“Bob! Gal! No! Bad dogs!” Clare lunged after them, but they stopped at the sidewalk of their own accord. Across the street was another antique store and a small Presbyterian church that appeared to have been made out of river boulders. The town ended there, sheared off by a leafy-treed gorge. The Old Sacandaga Road crossed a bridge and disappeared into dense forest.
“That’s the Hudson down there,” Russ said, joining her. “Fast and shallow at this point. There’re a lot of rafting companies putting in around here.”
“Is it going to be safe for the dogs?”
“Sure.” He pointed to the edge of the drive. “Behind those lilac bushes, there’s a good strong chain-link fence. I helped Mom put it up myself. And if it turns out these two like chasing cars, she’s got a nice fenced yard out back. Mom’s used to taking in strays—of every sort. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
He walked toward a white-and-green carriage house set well back from the drive, then vanished between two pines. “Mom?” He reappeared. “She’s not out back.” He gestured to Clare. “Come on in.” He stepped up to a green kitchen door set near the rear of the house and held it open. She climbed the steps, solid blocks of dense gray stone, and went in at his heels.
“Mom?”
Clare could hear a muffled voice from upstairs. “Is that you, sweetie? I’ll be right down.” The kitchen was cluttered with cooking utensils and shopping bags, and a basket of laundry sat atop a washing machine jammed in the corner. Signs demanding STOP THE DREDGING! jostled library books and stacks of papers on an oilcloth- covered table. An Amnesty International calendar was tacked to a door, and the ancient refrigerator was plastered with bumper stickers exhorting readers to work for peace, seek economic justice, and vote for Hillary Clinton.
“Mom’s an old lefty peacenik,” Russ explained. “A real tax-and-spend Democrat, just like you.”
“I heard that.” Russ’s mother appeared in the doorway, looking even more like a fireplug this time in baggy red shorts and a red T-shirt. She reached up and tugged her son’s ears, bringing his face down close enough to kiss. “Remember, my taxes pay your salary, sonny boy.”
“Then I want a raise. Mom, this is Clare Fergusson. Clare, this is my mom.”
Russ’s mother had a firm, no-nonsense handshake. Clare wasn’t surprised. “How do you do, Mrs. Van Alstyne.”
“Call me Margy.” She waved in the direction of Clare’s collar. “Now, what’s that? You a minister?”
“A priest. I’m the rector of St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Millers Kill.”
“Well!” Margy Van Alstyne smiled, revealing teeth so uniform, they must have been dentures. “It’s about time! A woman priest. Are there many of you?”
“Quite a few, actually. The Episcopal church started ordaining women in 1976. When I graduated from seminary last year, close to half my class were women.”
“Don’t that beat all! You always want to be a priest? You look to be a few good years out of high school, if you know what I mean.”
“Mom…”
Clare suppressed a smile. “I just turned thirty-five. And no, my call came later, as it does for a lot of people. I was an army pilot before I went into the seminary.”
“So you worked for the war industry but came to your senses!” She darted a glance at her son. “What rank were you?”
“I was a captain when I resigned.”
“Ha!” Margy Van Alstyne’s elbow caught Russ in the solar plexus. “She outranks you, son! Finally, a woman who can boss you around!”
“Every woman in my life bosses me around,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach.
Clare started to laugh.
“You don’t do crafts, do you? Make little things with yarn and twigs? Sew a lot?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t know how to sew. I like to cook, though.”
“Cooking’s okay. I hate crafts. You can’t walk into a person’s house today without tripping over handwoven baskets and rag dolls covering up toilet paper or some such nonsense. I like you.” She turned to her son. “I like her.”
“I thought you would.”
“So what are you doing here? You just come out to introduce me to this nice young lady? Or you after something?”
“I’m after something. Did you ever meet Emil Dvorak, our medical examiner?” Margy shook her head. “He’s kind of a friend of mine. Last night, someone beat him up pretty bad. He was airlifted down to Albany.”
“Good Lord.” Margy pressed her fingers flat against her lips. “You catch who did it?”
“Not yet. I will.” Russ replied. Margy nodded. “Anyway, his, um, roommate went down with him, and they left behind two dogs. Clare’s helping them out by trying to find a place to board the beasts.” He crossed to the door and opened it. Bob and Gal, lying in the shade of one of the pines, looked up. Their tails began thumping as Clare and Margy walked out.
“I hate to impose,” Clare said. “When I told Paul I’d see to the dogs, I thought I’d simply have them boarded for a few days. But the kennel I spoke with said there’s no room because of the holiday weekend.” She couldn’t keep a pleading look off her face. “I’d keep them at the rectory with me, but I have an unfenced yard on a fairly busy street. They’d have to be indoors unless I was there. And I keep weird hours.”
“Well, don’t they look sweet.” Margy clapped her hands and the Berns rose, shook off pine needles and grass clippings, and trotted over. “Of course I’ll have ’em here. What are their names?”
