Light From Heaven Read Free Page B

at Miss Olivia’s ol’ house. She say she ought to go get it out of where she put it, but th’ market was still real bad.
    “Then, we both plumb forgot.
    “Th‘other day I was settin’ in this rockin’ chair watchin’ th’ soaps an’ it come to me like a lightnin’ strike. I said, oh, law ! Somethin’ bad goin’ to happen to Miss Sadie’s money, an’ Miss Sadie, she’ll be hoppin’ mad.”
    He was dumbfounded by this strange turn of events. As far as what might be done about it, his mind felt oddly pickled.
    Louella’s immense bosom heaved with a sense of the urgent mission to be carried forth; she leaned toward him and lowered her voice.
    “So,” she said, “what you goin’ t’ do ’bout Miss Sadie’s money?”

    On the way to Main Street, he zoomed by their yellow house on Wisteria Lane and found it looking spic, not to mention downright span. Harley’s general supervision of its welfare made it possible to spend this carefree year at Meadowgate.
    He threw up his hand and waved.
    “We’ll be back!” he shouted.

    He wheeled into Lew Boyd’s Exxon, still occasionally referred to as the Esso station, and saw the Turkey Club sprawled in plastic deck chairs inside the front window. The lineup included J. C. Hogan, longtime Mitford Muse editor; Mule Skinner, semiretired realtor; and Percy Mosely, former proprietor of the now-defunct Main Street Grill.
    He’d been hanging out with this bunch for eighteen or twenty years, and it had been a rude awakening when Percy and Velma packed it in last Christmas Eve, vacating a building that quickly became a discount shoe store. Currently occupying the spot where the club’s rear booth had stood was a rack of women’s pumps, sizes eight to ten.
    “Hooboy!” Mule stood and saluted. “Here comes our Los Angelees movie producer.”
    “Who, me?”
    “Pretty soon, you’ll be whippin’ that back in a ponytail an’ wearin’ a earring.”
    Father Tim suddenly felt his hair flowing over his shoulders like a medieval mantle.
    “Come on, leave ‘im alone,” said Percy. “He’s livin’ out in th’ boonies, he don’t have to slick up like we do.”
    “If you call that slicked up, I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
    “How long’re you stuck out there in th’ sticks?” asked Percy.
    “Hal and Marge will be living in France for a year, so ... roughly nine more months. But we don’t feel stuck, we like it.”
    “I lived in th’ country when I was comin’ up,” said Percy, “an’ it like to killed me. They ain’t nothin’ but work on a farm. Haul this, fix that, hoe this, feed that. If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers.”
    “About time you showed up, buddyroe, my fish san’wich is goin’ south.” J.C. rooted around in his overstuffed briefcase and came up with something wrapped in recycled foil.
    Mule sniffed the air. “How long has that thing been in there?”
    “Seven o’clock this morning.”
    “You’re not goin’ to eat it?”
    “Why not? Th’ temperature’s just a couple degrees above freezin’.”
    Father Tim noted that the editor’s aftershave should effectively mask any offensive odors within, loosely, a city block.
    “What’d you bring?” Mule asked Percy.
    “Last night’s honey-baked pork chop on a sesame-seed roll with lettuce, mayo, and a side of chips.”
    “Man!” said Mule. He expected that anybody who’d owned the Grill for forty-odd years would show up with a great lunch, but nothing like this. He peered into his own paper sack.
    “So, what is it?” asked J.C., hammering down on the fish sandwich.
    “I can’t believe it.” Mule appeared disconsolate. “Fancy’s got me on some hoo-doo diet again.”
    “Why is your wife packin’ your lunch?You’re a big boy, pack your own bloomin’ lunch.”
    Mule examined the contents of the Ziploc bag. “A sweet potato,” he said, devastated. “With no butter.”
    “A sweet potato?” Percy eyed the pathetic offering with disbelief. “What kind of diet is