A New Song Read online

  Table of Contents

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE - Angel of Light

  CHAPTER TWO - Social Graces

  CHAPTER THREE - Going, Going, Gone

  CHAPTER FOUR - The Smell of Salt Air

  CHAPTER FIVE - A Patch of Blue

  CHAPTER SIX - The Long Shining

  CHAPTER SEVEN - A Little Night Music

  CHAPTER EIGHT - The Spark in the Flax

  CHAPTER NINE - Home Far Away

  CHAPTER TEN - If Wishes Were Horses

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - Worms to Butterflies

  CHAPTER TWELVE - Over the Wall

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Mighty Waters

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Letting Go

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Lock and Key

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Dorchester Island

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Bread and Wine

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Simple Graces

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - Jericho

  CHAPTER TWENTY - Dearly Beloved

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - True Confessions

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - A New Song

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  A NEW SONG

  Jan Karon, who lives in Blowing Rock, North Carolina, was an award-winning advertising executive before following her dream of writing books. She is the author of five bestselling Mitford novels: At Home in Mitford; A Light in the Window; These High, Green Hills; Out to Canaan; and A New Song (all available from Penguin). At Home in Mitford was nominated for an ABBY Award by the American Booksellers Association in 1996, 1997, and 1998. Her book Jeremy: The Tale of an Honest Bunny will be published in 2000 by Viking Children’s Books.

  Now you can visit Mitford on-line at www.penguinputnam.com/mitford.

  Enjoy the latest news from the little town with the big heart including a complete archive of the More from Mitford newsletters, the Mitford Years Readers Guide, and much more.

  To request a free subscription to the newsletter or copies of the readers guide (while supplies last), please e-mail [email protected] or send a postcard with your name, address, and request to:

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  Other Mitford books by Jan Karon

  AT HOME IN MITFORD

  A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW

  THESE HIGH, GREEN HILLS

  OUT TO CANAAN

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in 1999 BY Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Copyright © Jan Karon, 1999

  Illustrations copyright © Penguin Putnam Inc., 1999

  All rights reserved

  Illustrations by Donna Kae Nelson

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the following

  copyrighted works: “If Once You Have Slept on an Island” from Taxis and Toadstools by

  Rachel Field. Copyright 1926 by The Century Company. Used by permission of Random

  House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc. “God’s Way” by Kao Chung-Ming,

  appearing in Your Will Be Done, Youth Desk of Christian Conference of Asia,

  1986. By permission of the author.

  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 fictitously, and any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Karon, Jan, date.

  A new song/ Jan Karon.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-0-140-27059-4

  Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement

  and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In memory of my aunt,

  Helen Coyner Cloer,

  who, when I was ten years old,

  typed my first manuscript.

  October 4, 1917- October 12, 1998

  “. . . we shall be like Him . . .”

  1 John 3:2

  Sing unto the Lord a new song, and His praise from the end of the earth, ye that go down to the sea, and all that is therein, the isles and the inhabitants thereof.

  Isaiah 42:10, KJV

  Acknowledgments

  Gentle Reader,

  In the Mitford books, there are nearly as many acknowledgments as there are characters in the story. That’s because I try to thank absolutely everyone who helps make the story more authentic. Sometimes I toss in a name out of sheer sentiment, like that of my sixth-grade teacher, Etta Phillips, who comes to my book signings and looks as youthful as ever. Many readers enjoy these acknowledgments because they occasionally find the name of an old school chum, friend, or family member.

  Sometimes, they even find themselves.

  Warm thanks to:

  Brother Francis Andrews, BSG; Rev. Roy M. King; Flyin’ George Ronan; John Ed McConnell; Ralph Emery; Dr. Carl Hurley; Loyal Jones and Billy Edd Wheeler; Bonnie Setzer; Mary Richardson; Fr. John Mangrum; Fr. Jeffrey Scott Miller; Dr. George Grant; Austin Gragg; Roger David Craig; Frank Gilbert and his Mustang convertible; the Mitford Appreciation Society; Gwynne Crosley; Rev. Gale Cooper; Sue Yates; Dr. David Ludwig; Dan Blair; Linda Foster; Will Lankenau; William McDonald Parker; Blowing Rock police chief, Owen Tolbert; Officer Dennis Swanson; Bishop Christopher Fitz-Simons Allison; James F. Carlisle, Sr.; Betsy Barnes; Rayburn and Sheila Farmer; Fr. Scott Oxford; Bishop William C. Frey; Bishop Keith Ackerman; Rev. Stephen J. Hines; Larry Powell; Barry Hubert; Derald West; Sandy McNabb; Donna Kae Nelson for her outstanding cover illustrations for the Mitford series; Captain Weyland Baum, early keeper of the Currituck Light; Billy McCaskill; Major John Coffindaffer; “Bee” Baum; Drs. Melanie and Greg Hawthorne; John L. Beard; Greg and Kathy Fishel; Frank LePore; Garry Oliver; my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Downs; my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sherrill; Dr. Michael C. Ain; Captain Mike Clarkin of Fishin’ Frenzy; First Mate Matthew Winchester; Dr. Sue P. Frye; Ross and Linda Dodington; Fr. Richard B. Bass; Colonel Ron and Cathey Fallows; Murray Whisnant; Robert Williams; Chris Williams; Michael Freeland; Rabbi David and Barbara Kline; Officer Kris Merithew; Bruce Luke; Johnny Lentz; Judith Burns; Wonderland Books; Tom Enterline; J.W.D.; Loretta Cornejo; Tex Harrison; Jerry Gregg; Officer Tracy Toler; Jeff Cobb; Walter Green; and Anita Chappell.

