A New Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

all. Then somebody wanted it for the town museum and it had taken on a whole new luster.
    “He looks fearless!” said Cynthia.
    “Had twelve young ’uns!” Coot grinned from ear to ear, which was not a pretty sight, given his dental condition. “Stubs!” Mule Skinner had said, marveling at how he’d seen people’s teeth fall out, but never wear down in such a way.
    “Six lived, six died, all buried over yonder on Miz Mallory’s ridge. Her house sets right next to where him and my great-great-granmaw built their little cabin.”
    “Well!” said Father Tim.
    “Hit was a fine place to sight Yankees from,” said Coot.
    “I’ll bet so.”
    “There probably weren’t many Yankees prowling around up here,” said Cynthia, who’d read that, barely a hundred and fifty years ago, an Anglican bishop had called the area “wild and uninhabitable.”
    “You’d be surprised,” said Coot, tucking his thumbs in the straps of his overalls. “They say my great-great-granpaw shot five and give ever’ one of ’em a solemn burial.”
    “I didn’t know there were any battles fought around Mitford,” said Cynthia, who appeared deeply interested in this new wrinkle of local history.
    “They won’t. Th’ Yankees was runaways from their regiment.”
    Spying Esther and Gene Bolick making a beeline in their direction, they excused themselves and met the Bolicks halfway.
    “We just hate this!” said Esther. Overcome, she grabbed his hand and kissed it, then, mortified at such behavior, dropped it like a hot potato. “Gene and I have run th’ gambit of emotions, and we still just hate to see y’all go!”
    “We hate to go,” he said simply.
    “I baked you a two-layer orange marmalade and froze it. You can carry it down there in your cooler.” There was nothing else she could do to keep her former priest in Mitford where she was certain he belonged—she had prayed, she had lost, she had cried, and in the end, she had baked.
    Her husband, Gene, sighed and looked glum.
    This, thought Father Tim, is precisely where a going-away party turns into a blasted wake unless somebody puts on a funny hat or slides down the banister, something. . . .
    He turned to his wife, who shrugged and smiled and sought greener pastures.
    “Gene’s not been feelin’ too good,” said Esther.
    “What is it?” asked Father Tim.
    “Don’t know exactly,” Gene said, as Miss Rose strode up. “But I talked to Hoppy and went and got th’ shots.”
    “Got the trots ?” shouted Miss Rose. Everyone peered at them.
    Gene flushed. “No, ma’am. The shots. ”
    “Bill had the trots last week,” she said, frowning. “It could be something going around.” Their hostess, who was monitoring everyone’s plate to see whether her pudding had gotten its rightful reception, moved on to the next circle of guests.
    “We reckon you know how hot it gets down there,” said Gene.
    “Honey, hot ’s not th’ word for it!” Fancy Skinner appeared in her signature outfit of pink Capri pants, V-neck sweater, and spike-heel shoes. “You will be boiled, steamed, roasted, baked, and fried.”
    “Not to mention sautéed,” said Avis Packard, who owned the grocery store on Main Street, and liked to cook.
    Fancy popped her sugarless gum. “Then there’s stewed and broiled.”
    “Please,” said Father Tim.
    “Barbecued!” contributed Gene, feeling pleased with himself. “You forgot barbecued.”
    Fancy, who was the owner of Mitford’s only unisex salon, hooted with laughter.
    “Did you consider maybe goin’ to Vermont ?” Gene wondered if their former rector had thought through this island business.
    “Because if you think your hair’s curlin’ around your ears now ,” said Fancy, “wait’ll all that humidity hits it, we’re talkin’ a Shirley Temple-Little Richard combo. That’s why I liked to keep your hair flat around your ears when I was doin’ it, now it’s these chipmunk pooches again.” Fancy reached out to forcibly slick