A Winter Eden

Light from Heaven
by Jan Karon

The final novel in Jan Karon's beloved Mitford series.

All good things - even laughter and orange marmalade cake - must come to an end.

And in Light from Heaven, the long-anticipated final volume in the phenomenally successful Mitford Years series, Karon deftly ties up all the loose ends of Father Timothy Kavanagh's deeply affecting life.

On a century-old valley farm where Father Tim and Cynthia are housesitting, there's plenty to say grace over, from the havoc of a windstorm to a surprising new addition to the household and a mystery in the chicken house.

It's life on the mountaintop, however, that promises to give Father Tim the definitive challenge of his long priesthood. Can he step up to the plate and revive a remote, long-empty mountain church, asap? Or has he been called to accomplish the impossible? Fortunately, he's been given an angel - in the flesh, of course.

Light from Heaven is filled with characters old and new and with answers to all the questions that Karon fans have asked since the series began nearly a decade ago. To put it simply - it's her best. And we believe millions will agree.

Chapter 1

The first flake landed on a blackberry bush in the creek bottom of Meadowgate Farm. In the frozen hour before dawn, others found their mark on the mossy roof of the smokehouse; in a grove of laurel by the northwest pasture; on the handle of a hoe left propped against the garden fence.

Close by the pond in the sheep paddock, a buck, a doe, and two fawns stood motionless as an owl pushed off from the upper branches of a pine tree and sailed, silent and intent, to the ridge of the barn roof.

The owl hooted once, then twice.

As if summoned by its velveteen cry, the platinum moon broke suddenly from the clouds above the pond, transforming the water's surface into a gleaming lake of molten pearl. Then, clouds sailed again over the face of the moon, and in the bitter darkness, snowflakes fell thick and fast, swirling as in a shaken globe.

It was twelve minutes after six o'clock when a gray light rose above the brow of Hogback Mountain, exposing an imprint of tractor tires that linked Meadowgate's hay barn to the cow pasture and sheep paddock. The imprints of work boots and dog paws were also traceable along the driveway to the barn, and back to the door of the farmhouse, where smoke puffed from the chimney and lamplight shone behind the kitchen windows.

From a tulip poplar at the northeast corner to the steel stake at the southwest, all hundred and thirty acres of Meadowgate Farm lay under a powdery blanket of March snow.

Cynthia Kavanagh stood in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen in a chenille robe, and gazed out on the hushed landscape.

"It makes everything innocent again," she said. "A winter Eden."

At the pine table, Father Timothy Kavanagh leafed through his quote journal until he found the record he'd jotted down. "Unbelievable! We've had snow one, two, three, four ... this is the fifth time since Christmas Eve."

"Snow, snow, and more snow!"

"Not to mention dogs, dogs, and more dogs! It looks like somebody backed up to the door and dumped a truckload of canines in here."

Following his customary daylight romp, Barnabas, a Bouvier-wolfhound mix and his boon companion of ten years, was drowned in slumber on the hearth rug; Buckwheat, an English foxhound grown long in the tooth, had draped herself over the arm of the sofa; the Welsh corgi, aptly named Bodacious, snored in a wing chair she had long ago claimed as her own; and Luther, a recent, mixed-breed addition to the Meadowgate pack, had slung himself onto his bed in the corner, belly up. There was a collective odor of steam rising from sodden dog hair.

"Ugh!" said his wife, who was accustomed to steam rising off only one wet dog.

Father Tim looked up from the journal in which he was transcribing notes collected hither and yon. "So what are you doing today, Kavanagh?"

Cynthia mashed the plunger of the French coffee press. "I'm doing the sketch of Violet looking out the kitchen window to the barn, and I'm calling Puny to find out about the twins - they're days late, you know."

"Good idea. Expected around March fourth or fifth, and here it is the fourteenth. They'll be ready for kindergarten."

"And you must run to Mitford with the shopping list for Dooley's homecoming dinner tomorrow."

"Consider it done."

His heart beat faster at the thought of having their boy home for spring break, but the further thought of having nothing more to accomplish than a run to The Local was definitely discouraging. Heaven knows, there was hardly anything to do on the farm but rest, read, and walk four dogs; he'd scarcely struck a lick at a snake since arriving in mid-January. Willie Mullis, a full-timer who'd replaced the part-time Bo Davis, lived on the place and did all the odd jobs, feeding up and looking after livestock; Joyce Havner did the laundry and cleaning, as she'd done at Meadowgate for years; Blake Eddistoe ran the vet clinic, only a few yards from the farmhouse door, with consummate efficiency; there was even someone to bush hog and cut hay when the season rolled around.

In truth, it seemed his main occupation since coming to farm-sit for the Owens was waiting to hear from his bishop, Stuart Cullen, who had e-mailed him before Christmas. Heads up:

I will almost certainly have something for you early next year. As you might expect, it isn't anything fancy, and God knows, it will be a challenge. Yet I admit I'm patently envious.

Can't say more at this time, but will be in touch after the holy days, and we shall see what's what (I do recall, by the way, that you're spending next year at the Owens' farm, and this would not be a conflict).

He had scratched his head throughout the month of January, trying to reckon what the challenge might be. In February, he'd called Stuart, attempting to gouge it out of him, but Stuart had asked for another couple of weeks to get the plan together before he spilled the beans.

Now, here they were in the middle of March, and not a word.

"You're sighing, Timothy."

"Wondering when Stuart will get off the pot."

"He's retiring in June and consecrating the cathedral - altogether, a great deal to say grace over. You'll hear soon, dearest."

She handed him a mug of black coffee, which he took with gratitude.

So here he sat, retired from nearly four decades of active ministry as a priest, toasting himself by an open fire with his good-humored and companionable wife of seven years, and situated in what he believed to be the most breathtakingly beautiful countryside in America.

Why bother, after all, about some "challenge" that may or may not be coming. Hadn't he had challenges enough to last him a lifetime?

His wife, on the other hand, was ever drumming up a challenge. During their year at the farm, conveniently located twenty min-utes from Mitford, she'd decided to accomplish three lifetime goals: learn needlepoint, make perfect oven fries, and read War and Peace.

"So how's it coming with War and Peace?"

"I despise telling you this, but I haven't opened it once. I'm reading a charming old book called Mrs. Miniver."

"And the fries?"

"Since Dooley comes tomorrow, I'll be conducting my next experiment - to see whether soaking the potatoes in ice water will make them crispier. And I'm definitely using peanut oil this time."

"I'll peel and cut," he said. He hadn't seen any activity around the needlepoint plan, so he declined to mention it.

"Pathetic," she said, reading his mind. "I'm all thumbs. Learning from a book is not the way to do it. I've decided to let Olivia tutor me, if she has a free day now and then. Besides, having lunch with someone who also wears eye shadow might be fun."

"I'm definitely a dud in the eye shadow department."

© 2006 Penguin, a division of Penguin Putnam, used by permission.

About the Author

Jan Karon, born Janice Meredith Wilson in the foothills of North Carolina, was named after the title of a popular novel, Janice Meredith. Jan wrote her first novel at the age of ten. "The manuscript was written on Blue Horse notebook paper, and was, for good reason, kept hidden from my sister. When she found it, she discovered the one curse word I had, with pounding heart, included in someone's speech. For Pete's sake, hadn't Rhett Butler used that very same word and gotten away with it? After my grandmother's exceedingly focused reproof, I've written books without cussin' ever since."