Harley grinned. "She's like th' po' lice, on you at ever' turn." Harley's days in liquor hauling, not to mention car racing, had taught him about police. "Boys, she can go like whiz readin' a book, says words you never heerd of. Did you say one of them big words for th' rev'rend?"

"Omnipresent," said Lace quietly.

"What'n th' nation does that mean?"

"Everywhere at one time."

"That describes my wife's mama near perfect. She had eyes in th' back of 'er head. That woman was a chicken hawk if I ever seen one. Say another'n."

She flushed and lowered her eyes. "No, Harley."

"Look what I done f 'r you."

"You didn't do it for me, you did it for you."

Harley nodded, sober. "Jis tell th' rev'rend one more, an' I'll not ask ag'in."

"Mussitation."

"Aha."

Lace hurriedly drank the tea, then collected her books. "It's nice to see you, sir. Harley, eat your supper tonight, and thank you for a good job on your test."

"Thank you f'r teachin' me."

"Well done, Lace!" Father Tim called, as she left by the door to the driveway.

Harley glowed with unashamed pride. "Ain't she somethin'? I've knowed 'er since she was knee-high to a duck. She agg'avates me near t' death, but I think th' world of that young 'un."

Father Tim wished his dictionary weren't packed, as he didn't have a clue as to the meaning of "mussitation."

He sat with Harley next to the fan that turned left, then right. "Lord, at th' rust they've got down there," sighed Harley, shaking his head. "I don't know but what I'd park your new ride in th' garage and drive th' Buick."

"I don't think so."

In the escalating temperature of an official heat wave, the two men spoke as if in a dream. Harley leaned toward Father Tim, to better catch the stream of air on the left; Father Tim leaned closer to Harley to catch the right stream.

Both had their elbows on their knees, their heads nearly touching, gazing at the floor.

"Think you can keep up with our boy?"

"Rev'rend, don't you worry 'bout a thing. Y'r boy'll be workin', I'll be watchin,' an' th' Lord 'n' Master'll be in charge of th' whole deal."

"I don't know, Harley. . . ."

"Well, if you don't, who does?"

"Seems like I can trust Him with everything but a teenager."

"That's what you got t' trust 'im with th' most, if you ask me."

Father Tim felt a trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades.

"Don't let Dooley forget to take the livermush to his granpaw."

"Nossir."

"Every other week is how Russell likes to get it."

Harley nodded. "I'll git them hornets' nestes off th' garage come Friday."

"Good. I thank you."

"I ain't goin' t' rake y'r leaves b'fore winter, if you don't mind, hit'll be good f 'r th' grass."

"Fine."

"I'll mulch 'em so they'll rot easy. An' I'll mulch up around y'r plants come October."

"And the roses . . ."

"I'll prune 'em back, jis' like you said."

"I wrote the numbers down by your phone in the kitchen; I gave you the church office and home. Call us any time of the day or night, I don't care how late it is or how early."

"I'll do it. And I'll have Cynthia's little scooter runnin' like a top when you come home f 'r the' weddin'. In case she gits wore out ridin' that bicycle, she can drive it back."

"Good. But don't soup it up."

"Ain't nothin' t' soup in a Mazda."

He remembered that Harley had once fiddled around with his Buick so it ran like a scalded dog; he had shot by the local police chief in a blur-twice. Not good.

They sat quiet for a time, Father Tim cupping his chin in his hands.

"And don't let Dooley play loud music down here, or we'll run our tenant off."

Harley sighed. "Lord knows I ain't a miracle worker."

He went out into the night, damp with perspiration, leaving his wife sleeping like a child.

Ten to eleven. No moon. Only a humid darkness that sharply revealed its stars as he looked up.

They weren't used to heat like this in the mountains. Mitford was legendary for its cool summers, which brought flatlanders racing up the slopes every May through October, exulting in the town's leafy shade and gentle breezes.

He walked with Barnabas around the backyard of the yellow house, stopping by the maple and hearing the stream of urine hiss into the grass.

The path through the hedge, he saw in the light from the study windows, had nearly grown over. Harley usually came around to the front door these days, and it had been three years or more since he courted his next-door neighbor.

He smiled, remembering the quote from Chesterton: "We make our friends, we make our enemies, but God makes our next-door neighbor."

Once, the depth of their feeling for one another might easily have been judged by the smooth wear on the path through the rhododendrons. Now the branches on either side of the weed-covered path had nearly grown together; one would have to duck to dash through.

As he stepped under the tulip poplar. he felt a sudden coolness, as if a barrier had been formed around the tree, forbidding the day's heat to collect beneath its limbs.

He thumped onto the sparse grass under the poplar, and Barnabas lay at his feet, panting.