  Special thanks to:

  Dr. Bunky Davant, medical counsel to Mitford and Whitecap; Tony DiSanti, legal counsel to Mitford; Grace Episcopal Church, the lovely architectural model for St. John’s in the Grove; Fr. Charles Gill, rector of St. Andrews by the Sea; Fr. James Harris, friend and helper; Judy Bistany South, for her warm encouragement over the years; my valued assistant, Laura Watts; Captain Horace Whitfield, master of the Elizabeth II; hardworking booksellers everywhere; and, as always, my devoted readers.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Angel of Light

  Dappled by its movement among the branches of a Japanese cherry, the aft
ernoon light entered the study unhindered by draperies or shades.

  It spilled through the long bank of windows behind the newly slipcovered sofa, warming the oak floor and quickening the air with the scent of freshly milled wood.

  Under the spell of the June light, a certain luster and radiance appeared to emerge from every surface.

  The tall chest, once belonging to Father Tim’s clergyman great-grandfather, had undergone a kind of rebirth. Beneath a sheen of lemon oil, the dense grain of old walnut, long invisible in the dark rectory hallway next door, became sharply defined. Even the awkward inscription of the letter M, carved by a pocketknife, could now be discovered near one of the original drawer pulls.

  But it was the movement and play of the light, beyond its searching incandescence, that caused Father Tim to anticipate its daily arrival as others might look for a sunrise or sunset.

  He came eagerly to this large, new room, as if long deprived of light or air, still incredulous that such a bright space might exist, and especially that it might exist for his own pursuits since retiring six months ago from Lord’s Chapel.

  As the rector of Mitford’s Episcopal parish, he had lived next door in the former rectory for sixteen years. Now he was a rector no more, yet he owned the rectory; it had been bought and paid for with cash from his mother’s estate, and he and Cynthia were living in the little yellow house.

  Of course—he kept forgetting—this house wasn’t so little anymore; he and his visionary wife had added 1,270 square feet to its diminutive proportions.

  Only one thing remained constant. The house was still yellow, though freshly painted with Cynthia’s longtime favorite, Wild Forsythia, and trimmed with a glossy coat of the dark green Highland Hemlock.

  “Cheers!” said his wife, appearing in jeans and a denim shirt, toting glasses of lemonade on a tray. They had recently made it a ritual to meet here every afternoon, for what they called the Changing of the Light.

  He chuckled. “We mustn’t tell anyone what we do for fun.”

  “You can count on it! Besides, who’d ever believe that we sit around watching the light change?” She set the tray on the table, next to a packet of mail.

  “We could do worse.”

  They thumped onto the sofa, which had been carted through the hedge from the rectory.

  “One more week,” he said, disbelieving.

  “Ugh. Heaven help us!” She put her head back and closed her eyes. “How daunting to move to a place we’ve never seen . . . for an unknown length of time . . . behind a priest who’s got them used to the guitar!”

  He took her hand, laughing. “If anyone can do it, you can. How many cartons of books are we shipping down there, anyway?”

  “Fourteen, so far.”

  “And not a shelf to put them on.”

  “We’re mad as hatters!” she said with feeling. During the past week, his wife had worked like a Trojan to close up the yellow house, do most of the packing, and leave their financial affairs in order. He, on the other hand, had been allowed to troop around town saying his goodbyes, sipping tea like a country squire and trying to keep his mitts off the cookies and cakes that were proffered at every turn.

  He had even dropped into Happy Endings Bookstore and bought two new books to take to Whitecap, a fact that he would never, even on penalty of death, reveal to Cynthia Kavanagh.

  She looked at him and smiled. “I’ve prayed to see you sit and relax like this, without rushing to beat out a thousand fires. Just think how the refreshment of the last few weeks will help you, dearest, when we do the interim on the island. Who knows, after all, what lies ahead and what strength you may need?”

  He gulped his lemonade. Who knew, indeed?

  “The jig, however, is definitely up,” she said, meaning it. “Next week . . .”

  “I know. Change the furnace filter next door, weed the perennial beds, fix the basement step, pack my clothes . . . I’ve got the entire, unexpurgated list written down.”

