The last of the women had left the church following the four o’clock Mass, and Father Gervase carefully slid his surplice on a hanger and placed it in the alcove closet.
He was fairly certain that the remainder of the day was free of obligations, but recently his memory was proving unreliable, and so he returned to the rectory office to check his schedule. He was relieved to find that it was indeed open. For the past several days, he had stayed inside, sheltered from the intense heat that had blanketed the town, heat that bothered him in a way it never had before (as a child he’d delighted in the warmest of summer days), but the thunderstorm had brought with it at least a temporary relief from soaring temperatures. Eager for some mild exercise after the spell of inactivity, he set out, skirting groups of boisterous tourists as he made his way down to the center of the town, relieved to find his hip was giving him a little less trouble today. There was a sense of celebration in the air, as if the rain had awakened and revived not only plants but people. Impulsively, and thinking of the prospect of Mrs. Jessup’s canned-tuna-and-macaroni salad that sat on the first shelf of the rectory refrigerator marinating in a pool of mayonnaise, he decided to treat himself to an early dinner out. But first he detoured by Will Light’s studio to see how the project was progressing. He enjoyed seeing the townspeople come to life under the power of the artist’s hand and reflected on how Will had captured Tracy Ramos, the teenage girl who worked part-time at the coffee shop and an unwed mother with bold eyes, black-dyed hair, and a chippy attitude that hadn’t been diminished in the least by the shame of her circumstances. In truth, Father Gervase had always found the girl a bit daunting. Yet caught by Will’s camera and, later, by his initial sketches, Tracy had metamorphosed into a demure and innocent Rose of Lima. Now, whenever he walked by the coffee shop, he slowed his step to peer inside to catch a glimpse of her and could see her as Will saw her. Transfigured. And then there was Leon Newell. Aged beyond his years by drink, hard living, and harder work, the fisherman too had been transformed through Will’s vision so that the lines in his face spoke more of sorrow than whiskey and windburn, and those rheumy, yellowed eyes held an unexpected wisdom.
Through his choices, Will was testing assumptions, encouraging others to see ordinary people anew. And yet there remained in each of his renderings a hint of shadow, of another past. How would the world change, Father Gervase wondered, if one could look for and see goodness, whatever human guise it was cloaked in, if one could see that potential in everyone and acknowledge not only the piousness of the saints but the complications of their past, the potential in sinners before they became saints. He thought of the gossips and warmongers, the venal and cranky, the gamblers and con men who stood among the ranks of the canonized. An idea occurred to him for a homily, but before he could reflect further, he arrived at Will’s studio. The barn doors were open, but he stopped at the threshold as he always did before entering the studio and prayed for guidance. Will seemed steadier, less angry, these days, but still Father Gervase was concerned. He knew anger such as Will’s did not magically evaporate, and one’s need for vengeance could turn to violence, a violence that only begat more violence. Although he had not shared this with anyone, in fact had struggled with the call and tried to deny responsibility, he’d come to believe he was being asked to stand by Will as he walked the ground of grief until the artist was out of danger.
“Might as well come in, Father.” Will’s voice reached him from the far end of the studio.
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“What’s up? Am I to receive another directive from His Grace?”
Father Gervase smiled at the edge of mockery. “No. No message. I just was taking a walk and thought I’d stop by. I don’t want to disturb you if you’re working.”
“No problem. In fact, I’m done for the day. My last model didn’t show up, and I’m about to head home.”
“Oh. Yes. I see. Well, I won’t be keeping you then.” He lingered at the door.
“Is there anything else, Father?”
“No. That is unless—”
Will waited.
“Well, I was on my way to High Tide Café and—” He paused, suddenly awkward. “I know it’s a bit early and all, but I wondered if perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Unless you’ve already made plans.”
“No,” Will said. “No plans.”
“I know it’s early,” Father Gervase repeated.
“No. Not at all. Just give me a minute to lock up.”
While Will closed the doors and secured the lock, it occurred to Father Gervase that implicit in the invitation to join him for dinner was the understanding that he would treat, and he hoped he had enough cash with him to cover the bill. Well, now there was no way he could check, and he hoped he would be spared the embarrassment of having to ask Will to pay for his own meal.
Other than one older couple at a table in the rear and a father with his young son who perched on stools at the counter, they had the café to themselves. The waitress led them to a four-top by the front window. “Specials are on the board,” she said.
Father Gervase would have preferred a table less visible to those passing by on the street but was reluctant to make a fuss by requesting another. He stared up at the board. Cod Reuben Sandwich. Fish Stew. Lobster Roll. Clam Chowder. Seared Tuna on a Bed of Greens. Except for the occasional Sunday evening with Father Burns, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a meal out with anyone. When he’d first arrived in Port Fortune he’d received a number of invitations from the parishioners, but uncomfortable in their homes, he had begged off, offering various excuses, and gradually the requests had stopped. In truth, he was most at ease in the rectory, reading or writing or working in the garden.
Once, sitting on the garden bench, he had overheard three women discussing him.
“It’s like pulling teeth to have a conversation with Father Gervase,” one had said.
A second had offered a defense for him. “Oh, I think he’s just shy. And a little forgetful. It’s kind of sweet.”