things. I need a break.’
‘Ireland wasn’t a break?’
‘I need another break.’
‘How long have you been a Rotarian?’
‘Thirty-five years and twice a club president.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘you can have a break. I’ll call.’
‘What will you say?’
‘That you’re taking a break.’
‘Okay, but say nothing more.’ Emma relished the elaborate excuse. ‘That will do.’
‘Same for the Kiwanis?’ she said, ticking off the list. ‘You’re taking a break?’
‘Just decline. No need to say why.’
‘Cleanup day?’
‘I’ll do it, I always do it. Ask for Jane Moreland, tell her I’ll prune and mulch the hedge.’
‘Do they have more than one hedge? They might get confused if there are several hedges. Take the old Fernbank place, for instance, there are three different hedges up there—hemlock, boxwood—’
‘The privet hedge.’ He’d worked on the Children’s Hospital hedge for eight years, but privet was privet and it still looked bedraggled.
‘So about this call from Andrew Gregory,’ she said. ‘Do you think he wants you to run for mayor next time?’
‘He seems perfectly happy doing the mayoring himself. He’ll ask me to run for council, I’m certain, but don’t say I said it.’
‘You should run for mayor.’
‘Why on earth do you think that?’
‘You’d be perfect.’
‘I would be no such thing. I have no patience for budgets and five-year plans and whatever else goes on in that office.’
‘Then you should definitely run for council. It’s your town.’
‘So? It’s your town, as well. I don’t see you serving on the council.’
‘They haven’t asked me.’
‘Call the mayor’s office, please, and say I’ll get back to him next week.’
‘Got it. What do clergy down th’ mountain want with you?’
‘They want me to tell them everything’s going to be all right.’
‘Is it?’
‘All I know is that the gates of hell shall not prevail against the church. I can’t be more specific, thus I’m not the man for the job.’
‘So I’ll tell them you’re taking a break,’ she said.
She was hitting her stride; her chest heaved with the joys of power and purpose. Not one among the many would know what hit them.
‘Hendersonville,’ she said.
‘Father Buster Baldwin, Priest in Charge,’ he dictated, handing over the address. ‘Dear Father Buster, I must decline your invitation to supply St. John for the month of January upcoming, while you and Mary are in the Keys. Thank you for your prayerful consideration and for the very generous offer of your home during that time. I will pray for the right soul to provide the needs of your growing parish. In his grace.’
‘Hendersonville in January,’ she said. ‘You dodged a bullet. So what’s with this letter from the bishop?’
‘Open it and tell me what it says.’
She slid her glasses down her nose. ‘You can’t open it and read it yourself?’
‘Read it and give me the gist of it.’ He had avoided the thing like the plague. Maybe he was still holding on to Stuart Cullen, his former bishop and oldest friend. In any case, Bishop Martin wanted something, he was sure of it. In his early days as a priest, he developed a nose, an instinct about people who wanted something. He could see it in the way they looked when approaching him, even sense it by glancing at the envelope containing a request. As for this missive, they would be after him to raise funds, he could smell it.
‘It’s dated September third. How long have you had it?’
‘Eons,’ he said.
‘“Dear Father Cavanaugh.”’ She was silent for a moment, glanced up. ‘He misspelled your name big-time.’
‘With a
u
, I suppose.’
‘With a
c
and a
u
.’
Call him prideful, call him contrary, he disliked it very much—very much—when someone misspelled, and in this case totally botched, his surname. What was the matter with people?
‘So much for your new bishop,’ she said.
‘Read it and tell me what he
‘Ireland wasn’t a break?’
‘I need another break.’
‘How long have you been a Rotarian?’
‘Thirty-five years and twice a club president.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘you can have a break. I’ll call.’
‘What will you say?’
‘That you’re taking a break.’
‘Okay, but say nothing more.’ Emma relished the elaborate excuse. ‘That will do.’
‘Same for the Kiwanis?’ she said, ticking off the list. ‘You’re taking a break?’
‘Just decline. No need to say why.’
‘Cleanup day?’
‘I’ll do it, I always do it. Ask for Jane Moreland, tell her I’ll prune and mulch the hedge.’
‘Do they have more than one hedge? They might get confused if there are several hedges. Take the old Fernbank place, for instance, there are three different hedges up there—hemlock, boxwood—’
‘The privet hedge.’ He’d worked on the Children’s Hospital hedge for eight years, but privet was privet and it still looked bedraggled.
‘So about this call from Andrew Gregory,’ she said. ‘Do you think he wants you to run for mayor next time?’
‘He seems perfectly happy doing the mayoring himself. He’ll ask me to run for council, I’m certain, but don’t say I said it.’
‘You should run for mayor.’
‘Why on earth do you think that?’
‘You’d be perfect.’
‘I would be no such thing. I have no patience for budgets and five-year plans and whatever else goes on in that office.’
‘Then you should definitely run for council. It’s your town.’
‘So? It’s your town, as well. I don’t see you serving on the council.’
‘They haven’t asked me.’
‘Call the mayor’s office, please, and say I’ll get back to him next week.’
‘Got it. What do clergy down th’ mountain want with you?’
‘They want me to tell them everything’s going to be all right.’
‘Is it?’
‘All I know is that the gates of hell shall not prevail against the church. I can’t be more specific, thus I’m not the man for the job.’
‘So I’ll tell them you’re taking a break,’ she said.
She was hitting her stride; her chest heaved with the joys of power and purpose. Not one among the many would know what hit them.
‘Hendersonville,’ she said.
‘Father Buster Baldwin, Priest in Charge,’ he dictated, handing over the address. ‘Dear Father Buster, I must decline your invitation to supply St. John for the month of January upcoming, while you and Mary are in the Keys. Thank you for your prayerful consideration and for the very generous offer of your home during that time. I will pray for the right soul to provide the needs of your growing parish. In his grace.’
‘Hendersonville in January,’ she said. ‘You dodged a bullet. So what’s with this letter from the bishop?’
‘Open it and tell me what it says.’
She slid her glasses down her nose. ‘You can’t open it and read it yourself?’
‘Read it and give me the gist of it.’ He had avoided the thing like the plague. Maybe he was still holding on to Stuart Cullen, his former bishop and oldest friend. In any case, Bishop Martin wanted something, he was sure of it. In his early days as a priest, he developed a nose, an instinct about people who wanted something. He could see it in the way they looked when approaching him, even sense it by glancing at the envelope containing a request. As for this missive, they would be after him to raise funds, he could smell it.
‘It’s dated September third. How long have you had it?’
‘Eons,’ he said.
‘“Dear Father Cavanaugh.”’ She was silent for a moment, glanced up. ‘He misspelled your name big-time.’
‘With a
u
, I suppose.’
‘With a
c
and a
u
.’
Call him prideful, call him contrary, he disliked it very much—very much—when someone misspelled, and in this case totally botched, his surname. What was the matter with people?
‘So much for your new bishop,’ she said.
‘Read it and tell me what he
Similar Books
