‘They was a man here to see you,’ she said. ‘In a black car with tinted windows.’

He was floored. ‘What did he want?’

‘He wanted to see you an’ I said you were out runnin’ and then ’is cell started beepin’ an’ he answered an’ said yes, ma’am, a whole lot of times an’ then he said they had to git down th’ mountain an’ off he went in a hurry.’

‘It wasn’t Ed Coffey?’

‘Definitely not Ed Coffey. Had on these really dark wraparound glasses an’ a uniform like I never seen on anybody. But not armed services or anything.’

‘He said they had to go?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Nothin.’ Miss Cynthy told me to answer th’ phone an’ th’ door, she’s workin’.’

‘How did he ask for me?’

‘He said, Is Father Timothy Kavanagh available? That’s when I said you were out runnin’.’

‘He didn’t ask where?’

‘No, that’s when ’is cell phone beeped.’

‘He said they had to go down the mountain? Those were his words?’

‘Exactly.’

Yes, ma’am. The driver was southern. They. There would have been another person with him, or two. Down the mountain. Usually only people who lived on the mountain said down the mountain.

He sat on a kitchen stool, fairly whipped from the run and the heat. ‘Aren’t you here late?’

‘I’m leavin’ in ten minutes. I tol’ Miss Cynthy I have to bring th’ babies to work on Monday. Can you stand it?’

‘I’ll eat my Wheaties,’ he said. ‘Any calls?’

‘Mr. Skinner left a message, I couldn’t git to th’ phone right then. He said, Tea shop today, high noon. Th’ only other call was th’ man who said bring your car in tomorrow mornin’—first thing, he said, or it’ll be late next week ’til he can take a look at it. Here’s your raisins.’

He ate the raisins, dutiful, walked Barnabas to their side of the hedge, went to the studio and looked at what his wife had done today, which was bloody amazing, thanked her for the letter, and said, More later, and went upstairs and showered and put on a knit shirt and a pair of khakis. He had time to clean the outdoor grill for tonight before he went to lunch. Run, clean the grill, go to lunch. Life was short, how long could he afford to do nothing? In the afternoon, he would work on his own letter. God help him.

So Mule was over his huff about the tea shop, and J.C. would probably show up, too.

What next? What now?

And how long could he avoid J.C.? The answer was, not long. Nobody had mentioned the Muse piece today, so he wasn’t the only one dismissing local reportage as rubbish and twaddle. He crossed himself, lifted a prayer, forgave the old so-and-so, and went downstairs to report the real news, which was Esther’s.

•   •   •

‘YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT,’ said J.C. ‘I can tell.’

‘I didn’t, you’re right.’

‘I think you’ll change your mind.’

‘Good. I hope so.’ His wife had the winning strategy; she laughed at nonsense. He wanted to learn how to do that.

‘So let’s be productive today,’ said Mule, joining them at the table, ‘an’ name this place.’

‘In the interest of time,’ said J.C., ‘we ordered for you.’

‘What did you order?’

‘Surprise,’ said J.C.

‘A children’s plate,’ he said, ‘with chocolate pie.’

‘Fancy told me last night I have to quit chocolate.’

‘Oh, boy,’ said J.C.

‘Okay, okay, but just this once,’ said Mule. ‘Here’s th’ deal—I thought about it a lot last night. The Lunch Box!’

‘How about this place is also open for dinner and that won’t get it?’ said J.C.

‘Okay, here’s one that comes off of th’ fact we’re at thirty-six hundred feet above sea level. High country, mountains, like that. So how about . . .’ Mule leaned in, confidential. ‘. . . Pie in the Sky?’

‘Too much of a dessert theme. People are tryin’ to lose weight.’

‘Man,’ said Mule. ‘This is hard. Those were my best shots. How about Foggy Mountain Dew?’

‘What?’

‘Kind of senseless, but kind of intriguin’.’

‘Way off message,’ he said. He knew that much about marketing.

‘What’s th’ message?’

