Shepherds Abiding Read Online Free Page B

the pen, just as it beat in the heart and soulof the chaplain of Hope House and expressed itself in everything he did.
    Scott Murphy was practically famous for the wonderful projects he encouraged the nursing home residents to do up at Hope House, like working an annual vegetable garden that donated produce to a food pantry for area churches. Then there were his Jack Russell terriers, Luke and Lizzie, whose job it was to make the elderly residents laugh.
    Hope had no idea why God had caused this wonderful thing to happen to her—someone who had hardly ever felt pretty, though she’d often been told that she was; someone who, at the age of thirty-seven, had never been in love, though she had always wanted to be and twice, mistakenly, thought she was.
    But maybe she was getting ahead of herself; after all, she had been out with Scott Murphy only three times.

    “So what do you think?” he asked Mule Skinner over breakfast at the Grill.
    “Beats me,” said Mule. “I’m sure not drivin’ to Wesley for some overpriced lunch deal.”
    “I saw him on the street yesterday. He suggested we meet him down at the tea shop.”
    “J.C.’s hangin’ out at th’ tea shop? ” Mule’s eyebrows shot skyward.
    “Actually, he hasn’t had the guts to go there yet—he’s been packing a sandwich—but he said he’d do it if we’d go with him.”
    “Percy won’t like us goin’ down th’ street.”
    “Right. True.” The owner of the Grill thought he also owned his regulars. One underhanded meal at another eatery was grimly tolerated, but two was treason, with scant forgiveness forthcoming.
    “I double dare you,” said Mule.
    Father Tim dipped his toast into a poached egg and considered this. Buying the crèche had made him feel slightly reckless. . . .
    “I will if you will,” he said, grinning.

    At the Oxford, he and Fred unpacked the last of the figures and lined them up along the far wall of the back room. “What do you think?” he asked Fred.
    Looking soberly at the lineup, Fred pondered hisreply for some time. “Wellsir, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
    Two angels, one with a missing wing. A camel with a single ear. Two sheep minus tails, and the whole flock painted a deadly chalk white. A donkey painted black, eyes and all, and looking like a lump of coal. One shepherd in decent repair, with the exception of damage to a hand that had removed three fingers; the other shepherd painted a wretched iron gray—skin, robes, shoes, and all.
    The three kings had hardly fared better. In what biblical scholars generally conceded was a two-year journey to the Child, one fellow had lost a nose, another was missing part of his crown, and all were painted something akin to a mottled, industrial teal. What could Andrew have been thinking?
    The Virgin Mary’s bright red robe with orange undergarments was a definite redo, and indeed, the angels’ gear was hardly an improvement—both wore robes in a ghastly saffron color, only a shade removed from the hue of their skin. One needn’t be Leonardo da Vinci to see that the whole parcel needed redemption, save for the Babe, whose figure in the attached manger was amazingly unharmed, and not badly painted.
    “Carved wood,” said Andrew, peering with a loupe at a section of the small figure. “Not plaster, as I’d thought. Original paint surface, with gilt overlay. Given the wear on the gilt, perhaps mid- to late nineteenth century.”
    “So what do you think?” asked Father Tim, craving assurance.
    “I think that as soon as I hear back from my restoration contact in England, we should get started . . . begin at the beginning!”
    “Aha,” he said, feeling a dash weak in the knees.

    He and Mule legged it south toward the tea shop, adrenaline pumping. Cynthia Kavanagh knew what he was up to today, and had already gotten her laugh out of it. Next, the whole town would be hee-hawing—with the exception, of course, of Percy Mosely.
    In the meantime, they were