He hated to bring up the unwelcome subject. "I thought you had to be in court tomorrow morning."

"Oh," said Dooley. "I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"Buster Austin went bawlin' to Chief Underwood and said he was th' one that done it . . . did it . . . not me. He was scared out of his mind about goin' in front of a judge, so they ain't . . . isn't . . . any court. Not for me, anyway. Sorry I forgot to tell you. There was so much goin' on. . . ."

Father Tim sank onto the foot of the bed, feeling as if a great weight had rolled off his shoulders.

"Oh, somethin' else I forgot. Harley said your cousin Walter called, said he couldn't get in touch with you down here, said he had somethin' to tell you about a lawsuit, somethin' really important, said to call him."

The lawsuit!

The weight that had just rolled off, rolled back on and dug in.

"Ahh," he said, wanting nothing more than to seek the opiate of sleep, to put the lawsuit, the storm, the sickening confrontation with Morris Love, out of his mind.

He stood and put on his jacket. "Let's go for a ride," he said to Dooley. "I'll show you around the island."

"Cool," said Dooley. "I'll drive!"

"We want to go, too!" shouted Jessie.

Barnabas trotted to the door and sat, looking hopeful.

Poo raced from the bathroom. "Can we go see the lighthouse?"

"I could, I could go, too," said Jonathan, pulling on his hat and grabbing his coat.

Father Tim turned to his wife, who looked decidedly pale around the gills. "Hallelujah," she murmured.

"When we get back to that place we're stayin' at, you can be it," said Jessie.

"It what?" asked Poo.

"Th' husband."

"I don't want to be no husband."

"See, you can marry Jonathan, and I'll say th' words, 'cause I like them words."

"I ain't marryin' no baby," said Poo.

"I'm not a baby!" exclaimed Jonathan.

"Well, so Jonathan can be Buck, I can be Mama, and you can say th' words, then."

"Say what words?" asked Poo.

"Dearly belove-ud."

"I ain't sayin' that."

Dooley looked into the rearview mirror. "Don't say ain't!" he told his brother.

He lay curled in the fetal position, his back to his wife and Jonathan, feeling a kind of numb pain he couldn't explain or understand. Life was a roller coaster, that simple. Joy and healing here, desperation and demolition there.

With all his heart, he'd desired healing for Morris Love's brokenness, and who was he to think he might give a leg up to such a miracle? There were times when he didn't like being a priest, always on the front line for justice and mercy and forgiveness and redemption; trying to figure out the mind of God; giving the Lord his personal agenda, then standing around waiting for it to be fulfilled. He didn't have an agenda for Morris Love, anymore; he was giving up the entire self-seeking, willful notion. His desperate neighbor belonged to God; it was His responsibility to get the job done. He had schlepped in a paltry sack of victuals when what the man needed was the awesome, thunderstriking power of the Almighty to move in his heart and soul and spirit like a great and consuming fire. . . .

He wiped his eyes on his pajama sleeve.

"So, Lord," he whispered, "just do it."

Though he managed to spend a full half hour with Buck, he had almost no time with Dooley. On Monday morning, he insisted on making the breakfast run to Mona's, and let Dooley drive. They arrived at Mona's as she opened the doors, and waited in the front booth while the kitchen pulled together sacks of sausage biscuits, ham biscuits, fries, Danish, coffee, milk, and Coke for the crowd at Mid-Way.

"How are things with Caroline?" He already knew about Dooley's grades, which were excellent and worthy of all praise. Now he was going for the nitty-gritty.

Dooley reached into the neck of his sweatshirt. Grinning, he pulled forth a small gold ring, set with a single pearl and attached to a chain he was wearing around his neck.

"What does that mean . . . umm, exactly?"

Dooley shrugged. "Just . . . you know."

"Right. Ever see Lace?"

"I ran into her at the drugstore one Saturday. She was in White Chapel with a bunch of girls."

"Did you talk?"

Dooley shrugged again. "Not exactly."

Oh, well. Time would tell.

The boy was becoming handsome, that simple. Father Tim observed sinew gathering on his bones, and noted that his long, slender fingers would be well suited, indeed, to his calling. "Any more thoughts on whether to vet small animals or large?"

"Both," Dooley said with feeling. "I want to vet both."

"Good!" he said. "Good."

"Harley, thanks for making such a long trip. Sorry Omer's plane won't hold but four."

"Don't even think about it, Rev'rend. Hit was good t' git on th' road."

"What do you see of our tenant?"

"Seen 'er twice. She looked kind of hunkered down, like she's scared of 'er own shadow. Somebody said she was lettin' 'er piana students go, an' headin' back up north. She ain't tryin' to run out on th' rent, is she?"

