A Common Life (Random House Large Print) - Hardcover

Karon, Jan

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0375431047 ISBN 13: 9780375431043

Publisher: Random House Large Print, 2001

Synopsis

The creator of the beloved Mitford stories takes readers back thorugh time to experience the wedding of Father Tim Kavanagh to Cynthia Coppersworth. 25,000 first printing. (General Fiction)

About this title

About the Author

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 Mitford novels.  At Home in Mitford and Out of Canaan appeared on the New York Times and other bestseller lists.  At Home in Mitford was named am ABBY Honor Book by the American Booksellers Association in 1996, 1997, and 1998.

From the Back Cover

rd's Chapel seats barely two hundred souls, yet millions of Jan Karon's fans will be there for the most joyful event in years: The wedding of Father Time Kavanagh and Cynthia Coppersmith.  Here at last is A Common Life, and the long-awaited answers to these deeply probing questions: Will Father Time fall apart when he takes his vows?  Will Cynthia make it to the church on time?  Who'll arrange the flowers and bake the wedding cake?  And will Uncle Billy's prayers for a great joke be answered in time for the reception?

All the beloved Mitford characters will be there: Dooley Barlowe, Miss Sadie and Louella, Emma Newland, the mayor; in short, everybody who's anybody in the little town with the big heart.

A Common Life is the perfect gift for Mother's Day, Father's Day, anniversaries, and for a bride or groom to give their beloved.  In truth, it's perfect for anyone who believes in laughter, relies on ho

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Common Life

By Jan Karon

Random House Large Print Publishing

Copyright © 2001 Jan Karon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780375431043

Chapter One

The Wedding Story

The Proposal

Father Timothy Kavanagh stood at the stone wall on the ridge above Mitford,watching the deepening blush of a late June sunset.

He conceded that it wasn't the worst way to celebrate a birthday, though he'dsecretly hoped to celebrate it with Cynthia. For years, he'd tried to foolhimself that his birthday meant very little or nothing, and so, if no cardsappeared, or cake or presents, that would be fine.

Indeed, there had been no card from Cynthia, though he'd received a stack fromhis parishioners, and certainly she'd given no promise of cake or candles thatdefinitively pronounced, This is it, Timothy, the day you appeared on earth, andthough I know you don't really care about such things, we're going to celebrate,anyway, because you're important to me. He was deeply ashamed to admit that he'dwaited for this from her; in truth, had expected it, hoped for it.

He'd known suffering in his thirty-eight years in the priesthood, though nearlyalways because of someone else's grief or affliction. Now he suffered forhimself, for his maddening inability to let his walls down with her, to cast offhis armor and simply and utterly love her. He had pled with God to consume hislonging and his love, to cast it out as ashes and let nothing interfere with thefulfillment of the vows he'd made years ago as an ordinand. Why should such aflame as this beat up in him now? He was sixty-two years old, he was beyondloving in the flesh! And yet, as desperately as he'd prayed for his longing tobe removed, he craved for it to be satisfied.

He remembered the times she had shut herself away from him, guarding her heart.The loss of her ravishing openness had left him cold as a stone, as if a greatcloud had gone over the sun.

What if she were to shut herself away from him once and for all? He paced besidethe low stone wall, forgetting the sunset over the valley.He'd never understood much about his feelings toward Cynthia, but he knew andunderstood this: He didn't want to keep teetering on the edge, afraid to stepforward, terrified to turn back.

The weight on his chest was palpable; he'd felt it often since she moved nextdoor and into his life. Yet it wasn't there because he loved her, it was therebecause he was afraid to love her completely.

Perhaps he would always have such a weight; perhaps there was no true liberationin love. And certainly he could not ask her to accept him as he was-flawed andfrightened, not knowing.

He sank to his knees by the stone wall, and looked up and opened his mouth tospeak, but instead caught his breath sharply.

A great flow of crimson and gold was spilling across the sky like lava, runningmolten from west to east. He watched, awestruck, as the pyre consumed the bluehaze of the firmament and bathed the heavens with a glory that shook and movedhim to his very depths.

"Please!" he whispered.

It was then that he felt a sensation of warmth welling in him, a kind of liquidinfilling he'd never experienced before. Something in his soul lifted up, asstartling as a covey of quail breaking from the underbrush, and his heartacknowledged, suddenly and finally, that his love for her could not, would notbe extinguished. He knew at last that no amount of effort, no amount of pleadingwith God would enable him to sustain any longer the desperate, wounding battlehe had launched against loving her.

In a way he couldn't explain, and in the space of the merest instant, he knewhe'd come fully awake for the first time in his life.

He also knew that he wanted nothing more than to be with her, at her side, andthat after all the wasted months, he couldn't afford to waste another moment.But what if he'd waited too long, come to his senses too late?

