Read In This Mountain for Free Online Page B

whole town had taken to George Gaynor for the way he’d turned himself in to authorities during a Sunday morning service at Lord’s Chapel. He recalled that Mitford School’s first grade had sent drawings for George’s jail cell, and his unusual confession of wrongdoing had been lauded in several local sermons.
    He took Hope’s bright countenance as a good sign.
     
    Why go for a medical checkup now? Why not a day or two before their trip to Tennessee? That way, everything would be up-to-the-minute. He trotted to the downstairs powder room where he stashed his glucometer, opened the kit, shot the lance into the tip of his left forefinger, and spilled the drop of blood onto a test strip.
    Barnabas came in and sat at his feet, curious.
    “Hello, buddy.”
    He slid the strip into the glucometer and waited for the readout: 180.
    Not good. But not terribly bad, either. He could bring it back into line.
    He went to the study, called Hoppy’s office, and rescheduled.
     
    “Mail call! Mail call!”
    Cynthia came down the hall and into the study, trailed by Violet, and dumped the pile onto the sofa. Her letter opener, in permanent residence by the potted gardenia on the coffee table, was snatched up and held at the ready.
    “OK, darling. Bill, bill, fan letter, fan letter, junk mail, junk mail, junk mail, ugh, junk mail, fan letter, Southern Living , fan letter…oh, my.”
    “Oh, my, what?” he asked, taking a sip of tea.
    “This is from the awards commission.” Violet leaped onto the sofa and settled in Cynthia’s lap.
    “Awards commission…”
    “Yes, of the Davant Medal. No one in New York has said anything to me. Surely they would have said something….”
    She opened the letter slowly and began to read.
    “‘Dear Ms. Coppersmith:
    “‘We are delighted, indeed, to inform you that your most recent Violet book, Violet Goes to the Beach , is being awarded the prestigious Davant Medal, which will be presented at a formal dinner on July 14, at the Plaza Hotel in New York.
    “‘Congratulations!
    “‘We are thrilled that this will be your second Davant Medal, and though this acknowledgment of your outstanding work is no surprise at all to a distinguished awards committee of your peers, we do hope it will be a most pleasant surprise to you.’”
    His wife looked faint.
    “Oh, Timothy…”
    He reached out to her as she burst into tears.
    Local Pastor’s Wife
Grabs Big Award
    He rolled up the latest editon of the Muse , put on his cap, and, ignoring his dog, went at a pace down Wisteria Lane and hooked a right on Main Street.
    He blew past the bakery, made the front windows rattle in the two-story office building, and charged into the Grill, where he marched to the rear booth, opened the door to the back stairs, and bolted up them two at a time.
    “J.C.,” he said, speaking through clenched teeth.
    The editor looked up from his layout table. “What?”
    He shook the rolled-up newspaper. “My wife is not a pastor’s wife….” He regretted that he was puffing and blowing.
    “You could’ve fooled me,” said J.C., looking bewildered.
    “She is her own person, she has a name, and I would greatly appreciate seeing you use it henceforth. She has just been given one of the most distinguished awards in publishing, and you have demeaned this high honor by removing her name from the headline and casting her as my wife !”
    “Are you drinkin’ ? She is your wife!”
    Father Tim lowered his voice. “This award was not won as a pastor’s wife, it was won as a hardworking writer and illustrator who has slaved over a drawing board for more than twenty years and has earned the right to be called by her own name. ”
    “I called her by her name, dadblame it.”
    “In the headline. ” J.C. glared at him. “You’re goin’ to fall down with a stroke if you don’t watch out.”
    He saw that his hands were trembling, put them behind his back, and drew a deep breath.
    “I just wanted you to know,” he said,