Home to Holly Springs Read online

  Home to Holly Springs

  Mitford books by Jan Karon

  AT HOME IN MITFORD

  A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW

  THESE HIGH, GREEN HILLS

  OUT TO CANAAN

  A NEW SONG

  A COMMON LIFE:

  THE WEDDING STORY

  IN THIS MOUNTAIN

  SHEPHERDS ABIDING

  LIGHT FROM HEAVEN

  THE MITFORD BEDSIDE COMPANION

  JAN KARON’S MITFORD COOKBOOK & KITCHEN READER

  PATCHES OF GODLIGHT

  A CONTINUAL FEAST

  THE MITFORD SNOWMEN

  ESTHER’S GIFT

  Children’s Books

  MISS FANNIE’S HAT

  JEREMY: THE TALE OF AN HONEST BUNNY

  All Ages

  THE TRELLIS AND THE SEED

  Jan Karon Presents

  VIOLET COMES TO STAY

  Story by Melanie Cecka

  Pictures by Emily Arnold McCully

  VIOLET GOES TO THE COUNTY

  Story by Melanie Cecka

  Pictures by Emily Arnold McCully

  The Father Tim Series

  JAN KARON

  Home to Holly Springs

  VIKING

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2007 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Jan Karon, 2007

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Karon, Jan.

  Home to Holly Springs: the first of the Father Tim novels / Jan Karon.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-1011-9080-7

  1. Episcopalians—Fiction. 2. Clergy—Fiction. 3. Holly Springs (Miss.)—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3561.A678H66 2007

  813'.54—dc22 2007029976

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Warmest thanks to Dr. Daniel P. Jordan, Jr.; Lou Jordan; Judge Dan Jordan, Christy Jones, Blanton Jones, Jean Ann Jones, Mary Ann Connell; Quentell Gipson; Annie Moffitt of the popular Annie’s Restaurant in Holly Springs; Dorothy Warren; Ruthie Bowlin; Russell Whitehead; Cary Whitehead; Mike Moore; Betty McGeorge; Lois Swanee; Jorja Lynn; John Peaches; Dr. Ben Martin; David B. Person; Chelius Carter; Frances Gresham; Steve Gresham; Olga Reed Pruitt; Carol Hill; The Very Reverend Dr. Paul Zahl; Jim Boone; Tony Bowers; Billy Jones; Melba Darras; the late Tommie Darras; Ann Barnes; Sara Lee Barnes; Earl Scott; Polly Hawkes; Reverend Marshall Edwards; Jim Shank; Albert Ernest; Rodger Belew; Marvin Gormours; Jeff Heitzenrater; Nancy Briggs; Betty Moore; Jean Coors; Wendall Winn, Jr.; Cathie Lillis; Winston K. Barham; Wayne Dowdy; Frank S. Brown; Bill Hargrove; Larry Dean Richardson; Mike Thacker (my hunting and firearms authority); Beki Thacker; Ollie Thacker; Joyce Thacker; Judy Grigg; Reverend Edwin Pippin; Darlene Rush; Ed and Dean Rush; my sister, Brenda Furman; my daughter, Candace Freeland; Dr. David M. Heilbronner; Dr. Robert Gibson; Tom Mangold; Kevin Whiteley; Mary Minor; Major Tom Pike; Bob Maurino; Rt. Reverend William A. Jones, Jr.; and in recognition of the contributions by Elizabeth Blanton Jones (1868–1949) to the cultural welfare of Holly Springs and beyond.

  Boundless thanks to Reverend Bruce McMillan; Dr. Paul Klas; Dr. Kevin McConnell; Dr. Emanuel Cirenza; Dr. John J. Densmore; and to Dr. Thomas R. Spitzer, Director of the Bone Marrow Transplant Program at Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston.

  DEDICATION

  When I began writing the Mitford series more than a decade ago, I needed to know where my main character, Father Timothy Andrew Kavanagh, had been born and raised. He was decidedly southern in his speech, behavior, and personal affinities, but what part of the south had shaped and influenced him?

  I spread a map of America on the floor of my writing room, and proceeded to eliminate every southern state but Mississippi (which I had never visited). Then my gaze roved its towns and cities for a place name with music in it. When I found Holly Springs, the decision was immediate: Tim Kavanagh was from Holly Springs, Mississippi, population 8,000, and the burying place of so many illustrious war dead that the town cemetery is also known as Little Arlington.

  I never dreamed I’d actually visit this gem of the Deep South. Then, nine novels and more than a decade later, I knew I must set a book in my character’s birthplace—and find the missing pieces of his early life.