He sprang to his feet, as relieved as if he'd shaken off an approaching illness;then, animated by a power not his own, he found himself running. "There comes atime," his cousin Walter had said, "when there's no turning back."

He felt the motion of his legs and the breeze on his skin and the hammering inhis temples, as if he might somehow implode, all of it combusting into a sharpinner flame, a durable fire, a thousand hosannas.

Streaming with sweat, he raced down Old Church Lane and into the cool greenenclosure of Baxter Park, his body as weightless as a glider borne on wings ofether, though his heart was heavy with dread. She could have gone away as she'ddone before . . . and this time, she might never come back.

The dark silhouette of the hedge separating the park from Cynthia's house andthe rectory appeared far away, another country, a landmark he might never reach.As he drew closer, he saw that her house was dark, but his own was aglow withlight in every window, as if some wonderful thing might be happening.He bounded through the hedge; she was standing on his stoop. She held the dooropen, and the light from the kitchen gleamed behind her.

She stood there as if she'd known the very moment he turned into the park and,sensing the urgency of his heart, felt her own compelled to greet it.He ran up the steps, his chest heaving, as she stepped back and smiled at him."Happy birthday!" she said.

"I love you, Cynthia!" His lungs seemed to force the declaration onto the nightair as if by their own will. He stood with his mouth open, marveling, while sheraised her hand to her cheek in a way that made her appear dubious, somehow, oramused.

Did she think him mad? He felt mad, riotous, he wanted to climb on the roof,baying and whooping-a sixtysomething bachelor priest, mad with love for hisnext-door neighbor.

He didn't consider the consequences of this wild skidding out of control; it wasnow or never.

As she backed into the kitchen, he followed. He saw the cake on the breakfasttable and the card propped against a vase of flowers, and he fell to one kneebeside the table and gathered her hands in his.

"Will you?" he croaked, looking up at her.

"Will I what, dearest?"

"You know."

"No, I don't know."

He knew that she knew; why wouldn't she help him with this thing? He wasperfectly willing to bring the other knee down if only she would help him.And why was he crouching here on the linoleum, sweating like a prizefighter,when he might have been dressed in his best suit and doing this in the study, orin the Lord's Chapel garden by the French roses?

He tried to scramble to his feet and run upstairs, where he would take a showerand brush his teeth and get dressed and do this the right way, but his strengthfailed and he found he couldn't move; he might have been glued to the linoleum,one knee up and one knee down, frozen as a herring.

"Hurry, Timothy!" she said, whispering.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes! A thousand times yes!"

She was helping him to his feet, and then he was kissing her and she was kissinghim back. She drew away and looked at him with a kind of awe; he found herradiance dumbfounding. "I thought you'd never ask," she said.

It was done. He had jumped over the barbed wire.

He buried his face in her hair and held her close and bawled like a baby.He was a muddle of happiness and confusion, as if his brain had been stirredlike so much porridge. He was unable to think straight or put one thoughtlogically after another; he felt the magnitude of the thing he'd done, and knewhe should do something to carry through, though he wasn't sure what.

They had sat on his sofa, talking until three in the morning, but not once hadthey mentioned what they would do today; they had talked only about how theyfelt and how mindlessly happy and grateful they were that this astonishingbenediction should come to them, as a wild bird might come to their outstretchedpalms.

"To have and to hold," she had murmured.

"'Til death do us part," he had said, nuzzling her hair.

"And no organizing of church suppers or ironing of fair linens, and positivelynothing to do with the annual Bane and Blessing."

"Right," he said.

"Ever!" she said.

He hadn't a single rule or regulation to foist upon her; he was chopped liver,he was cooked macaroni; he was dragged into the undertow of the great tsunami oflove he'd so long held back.

They had prayed together, at last, and fallen asleep on the sofa, her head onhis shoulder, his head against hers, bookends, then waked at five and scrambledto the back door, where Cynthia kissed him and darted through the hedge,devoutly hoping not to be seen.

He'd bounded up the stairs to his room with a vigor that amazed him, murmuringaloud a quote from Wordsworth:

"'Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!'"Bliss, yes, as if he'd suddenly become lighter than air, as if the stone were atlast rolled away from the tomb. He thought he might spring upward like ajack-in-the-box. Was any of this familiar to him, had he ever felt it before?Never! Nothing in his supposed love for Peggy Cramer, all those years ago, hadprepared him for this.

In a misting summer rain, he headed for the church office at nine o'clock withBarnabas on the red leash.

He should tell Emma, he supposed, who had served him faithfully for nearlythirteen years. And Puny, the best house help a man could ever have, Puny wouldwant to know.