  “Have your suit pressed,” she said, “buy two knit shirts—nothing with an alligator, I fervently hope—and find the bicycle pump for Dooley.”

  “Right!” He was actually looking forward to the adrenaline of their last week in Mitford.

  “By the way,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. Instead of loading the car in bits and pieces, just pile everything by the garage door. That way, I can check it twice, and we’ll load at the last minute.”

  “But it would be simpler to—”

  “Trust me,” she said, smiling.

  Barnabas would occupy the rear seat, with Violet’s cage on the floor, left side. They’d load the right side with linens and towels, the trunk would be filled to the max, and they’d lash on top whatever remained.

  “Oh, yes, Timothy, one more thing . . . stay out of the bookstore!”

  She peered at him with that no-nonsense gleam in her sapphire eyes, a gleam that, for all its supposed authority, stirred a fire in him. As a man with a decidedly old-shoe nature, he had looked forward to the old-shoe stage of their marriage. So far, however, it hadn’t arrived. His blond and sensible wife had an unpredictable streak that kept the issues of life from settling into humdrum patterns.

  “Anything wonderful in the mail?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, I just fetched it in. Why don’t you have a look?”

  His wife’s fascination with mail was greater even than his own, which was considerable. William James, in his opinion, had hit the nail on the head. “As long as there are postmen,” James declared, “life will have zest.”

  “Oh, look! Lovely! A letter from Whitecap, and it’s to me!”

  He watched her rip open the envelope.

  “My goodness, listen to this. . . .

  “‘Dear Mrs. Kavanagh, We are looking forward with great enthusiasm to your interim stay in our small island parish, and trust that all is going smoothly as you prepare to join us at the end of June.

  “‘Our ECW has been very busy readying Dove Cottage for your stay at Whitecap, and all you need to bring is bed linens for the two bedrooms, as we discussed, and any towels and pillows which will make you feel at home.

  “‘We have supplied the kitchen cupboards with new pots, and several of us have lent things of our own, so that you and Father Kavanagh may come without much disruption to your household in Mitford. Sam has fixed the electric can opener, but I hear you are a fine cook and probably won’t need it, ha ha.

  “‘Oh, yes. Marjorie Lamb and I have done a bit of work in the cottage gardens, which were looking woefully forlorn after years of neglect. We found a dear old-fashioned rose, which I hear your husband enjoys, and liberated it from the brambles. It is now climbing up your trellis instead of running into the street! We expect the hydrangeas and crepe myrtle to be in full glory for your arrival, though the magnolias in the churchyard will, alas, be out of bloom.

  “‘Complete directions are enclosed, which Marjorie’s husband, Leonard, assures me should take you from Mitford straight to the door of Dove Cottage without a snare. (Leonard once traveled on the road selling plumbing supplies.)

  “‘Please notice the red arrow I have drawn on the map. You must be very careful at this point to watch for the street sign, as it is hidden by a dreadful hedge which the property owner refuses to trim. I have thought of trimming it myself, but Sam says that would be meddling.

  “‘We hope you will not object to a rather gregarious greeting committee, who are bent on giving you a parish-wide luau the day following your arrival. I believe I have talked them out of wearing grass skirts, but that embarrassing notion could possibly break forth again.

  “‘When Father Morgan joined us several years ago, he, too, came in the summer and was expecting a nice holiday at the beach. I’m sure you’ve been warned that summer is our busiest time, what with the tourists who swell our little church to bursting and push us to two services! We all take our rest in the winter when one must hunker down and live off the nuts we’ve gathered!


  “‘Bishop Harvey was thrilled to learn from Bishop Cullen how greatly you and Father Kavanagh were appreciated by your parish in Mitford! We shall all do our utmost to make you feel as welcome as the flowers in May, as my dear mother used to say.

  “‘Goodness! I hope you’ll forgive the length of this letter! Since childhood, I have loved the feel of a pen flowing over paper, and often get carried away.

  “‘We wish you and Father Timothy safe travel.

  “‘Yours sincerely,

  “‘Marion Fieldwalker, vestry member of St. John’s in the Grove, and Pres. Episcopal Church Women

  “‘ P.S. I am the librarian of Whitecap Island Community Library (35 years) and do pray you might be willing to give a reading this fall from one of your famous Violet books. Your little books stay checked out, and I believe every child on the island has read them at least twice!’”

  His wife flushed with approval. “There! How uplifting! Marion sounds lovely! And just think, dearest—trellises and old roses!”

  “Not to mention new saucepans,” he said, admiring the effort of his future parishioners.

  She drank from her perspiring glass and continued to sort through the pile. “Timothy, look at his handwriting. He’s finally stopped printing and gone to cursive!”

  “Let me see. . . .”

  Definitely a new look in the handwriting department, and a distinct credit to Dooley Barlowe’s Virginia prep schooling. Miss Sadie’s big bucks, forked over annually, albeit posthumously, were continuing to put spit and polish on the red-haired mountain boy who’d come to live with him at the rectory five years ago.