  In Holly Springs, I not only found the missing pieces, but something rare and wondrous. I found people who value their deep connections and shared history, and are willing to forgive each other their trespasses. Without exception, they’re proud of their town and its more than sixty antebellum homes; proud of Rust College, their century-old institution of learning; and proud of the beauty that surrounds them on every side. Beauty is important in this fragile life, and Holly Springs has no lack of it. Nor was there any lack of warmth an
d generosity in the welcome I received.

  Indeed, I am able to say, as Paige Benton Brown has said, “Mississippi isn’t a state, it’s a family.”

  If that sounds overly sentimental, so be it. I found it true.

  Though this novel is set in a real town, no actual Holly Springs personalities make their appearance in these pages. However, some of the places mentioned herein are quite real. I chose to cast Tyson Drug, Booker Hardware, and Phillips Grocery because all are familiar landmarks in Holly Springs today, as well as an important part of the culture in Father Tim’s youth. Other actual landmarks referenced in Home to Holly Springs include Airliewood, Fant Place, Christ Church, First Baptist, First Presbyterian, the Utley Building, the train station, Hill Crest Cemetery, Stafford’s, the birthplace of Ida Wells, and the impressive brick and limestone Greek Revival courthouse which anchors the town square. The Peabody Hotel in Memphis is yet another actual landmark appearing in this work. However, even when a real place appears, the events portrayed are fictitious.

  I hope my friends in Holly Springs will forgive any blunders, historical or otherwise, contained in this work, and know that it is dedicated with profound regard to all who call Holly Springs home.

  Jan Karon

  October 2007

  Home to

  Holly Springs

  ONE

  A preacher with a lead foot, driving a red Mustang convertible with the top down, could make a state patrolman pretty testy.

  He checked the rearview mirror. Though he was the only car on the highway, he slowed to fifty-five.

  It was nearly fourteen years since he’d been nailed for speeding, though he had, in the meantime, been given a warning. Of course, the warning had been delivered while he was still driving his primeval Buick. Not only had the decrepitude of his car inclined the officer’s compassion toward clergy in general, but he’d looked pretty astounded that the vehicle could even do seventy in a fifty-five mile zone.

  He glanced toward the passenger seat. His travel companion, now occasionally known as the Old Gentleman, was obviously enjoying the wind in his face.

  Perhaps he should feel guilty about making this trip with his best friend instead of his wife. But hadn’t she practically booted him out the door?

  ‘Go!’ she said, hobbling about in her ankle cast. ‘Go, and be as the butterfly!’

  He had tested her a couple of times, to make certain he could bust out of there for five or six days and remain within the loose confines of her good will.

  ‘What about food supplies, since you can’t drive?’

  ‘Darling, this is Mitford. They will swarm to bring covered dishes to the wife of their all-time favorite priest.’

  ‘Swarm, will they? Just to be safe, I’ll lay in victuals.’

  ‘Don’t, please. Just go. Go and be as—’

  ‘You already said that.’

  ‘Well, and I mean it. Butterflies have a very short life span. If they’re ever going back to Mississippi to settle certain issues of the heart, they have to hop to it. And enjoy the trip while they’re at it, of course.’

  His wife was a children’s book author and illustrator and had her own way of looking at things.

  ‘What about the trash?’

  ‘Sammy or Kenny will carry it out, they’re right next door. Or even Harley will do it. I can’t even make enough trash for all those fellows to carry out.’

  ‘What if you get, you know, scared or something?’

  ‘Scared or something? Have you ever known me to be scared or something?’

  He had, actually, but they’d been lost in a wild cave at the time.

  She’d given him that grin of hers, and blasted him with the cornflower blue of her eyes. And here he was.

  Kudzu.

  Everywhere.

  He didn’t remember such vast stretches of his old terrain being carpeted with the stuff.

  It was seldom seen in the mountains of North Carolina. Too cold, he supposed, for the flowering perennial vine from the Orient; it was the boiling summers and mild winters of Mississippi that worked the charm. What the government had planted in the thirties to prevent erosion had done its job, and then some.

  He turned the radio on and roamed the dial, looking for a country station. This wasn’t a Mozart kind of trip.

  “…I’m goin’ to Jackson, and that’s a fact, yeah, we’re goin’ to Jackson, ain’t ever comin’ back…”

  Johnny Cash and June Carter were going to Jackson, he was going to Holly Springs.

  He hung a right at the first exit to his hometown, relieved that he hadn’t felt it yet—the surge of sorrow or dread or even cold disinterest that he’d feared since the note arrived and he’d decided to make this journey. As they drove out of Mitford yesterday morning, he’d steeled himself for the appearance of some long-suppressed emotion that would overtake him straight out of the box. But it hadn’t happened.

