Out to Canaan Read Online Free Page B

what?”
    â€œI can’t guess.”
    â€œHe threw it all up in the closet, on Harold’s shoes.”
    â€œI can see Harold’s point.”
    â€œYou would,” she said stiffly, sitting at her desk.
    â€œI would?”
    â€œYes. You’re a man,” she announced, glaring at him. “By the way . . .”
    â€œBy the way what?”
    â€œThat bump on your head is the worst-lookin’ mess I ever saw. Can’t you get Cynthia to do somethin’ about it?”
    Then again, maybe works could have an influence. Exercising the patience of a saint while putting up with Emma Newland for fifteen years should be enough to blast him heavenward like a rocket, with no stops along the way.
    Emma booted her computer and peered at the screen.
    â€œI nearly ran over Mack Stroupe comin’ in this morning, he crossed th’ street without lookin’. I didn’t know whether to hit th’ brakes or the accelerator. You know that hotdog stand of his? He’s turnin’ it into his campaign headquarters! Campaign headquarters, can you believe it? Who does he think he is, Ross Perot?”
    The rector sighed.
    â€œYou know that mud slick in front that he called a parkin’ lot?” She clicked her mouse. “Well, he’s having it paved, the asphalt trucks are all over it like flies. Asphalt!” she muttered. “I hate asphalt. Give me cement, any day.”
    Yes, indeed. Straight up, right into a personal and highly favorable audience with St. Peter.

    â€œSomething has to be done,” he said.
    â€œYes, but what?”
    â€œBlast if I know. If we don’t get a new roof on it soon, who can guess what the interior damage might be?”
    Father Tim and Cynthia sat at the kitchen table, discussing his second most worrisome problem—what to do with the rambling, three-story Victorian mansion known as Fernbank, and its endless, overgrown grounds.
    When Miss Sadie died last year, she left Fernbank to the church, “to cover any future needs of Hope House,” and there it sat—buffeted by hilltop winds and scoured by driving hailstorms, with no one even to sweep dead bees from the windowsills.
    In Miss Sadie’s mind, Fernbank had been a gift; to him, it was an albatross. After all, she had clearly made him responsible for doing the best thing by her aging homeplace.
    There had been talk of leasing it to a private school or institution, a notion that lay snarled somewhere in diocesan red tape. On the other hand, should they sell it and invest the money? If so, should they sell it as is, or bite the bullet and repair it at horrendous cost to a parish almost certainly unwilling to gamble in real estate?
    â€œWe just got an estimate on the roof,” he said.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œThirty, maybe thirty-five thousand.”
    â€œGood heavens!”
    They sat in silence, reflecting.
    â€œPoor Fernbank,” she said. “Who would buy it, anyway? Certainly no one in Mitford can afford it.”
    He refilled his coffee cup. Even if they were onto a sour subject, he was happy to be hanging out with his wife. Besides, Cynthia Kavanagh was known for stumbling onto serendipitous solutions for all sorts of woes and tribulations.
    â€œWorse than that,” she said, “who could afford to fix it up, assuming they could buy it in the first place?”
    â€œThere’s the rub.”
    After staring at the tablecloth for a moment, she looked up. “Then again, why worry about it at all? Miss Sadie didn’t give it to you  . . .”
    So why had he worn the thing around his neck for more than ten months?
    â€œÂ . . . she gave it to the church. Which, in case you’ve momentarily forgotten, belongs to God. So, let Him handle it, for Pete’s sake.”
    He could feel the grin spreading across his face. Right! Of course! He felt a weight fly off, if only temporarily. “Who’s the