‘Good food, reasonable prices, come and get it.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mule. ‘Maybe we should leave it alone, it’s none of our business what th’ name is. Chelsea Tea Shop—fine with me. But what’s a Chelsea? I’ve been meanin’ to ask for a couple of years.’

‘A district in London,’ he said.

‘There you go,’ said J.C. ‘Definitely not th’ local feeling we’re lookin’ for. Th’ family thing might be good to weave in. My mother called us to th’ table saying, Soup’s on. How about Soup’s On?’

‘Then they think the menu’s all soup,’ said Mule.

He took a long draught of his iced tea; J.C. ogled the ceiling fan.

‘How about the Daily Blessing?’ He definitely wasn’t good at this.

‘Not bad,’ said Mule. ‘If you’re hungry, any food’s a blessin’.’

‘Too religious,’ said J.C.

‘We ought to put th’ owner’s name in,’ said Mule. ‘You know, like Pete’s Barbecue in Wesley, or Cindy’s Lunch Spot on th’ highway. Owners go nuts over havin’ their name in th’ name.’

J.C. sat for a time, eyes closed.

‘He’s in a trance,’ said Mule.

J.C. looked up. ‘How about Wanda’s Feel Good Café?’

‘Whoa!’ said Mule. ‘Where’d that come from?’

J.C. shrugged.

‘Does that mean you feel good when you’re in here?’

‘Not particularly,’ said J.C. ‘How about you, Tim?’

‘I’ve felt better in other places,’ he said. ‘But since this is the only place . . .’

•   •   •

‘SO THERE YOU HAVE IT.’ J.C. ended the presentation to Wanda Basinger, who had joined them at the table. ‘New ownership, new name.’

Wanda displayed a decidedly crooked grin. One side of her mouth appeared to smile, the other side read, Back off.

‘I love it,’ she said from the smile side.

‘Free lunch for five days,’ said Mule.

‘For which turkey?’

‘Th’ whole flock,’ said Mule.

‘Five times three is fifteen,’ she said, ‘which at roughly ten dollars a pop is a hundred and fifty bucks. Way out of line.’

‘Free lunch, five days,’ said Mule.

There was a staring competition between the realtor and the proprietor. Pretty heady stuff, he thought. He took a turn looking at the ceiling fan, J.C. wiped his face with his lunch napkin.

‘All right, all right,’ said Wanda, speaking from the back-off side. ‘But no tips included, you can forget that.’

‘Deal,’ said Mule.

He’d just witnessed how Mule Skinner was able to make it in today’s real estate market.

•   •   •

HE’D GONE OUT to the recycling bin and saw Harley in the driveway next door. He dodged through the hedge.

‘Harley! Welcome home, buddy!’

‘Yo, Rev’ren’!’

Hugging the slightly built, highly metabolized Harley Welch was like grabbing on to a field hare that smelled, curiously, of cologne.

‘Ye’re a sight f’r sore eyes. Boys howdy, I’m glad to be back, we was out in th’ boonies, I can tell y’ that.’

He stared, dumbfounded.

‘Harley?’

‘It’s m’ teeth, ain’t it?’

‘But you said . . .’

‘I know. I said teeth never give me nothin’ but trouble—what didn’t rot out was knocked out; I didn’t want nothin’ more t’ do with ’em.’

He was feeling oddly betrayed, accusing. ‘You said you’d gotten used to the way things were in there.’

‘I thought teeth’d jis’ take up too much room, but I was dead wrong. I tried to git Sammy to git a set, but he won’t be havin’ none of that.’

This was a whole other Harley, and he didn’t much like it. Harley with teeth? It was . . . he couldn’t find the word.

•   •   •

‘HARLEY’S BRINGING HIS FAMOUS BROWNIES,’ he said. ‘We can freeze Winnie’s for the October crowd.’

His wife sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

Hugging Harley had left its mark. ‘Harley’s cologne.’

‘Harley’s cologne?’

He would have to change shirts.