He could see them both, Emma wincing and frowning, then socking him on the armwith approval, and Puny-she would jump up and down and hoot and shout, and greattears would stream down her freckled cheeks. Then she'd go at once and bake acake of cornbread from which he, due to his blasted diabetes, might have oneunbuttered, albeit large, slice.

Aha! And there was Miss Sadie, of course! Wouldn't her eyes sparkle and gleam,and wouldn't she hug his neck for a fare-thee-well?

And wouldn't Louella break out a coconut cake or a chess pie and wouldn't theyhave a party right there in the kitchen at Fernbank?

On the other hand, wasn't Cynthia supposed to be along when he broke the news toeverybody?

He sighed. He was in the very business of life's milestones, including theoccasional overseeing of engagements, yet he seemed to have forgotten everythinghe ever knew- if, indeed, he ever knew anything.

Besides, he wasn't sure he was up for hooting and hollering and being punched inthe arm or any of the other stuff that usually came with such tidings.Then there was J.C. And Mule. And Percy.

Good Lord, he dreaded that encounter like a toothache. All that backslapping andwinking and cackling, and the word spreading through the Grill like so muchwildfire, and spilling out the door and up Main Street and around the monumentto Lew Boyd's Exxon. . . .

He felt his stomach do a kind of dive, as it always did when he took off orlanded in a plane.

If Barnabas hadn't suddenly jerked the leash, he would have walked straight intoa telephone pole outside the Oxford Antique Shop.

Bottom line, he decided, Dooley Barlowe should be the first to know. And it wasclearly right that they tell Dooley together. He was frankly relieved thatDooley had spent the night at Tommy's and hadn't been there to see him skidthrough the back door and drop to his knee. Not a pretty sight, he was sure ofit.

He could just see the face of his thirteen-year-old charge when he heard thenews. The boy would flush with embarrassment or relief, or both, then laugh likea hyena. He would very likely exclaim, Cool! then race upstairs with a joy thathe dare not freely display.

Still, telling anyone at all seemed hotheaded and premature. This was betweenCynthia and himself; it was their secret. It was somehow marvelous that it wasyet unknown to anyone else in the world.

At the corner, he stopped at a hemlock to let Barnabas lift his leg, andsuddenly knew he couldn't contain the secret any longer, he was full to burstingwith it.

"Make it snappy," he said to his dog. "I have something to tell you."

Barnabas did as he was told, and when they crossed the street, the rector of theChapel of our Lord and Savior paused in front of the church office and saidunder his breath, "I've just decided . . . that is, Cynthia and I are going toget . . ."

His throat tickled. He coughed. A car passed, and he tried again to tell his dogthe good news.

But he couldn't say it.He couldn't say the m word, no matter how hard he tried.

As he opened the office door, he realized with complete clarity where he shouldbegin.

His bishop. Of course. How could he have forgotten he had a bishop, and thatsuch a thing as this thing he was going to do would be of utmost importance toStuart Cullen?

But, of course, he couldn't call Stuart this morning, because Emma Newland wouldbe sitting at her desk cheek-by-jowl with his own.

He greeted his longtime, part-time secretary as Barnabas collapsed with a sighonto his rug in the corner.

Desperate to avoid eye contact, he sat down at once and began to scribblesomething, he knew not what, into his sermon notebook.

Emma stared at him over her half-glasses.

He put his left elbow on the desk and held his head in his hand, as if deeplythoughtful, feeling her hot stare covering him like a cloak.

Blast, he couldn't bear that look. She might have been examining his tonsils orreadying him for colon surgery.

"For heaven's sake," he said, swiveling around in his squeaking chair to facethe bookcases.

"I'd leave heaven out of this if I were you," she said, sniffing.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, I can't imagine heaven wantin' anything to do with you this morning."Church secretaries had been fired for less, much less, he thought, grinding histeeth. The office was suddenly doing that bizarre thing it sometimes did-it wasgrowing rapidly and infinitely smaller; it was, in fact, becoming the size of ashoe box.

He bolted to his feet and half stood behind his desk, trying to get a deepbreath.

"Your collar's too tight," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Your face is red as a beet."

"It's possible that I'm having a heart attack," he snapped.

"I'm telling you it's your collar. Are you wearin' one of those Velcro deals?"

"Yes."

"Let it out a little."

Dadgummit, she was right. He realized he was nearly choking to death. Headjusted the Velcro, disgusted with himself and everybody else.

What had happened to the soft, circumcised heart God had given him only lastnight? Where had the lighter-than-air spirit of this morning fled? Why was hegrumping and grouching when he ought to be leaping and shouting?

Barnabas yawned and rolled on his side.

"I'm getting married!" he blurted uncontrollably. Then he sat down, hard, in hischair.

He would never be able to explain the mysteries surrounding love, only one ofwhich surfaced when he confessed his news to Emma.