"Oh, no, she's paid up. Well, God be with you, Harley, Poo, Dooley."

" 'Bye, Dad."

" 'Bye, Buddy. See you down here for Christmas, OK?"

"OK!"

"Harley, we want you to come, too."

"Yes, sir, Rev'rend, we'll be here."

"All right, hold her between the ditches."

Feeling a kind of emptiness, he watched the red truck pull out of the motel parking lot and head left on the highway toward Mitford.

"Fella down th' beach said he was sittin' on his deck, said he'd just pulled out his glasses to read th' paper when a book fell in his lap, whop."

"No kidding." He had to get out of here fast; he'd only popped by to see how Ernie's reconstruction was coming.

"I'm tellin' you!" said Ernie, who appeared to be more like his old self. "Th' Mustangs by Frank Dobie is what it was. That book come right offa my shelf."

"Amazing," he said, wanting to be respectful.

"Bull," said Roanoke.

"Th' storm was Thursday, th' book dropped in 'is lap Sunday. Must've blowed somewhere to dry off, then was picked up by a stiff wind and sent south."

Roanoke fired a match head under the tabletop and lit a Marlboro. "I ain't believin' that."

"Told me he liked th' book all right, but wouldn't give two cents for th' endin'."

"That's gratitude for you," said Roanoke.

He didn't want to do this, not at all.

"Walter Kavanagh here."

"Walter ..."

"Timothy! What in blazes happened down there?"

"Storm. Bad. Busy." Sheer dread had reduced his speech to primitive monosyllables.

"Well," said Walter, "I'm afraid you're not going to like this."

"It never once occurred to me that I might like it."

"D'Anjou says a love letter accompanies the holographic will, which makes the old man's personal feelings and legal intentions perfectly clear and in accordance with the will."

"How do we know it's Josiah's Baxter's handwriting and not some forgery?"

"D'Anjou seems to believe that matter is sufficiently demonstrable in court, he didn't say how. Frankly, I think d'Anjou is behind this thing and pushing hard. He's been minding the family's affairs for years. I get a sense of personal greed here. If it were my case, I wouldn't feel so confident-I mean, no one coming forward for fifty years? But he thinks he can convince the jury."

"What about the money Miss Sadie left to Dooley?" Walter and Cynthia were the only other living souls who knew that Miss Sadie had left Dooley more than a million dollars in trust. "That was her mother's money. Surely this legal action couldn't-"

"No, I don't think so. Don't get ahead of things, Timothy. In any case, it looks like we have to go through with this. I'll work with you on the response to the court; we've got three weeks to pull it together. Can you call me Wednesday night? I have some ideas."

Though he knew full well there was no sorrow in heaven, he hoped, nonetheless, that Miss Sadie wouldn't get wind of this deplorable mess. Shortly before her death, she'd learned of an illegitimate half-sister, born to her mother before she married Josiah Baxter. This dark secret, however, had an exceedingly bright side-Miss Sadie ended up with Olivia Harper as her beloved grandniece, which had been, of course, an inarguable benediction.

But another illegitimate half-sister? It seemed like pure fiction; he hated to think what this lawsuit might have done to his old friend and parishioner if she were still living.

In ways he couldn't yet fully understand, he sensed his life would be entwined with Sadie Baxter for the rest of his days.

At one o'clock on Tuesday, he drove to the Mid-Way from a couple of home visits, and helped Cynthia load Jonathan's things into the car. Jonathan talked endlessly.

"I'm goin' home, Cyn'dy."

"I know, dear."

"Will you come an' see me?"

"Of course."

"An' you can see Babette an' Jason, too."

"Will you come and see us?"

"Maybe I could sometime." Jonathan put on his hat.

"We'll bring your movies later. They're at our house that fell down in the front."

"You could, you could watch 'em again before you bring 'em to my house. That would be OK if you want to."

He glanced at his wife as they piled into the car, and felt her suffering as his own.

He was fairly stunned when he saw Martha Talbot's house, sitting quite alone at the end of an oyster-shell lane. A million smackers rising off the undeveloped bank of the Sound was a pretty impressive sight.

"Wow," Cynthia whispered.

"You must be living right, Kavanagh."

They parked in the two-car garage, simply because it was a luxury to have one, and went up the stairs to the front door.

"Here," he said, giving her the key. "You do the honors."

As the door swung open, they stood looking across the sunlit living room and through the wall of windows to the Sound. The water lay as smooth as a lake, glinting in the sun.

His wife gave a small gasp of wonder and delight.

"Now we're talking!" she said.