And last year’s Christmas parade—if that wasn’t pathetic, nothing was. There was Santy Claus ridin’ in on his float, the star of the show, the big kahuna, and the spectacle of him throwing out that little dab of candy was mortifying. A handful! A pittance! She was shocked and the children were crushed. ‘Not a budget item,’ was what a council member said. If she was mayor again, she would show them budget item. What kind of town had a Santy that didn’t give out enough candy to stick in the toe of a stockin’?

And what did Andrew Gregory know about filling the oil drum of an old woman and her halfwit son in a hard winter, or pulling a few strings to see that a fatherless family got fed or had clothes on their backs? Oh, no, he was busy tryin’ to make an inn out of Evie Adams’s old house and run a rubber-tire trolley up Main Street, everything but stand on the sidewalk in a clown suit to bring in the tourist trade. She hoped her successor was having a happy life, thank God he didn’t marry Cynthia before the Father got to her.

As for th’ mess at Lord’s Chapel, which nobody seemed able to figure out, she’d been around the block a few times and could absolutely guarantee that whatever was going on down there would sooner or later blow up—in more faces than one.

As she pulled into the driveway, she noticed the blotches on her right arm. Ha. On her left arm, too.

She looked in the mirror on the back of the sun visor, to see if her face had broken out. Was the Pope Cath’lic? Just like the old days when she was mayor, her entire mug was one big splotch. Stress, Hoppy Harper had said. Sausage biscuits, said her grandson, Joe Joe, who would soon be the best police chief the MPD ever had.

She killed the engine and stared at the garage door. Ray was playing golf today with his crazy pilot brother, Omer. She would have an early lunch, fix herself a salad, and no way would she dig out the leftover rum cake hidden behind the organic peas Avis Packard had conned her into buying.

She sighed, close to bawling. She didn’t want any of that lonesome grub.

What did she want?

She turned the key in the ignition, cranked into reverse, and backed out to Church Hill Road. She was going to Wesley, where she would swing in the drive-through at the Highlander, park in the shade, eat her chili dog and fries in the car, and listen to Rush Limbaugh.

•   •   •

‘LOOK THERE,’ said Hessie Mayhew, who sat by the window of the Woolen Shop, having coffee with Lois Burton. ‘It’s Father Tim, I thought he was still in Ireland.’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t know he came home days ago.’

‘I can’t know everything,’ snapped Hessie.

‘But you’re paid to know,’ said Lois, ‘bein’ a reporter on th’ Muse an’ all.’

‘Fifteen dollars an hour,’ said Hessie, ‘does not buy universal knowledge.’

Only yesterday, she had pictured Father Tim salmon fishing in waders and a tweed cap. And there he went, blowing up Main Street in shorts and a T-shirt, letting it all hang out. She didn’t think clergy should run or even jog. It was too up-close-and-personal a thing to do in front of people trying to mind their own business and get a little shopping done. Besides, without his collar, he looked positively naked. She took out her notebook, jotted something in green ink.

‘What did you just write?’ Lois craned her neck to see for herself.

‘A Helpful Household Hint,’ said Hessie, slamming the notebook shut.

‘I didn’t know you wrote th’ Household Hints, I love th’ Household Hints. I used a banana peel on my pumps just yesterday. It was a mess to get off, but it worked.’

She had no intention of saying that Vanita Bentley, whose official job was Classifieds, was now writing fifty percent of the Hints, including that ridiculous banana peel business. This was a job Miss Heloise Bentley had taken on without asking a by-your-leave of yours truly, who had done all the important writing at the Muse for twelve long years, including the Lady Spring pieces which everybody was crazy about, and Mayhew’s Mitford which had made her famous in two counties, if not three.

Out of the blue, Vanita had scribbled a snowstorm of Hints, and, unable to fit another scrap onto the hog pen J. C. Hogan called a desk, piled a shovelful in his swivel chair.

So did Mr. High and Mighty say, I’m sorry, but Hints is Hessie’s job? No way. Traitor to the end, he grinned over that jumble like every jot was a Shakespearean sonnet. You’d think he’d won the lottery when he came to “Restoring Color to Your Carpet,” a Hint he said his wife, Adele, would put to immediate use in their den.

Don’t think that little episode didn’t bring forth the bitter memory of Mitford’s first celebrity wedding, when, following graduation from Appalachian State, the daughter of a former governor’s ex-girlfriend’s first husband’s niece who’d had a bit part in As the World Turns got married at the Methodist chapel.

Had Vanita ever written anything but Sofa-for-sale and Used-baby-carriage-dirt-cheap? Could she write, punctuate, or even spell? Nada. Yet she took it in her head to cover the wedding in case it had somebody famous in it. Quick as a fox, Vanita Schmita slapped a story on J.C.’s desk before the bride could stuff herself into a going-away pantsuit that was the wrong shade of green for sallow coloring.

She, Hessie, had slapped a few impromptu stories on the so-called editorial desk herself, and many had never been seen again. But let Vanita toss her scribbles in that Dumpster with drawers, and he would sniff them out like a hound. In a heartbeat, there was the wedding story splattered over the front page, and a color photo mostly showing the backs of people’s heads.

She would long remember the intense rush of pleasure it gave her to read:

Spring Brake Leads to Fall Wedding

No indeed, she would not be writing the tacky Hints so dear to the hearts of Vanita Bentley and J. C. Hogan, like how to shave fuzz off a sweater or make your own underarm deodorant. She would stick with such time-honored Hints as how to remove red wine stains from white napery, or how to make old knives as sharp as new. She would never stoop to serve the lowest common denominator—those who didn’t wish to remove stains or sharpen their knives. This week, her Hint was “How to Clean Leather Book Bindings,” though hardly anyone cared about books anymore, much less leather-bound.

The only person she knew who owned such treasures was Father Tim—he had a bookcase full. Years ago, when she was still in floral arrangements, she went to the rectory to meet with him and Cynthia about their wedding flowers. She recalled that Cynthia wanted roses and lilacs and had to be told very firmly that there was no such thing as roses and lilacs in September, Mitford weddings were done with what people had in their yards. And hadn’t everybody raved over what Hessie Mayhew had fashioned out of twigs, berries, and pods with a few hydrangeas thrown in?

The point was, if the Hint for this week appealed to just one person, that was enough. Such disagreeable crumbs as “The Homemade Smell Remover” were not her bailiwick, though it was certainly one way to attract the huddled masses—didn’t they have dogs and cats and even pet pigs that slept anywhere they liked, on furniture of mixed description and in people’s beds?

‘I wonder if he saw any fairies,’ said Lois.

There was no way to miss the sandwich board at the foot of the steps leading to A Cut Above:

Welcome to Mitford

Shirlene Hatfield!!!

All hair services

The famous Spraytan

Acrylic Nails

Wi-fi

Free Wine and cheese this week only