Another party tomorrow night. He was weary of parties, of the endless goodbyes that stretched behind him since last December's retirement party in the parish hall. He remembered feeling his head grow light as a feather, and could not imagine the occasion to be anything but an odd and disturbing dream. Then he found himself gone from Lord's Chapel, the parish that had both succored and tormented him, and made him happier than ever before in his life.

Retiring had been precisely what he wanted to do, and yet, when he did it, it had felt awkward and unreal, as it must feel to walk for the first time with a wooden leg.

He rubbed his dog's ear; it might have been a piece of velvet, or a child's blanket that gave forth consolation, as he stared across the hedge at the rectory's double chimneys rising in silhouette against the light of the street lamp.

It seemed an eternity since he'd lived there, quite another person than the one sitting here in the damp night grass.

For many years in that house, he had made it a practice to do what he'd learned in seminary, and that was spend an hour in study for every minute of his sermon. More than twenty hours he had faithfully spent; then fifteen, and later, starting a couple of years ago, ten. Where had the quiet center of his life gone? It seemed he was racing faster and faster around the tree, turning into butter.

On the other hand, wasn't his life now richer and deeper and more solid than ever before? Yes! Absolutely yes. He would not turn back for anything.

God had, indeed, put Cynthia Coppersmith right next door, and given her to him. But marriage, with all its delight and aggravation, seemed to swell like a dry sponge dipped into water, and occupy the largest, most fervent part of his life. Surely that was why some priests never took a spouse, and remained married to their calling.

Barnabas rolled on his side and smacked his lips, happy for the cool night air under the tree.

He loved Cynthia Kavanagh; she'd become the very life of his heart, and no, he would never turn back from her laughter and tears and winsome ways. But tonight, looking at the chimneys against the glow of the streetlight, he mourned that time of utter freedom, when nobody expected him home or cared whether he arrived, when he could sit with a book in his lap, snoring in the wing chair, a fire turning to embers on the hearth. . . .

He raised his hand to the rectory in a type of salute, and nodded to himself and closed his eyes, as the bells of Lord's Chapel began their last peal of the day.

Bong . . .

"Lord," he said aloud, as if He were there beneath the tree, "Your will be done in our lives."

Bong . . .

"Guard me from self-righteousness, and from any looking to myself in this journey."

Bong . . .

"I believe Whitecap is where You want us, and we know that You have riches for us there."

Bong . . .

"Prepare our hearts for this parish, and theirs to receive us."

Bong . . .

"Thank You for the blessing of my wife, and Dooley; for this place and this time, and yes, Lord, even for this change. . . ."

Bong . . .

Bong . . .

The bells pealed twice before he acknowledged and named the fear in his heart.

"Forgive this fear in me which I haven't confessed to You until now."

Bong . . .

"You tell us that You do not give us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind."

Bong . . .

"Gracious God . . ." He paused.

"I surrender myself to You completely . . . again."

Bong . . .

He took a deep breath and held it, then let it out slowly, and realized he felt the peace, the peace that didn't always come, but came now.

Bong . . .

The tenant was a surprise, somehow. A small woman in her late forties, overweight and mild-mannered, she appeared to try to shrink into herself, in order to occupy less space. He supposed her accent to be French, but wasn't very good at nailing that sort of thing.

They met in the late afternoon in the rectory parlor, now furnished sparingly with her own sofa and two chairs, and a Baldwin grand piano by the window.

The cherry pie he had brought from Sweet Stuff Bakery had been placed on the table in front of the sofa where she sat, her feet scarcely touching the floor. After a day of moving into a strange house in a strange town, he thought she might have been utterly exhausted; to the contrary, she looked as fresh as if she'd risen from a long nap.

". . . very interested in old homes, Father," she was saying.

"Well, you'll certainly be living in one. The rectory was built in 1884, and wasn't dramatically altered until a bishop lived here in the fifties. He closed the fireplace in the kitchen and rebuilt the fireplace in the study-a definite comfort during our long winters. I hope you don't mind long winters."

"Oh, no. We have those in Boston with dismaying frequency."

"Mr. Skinner has shown you around-the attic, the basement?"

"Top to bottom."

"You know you may call him at any time. He'll be looking after everything for us-and for you."

"Thank you, Father, and again, thank you for allowing me to lease for such a short time. It's always good to test the waters, n'est-ce pas?"

"Of course."

"Mr. Skinner mentioned that you and Miss Sadie Baxter were dear friends."

"Yes, Miss Sadie meant the world to me. Did you know her?"

"Oh, no. I saw her lovely old home from Main Street and inquired about it. I'm sure she must have left you some very beautiful things."