Free These High, Green Hills by Jan Karon Page A

Lacey Turner, as pert and smart a young ’un as you’ll ever see, with a daddy that’s beat her all her life, and a mama sick to death with a blood ailment?
    “I can’t keep goin‘ back in there. My arthritis won’t hardly let me get down the bank from the main road.”
    The old man shook his head. “It grieves me, brother, it grieves me.”
    The knot in the rector’s throat was sizable. “I don’t know right now what we can do,” he said, “but we’ll do something. You can count on it.”
    They walked out to the porch and looked across the pasture and up to the hills. The sun was disappearing behind a ridge.
    “How’s Sadie?” asked Absalom.
    “Never better, I think. She has a heart like yours.”
    “Well ...” said the old preacher, gazing at the hills. They stood on the porch for a moment, silent.
    Absalom Greer had passed a torch, and Father Tim had taken it. The only problem was, he had no idea what to do with it.

    He was fixing dinner as Dooley stood at the kitchen door, staring into the yard. Cynthia looked up from setting the table and walked over and put her hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.
    “What is it, Dools?”
    “Nothin‘.”
    “Why won’t you talk to us, be with your family for the two days you’ve got left of your school break?”
    Dooley turned around and they saw that his face was white with anger. “You’re not my family. I don’t have a family.”
    He stalked from the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

    On Saturday, Cynthia popped through the hedge for an early call from her editor, so he hot-footed it to the Grill, with Barnabas on the red leash. Advent was coming up, and still no snow, or promise of snow. Perhaps they would have a white Christmas—but, God forbid, not a blizzard like the one that paralyzed them last winter.
    He took his cup off the hook at the counter and poured his own coffee. “Poached,” he said to Percy, who was flipping bacon on the grill. Percy frowned. He had never liked doing poached, which he considered too time-consuming.
    In the rear booth, Mule was reading the paper, printed on the Muse presses overhead. “How’d we get th‘ pleasure of your company this morning?”
    “I lost the pleasure of my wife’s company,” said the rector.
    “I know th‘ feelin’. Fancy was up doin‘ highlights and a perm at six-thirty.” He folded the Muse and laid it on the table. “You see J.C.’s story?”
    “ ‘Getting to Know Your MPD,’ I think he called it.”
    “He drove around in a squad car for a couple of days, gathering material.”
    “Very readable,” said the rector. “Well done. Anybody seen the new police officer?”
    “You mean th‘ woman?”
    “Right.”
    “Fills out ‘er uniform pretty good. She was in here before you, picked up a coffee with cream and sugar. Forty, if she’s a day. Name’s Adele Lynwood.”
    “Where’s J.C.?” wondered Father Tim.
    “Gettin‘ barbered. I saw him leggin’ it up th‘ steps to Joe Ivey an hour ago. Speakin’ of which, you’re lookin‘ a little lank around th’ collar.”
    “Always drumming up business for Fancy. If she did as much for your real estate interests, you’d be rolling in dough.”
    “I call it like I see it, and you could use a trim.”
    “Man!” said J.C., sliding into the booth. “He shaved me for boot camp.”
    “That’s Joe’s deal,” said Mule. “Take it all off at one whack. Fancy’s of the new school. She believes in trimmin‘ a little at a time. More natural.”
    “And more money,” said J.C., wiping his face with a paper napkin. “Six bucks here, six bucks there. Joe gives you fifteen dollars’ worth for five.”
    “And sends you out needin‘ a hat to keep your head warm,” said Mule.
    Given the surprised, newly hatched look of J. C. Hogan, the rector thought he might dodge Joe Ivey this time and step over to Fancy’s himself.
    “Good story,” said the rector. “One of the best in some time. I didn’t know the chief played