By the involuntary utterance of those three amazing words, his frozen Arctictundra had been transformed into a warm tropical lake. Something in him hadactually melted.

In the space of a few moments, he had become jelly. Or possibly custard. Then afoolish smile spread across his face, which seemed destined to remain there forthe rest of his life.

When Emma left for the post office, vowing not to say a word to anyone, heprayed at his desk, went to the toilet and did a glucometer check, thenpositively swaggered to the phone to call his bishop.

Stuart's secretary said he was either in the loo or in a meeting, she wasn'tsure which, but she would find out and have him call back.

He slumped in the chair, disappointed.

But wait. Walter! Of course, he must call Walter and Katherine at once.The names of those with special interest in his good fortune were being revealedto him, one by one, in the way some are given inspiration for their Christmascard list.

Since Cynthia had never met Walter, his first cousin and only known livingrelative, he supposed he was on his own for spilling the beans to New Jersey.

"Walter!"

"Cousin! We haven't heard from you in the proverbial coon's age."

"Which phone are you on?" asked the rector.

"The kitchen. Why?"

"Is Katherine there?"

"Just blew in from the nursing home, she's teaching them to finger paint. What'sup, old fellow?"

"Tell her to get on the phone in the study."

"Katherine!" bellowed Walter. "Pick up in the study! It's clergy!"

"'Lo, Teds, darling, is that really you?" He could see the tall, thin-as-a-stickKatherine draped over the plaid chaise, with the cordlessin one hand and hereternal glass of ginger ale in the other.

"Katherine, Walter," he said. "Are you sitting down?"

"Good heavens, what is it?" asked Walter, clearly alarmed.

"Teds . . . those tests you were going to have weeks ago . . . is it . . . ?"

"Dooley, is it Dooley?" asked Walter. "Or Barnabas? We know how you feel about-""I'm getting married," he said.

There! Twice in a row, and already it was getting easier.

The other end of the line erupted into a deafening whoop that could have filledYankee Stadium. He held the receiver away from his ear, laughing for the firsttime this morning, as Barnabas leapt from the rug and stood barking furiously atthe clamor pouring forth from New Jersey.

When Stuart hadn't called back in twenty minutes, he phoned again and was putthrough to the bishop's office.

"Stuart? Tim Kavanagh here. Are you sitting down?" He was truly concerned thatno one go crashing to the floor in a faint.

"For the first time today, actually! What's up?"

"Remember the woman I once brought to visit you and Martha?" That wasn't what hewanted to say. "When we, ah, gave you the bushel of corn? Cynthia! You remember.. . ."

"I remember very well, indeed!"

"Well, you see, it's like this. . . ." He swallowed.

He heard his bishop chuckling. "Like what, Timothy?"

"Like . . ."

He was momentarily frozen again, then the custard triumphed.

". . . we're getting married!"

"Alleluia!" shouted his bishop. "Alleluia!"

Tears sprang suddenly to his eyes. He had been friends with his bishop sinceseminary, had confided his heart to him for years. And now came this greatestconfidence, this best and most extraordinary of tidings.

"Martha will be thrilled!" said Stuart, sounding as youthful as a curate. "We'llhave you for dinner, we'll have you for tea . . . we'll do it up right! This isthe best news I've heard in an eon. Good heavens, man, I thought you'd neverscrew up your courage. How on earth did it happen?"

"It just came to me that . . . well . . ."

"What came to you?"

"That I didn't want to go on without her, that I couldn't."

"Bingo!" said his bishop.

"I, ah, went down on one knee, couldn't help myself."

"You should have done the full kneel, Timothy, she's a prize, a gem, a pearlabove price! You dog, you don't deserve such a one!"

"Amen!" He said it the old Baptist way, with a long a, the way he was raised tosay it.

"Well, now, thanks be to God, what about a date?" asked Stuart.

"We're thinking September, I know that's a busy month for you, but . . ."

"Let's see, I have my calendar right here." Deep sigh, pondering. "Alas, alack."

Stuart's fingers drumming on his desktop. "Good heavens, I'd forgotten aboutthat. Hmmm. Ahh." Tuneless, unconscious humming. "No, certainly not then."If Stuart couldn't do it, they'd get it done somehow, they were definitely notwaiting 'til October. . . .

"Oh, yes, look here! I've got September seventh, how's that? Otherwise, I cansqueeze you in on-"

"I'm not much on being squeezed in," said the rector.

"Of course not! Will the seventh work for you, then?"

"We're willing to take whatever you have open."

"Then it's done!"

"Perfect!" said the rector.

"Now," said Stuart, "hang up so I can call Martha."

Continues...

Excerpted from A Common Life by Jan Karon Copyright © 2001 by Jan Karon. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Random House Large Print
• Publication date: 2001
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0375431047
• ISBN 13: 9780375431043
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 201