Well . . . ," he said, not knowing what else to say.

"Your neighborly kindness will, I'm sure, guarantee your place in heaven," said Morris.

Father Tim found his scowling countenance formidable in the dusky light. "Ah, well, it's not kindness that gets us into heaven," he said, feeling himself in quagmire to his knees.

Morris narrowed his eyes. "I would ask you to consider that I have lived alone without the sap of neighborly interaction for most of my life. And yet, over and over again, you would intrude upon the privacy and solitude I find agreeable. This behavior, which I fail entirely to understand, exhibits the most careless disrespect."

"But ..."

"I am not a novelty, Father, some bizarre experiment to satisfy your prejudices about the essential spirituality of the human heart. I do not need your kindness, nor do I want your salvation."

"It is not my salvation."

"In addition, I do not desire your friendship, nor do I crave your admiration of my pathetic musical skills."

Father Tim felt an alarming weakness in his legs.

"One further thing. Save your breath, Father, and stop praying for me."

He found his ground, and stood it. "Save your own breath, Morris. I shall pray for you until . . ." His mind raced. Until the Lord comes with his hosts? Until it suits me to stop?

". . . until the cows come home!" He delivered this fervent declamation straight up and straight out, meaning it from the depths of his being.

He turned from the kitchen and walked quickly across the foyer, hearing the chilling and inevitable words that cut like knives.

"Out! Out!"

Closing the front door behind him, he trotted up the driveway in the late afternoon light that slanted through the canopy of trees.

They were crammed into Room Fourteen like sardines in a tin, seven of them, including Violet and Barnabas.

He thought the least they could do was give the Fieldwalkers and Lambs a break. Not only had their good friends pulled off a feast for more than forty people, they'd come in behind the work crew's cleanup and readied the altar and nave for the wedding.

Though a small and certainly impromptu wedding, he noted it was kicking up a considerable swirl of activity.

Buck had reserved a couple of additional rooms, which were in the process of being cleaned, for Omer and the kids, all of which occasioned the hauling of various sacks, pokes, and grips from Room Fourteen into adjacent quarters, with much trailing of vagrant socks and sweaters, and leaving open of the door-a feature his dog particularly relished.

As Omer rambled in the village, and the newlyweds inspected the island in one of Otis's pickup trucks, he and Cynthia put their heads together about dinner. Should they even have dinner, since they'd eaten at two-thirty? Children were always hungry, weren't they? Of course.

But then, Mona's was shut tight as a clam on Sunday, which occasioned searching the yellow pages for what was open across, reminding them of Cap'n Willie's, which seemed the perfect solution; further, he learned that Pauline, Buck, and Jessie were flying home first thing in the morning with Omer, and Harley was arriving this evening to fetch Dooley and Poo back to Mitford early tomorrow, as Omer couldn't do another double airlift, given his need to attend a huge going-away party for his sister-in-law and outgoing mayor, Esther Cunningham, imminently headed west with her husband in the RV.

Breathless, Father Tim reserved a room for Harley, whose reason for an early departure tomorrow morning, according to Dooley, was the emergency overhaul he was doing on the motor in Lew Boyd's wrecker.

The crowd from next door returned, vibrating with energy.