  It might have assailed him last night in the motel room, more than five hundred miles from his wife, as he crawled, unwilling, beneath a blanket reeking of stale tobacco smoke.

  There had also been a window of opportunity this morning when, downing an egg biscuit on the south side of Memphis, he’d felt suddenly panicked—ready to get behind the wheel and head back the way he’d come. But he’d caught such feelings red-handed and refused to give in to them. What he was doing had to be done, even if it produced despair, which was probable, or grief, which was likely, or anger, which was almost certain.

  A few stores. Acres of kudzu.

  “Brigadier General Samuel Benton,” he said, speaking to his dog. It would be a miracle if he could remember the names of all the generals buried in Hill Crest Cemetery in Holly Springs.

  “Brigadier General Winfield S. Featherston, Brigadier General Christopher…”

  Brigadier General Christopher…

  Zero. He’d have to recall this particular surname before the long, solemn train of names could move forward as they’d done in his fifth-grade recitation of Hill Crest’s illustrious dead. The recitation had won five gold stars and, to his amazement, the momentary deference of his father.

  He didn’t recognize this road, which was a modern translation of the old 78. But then, after an absence of thirty-eight years and four months, he hadn’t expected to recognize this or any other road leading into his hometown.

  He touched his shirt pocket, making certain he’d remembered to bring his cell phone, and heard the sharp crackle of the envelope stuffed behind the phone. Finding the envelope in the mailbox a couple of weeks ago had literally knocked the wind out of him, like a punch in the solar plexus.

  He showed it to Cynthia, along with the lined sheet of paper it contained.

  She Who Loves a Mystery studied them both. She did that odd thing with her mouth that she often did when thinking, then leaned her head to one side as if listening to some inner informant.

  ‘The handwriting appears to come from another era,’ she said, giving her final verdict on the two-word epistle. ‘It seems somehow…genteel.’

  Genteel. He had always credited his wife with knowing stuff that others, himself included, couldn’t know. For a couple of days, they attempted reasonable conclusions, finally deciding there were no reasonable conclusions. Ultimately, the whole thing veered down a bank into the bushes.

  ‘It’s from Peggy Cramer,’ said Cynthia, ‘your old girlfriend with the turquoise convertible. Perhaps her poor husband has croaked, and she’d like to see you again.

  ‘Or it’s from Jessica Raney, the one who adored you when you raised rabbits. She never married, and because signing up with eHarmony requires a computer, which she doesn’t have and never will, she sent this note.’

  ‘You’re nuts.’

  ‘You told me you kept her card in your sock drawer until you went away to college.’

  He regretted his nauseating habit of telling his wife everything.

  ‘And here’s another distinct possibility.’

  ‘More fodder f
rom the deep wells of unconscious cerebration!’

  ‘It could have come from your first movie date. You said you felt terrible that her parents had to sit across the street drinking coffee for two hours. The movie was…wait, don’t tell me. Flying Tigers.’

  He was amazed, and oddly pleased, that she remembered such hogwash.

  ‘If we had nothing else to do,’ she said, ‘we could make a whole book out of what lies behind these two little words.’

  Again and again, he examined the envelope and the careful inscription of his name and address. The postmark partially covering the stamp was blurred but readable. It was definitely Holly Springs, though it might have come from Jupiter or Mars, for all its cryptic content.

  He compared the handwriting of the note with that on the envelope. The same.

  In the address, the sender had used the title Reverend, so this fact of his life was known by at least someone in Holly Springs. But why had he or she chosen not to sign the note? At times, he found the absence of a signature menacing, a type of dark threat. At other times, the bare simplicity of the two words, without salutation or signature, seemed to implore him with a profound and even moving passion, as if anything more would have been too much.

  The lined white sheet had been torn from a notebook pad and was the sort he used at his own desk. Nothing unusual there.

  He smelled the paper, a veritable bloodhound searching for clues. Nothing unusual there, either.

  He had walked around for several days, shaking his head as if to clear it.

  Was there anyone left in Holly Springs whom he’d remember?

  Except for his cousin Walter in New Jersey, his kin were dead and gone—to St. Peter’s in Oxford, to Elmwood in Memphis, to Hill Crest in Holly Springs. As for Tommy Noles, whom he’d once called his best friend, he had no idea where he might be, or if he was still living. One weekend he’d come home from his parish in Arkansas, and heard around the square that Tommy had left Holly Springs. For good reason, he hadn’t popped up the road to ask Tommy’s mother and father about their son’s so-called disappearance.