'I wouldn't change it for the world.'
This was scheduled as the last of the confirmation classes, but Joy suggested he called another one in the week before the service, whenever that might be, just to remind everyone how it went.
At the end, Sands lingered after the others, wishing to say something, his entire body language confrontational. 'You'll be wanting a new treasurer for the PCC.'
'Yes.'
'Responsible job.'
'Very.'
'Someone asked me if I'd be willing to put myself forward. I don't suppose it matters that I'm not confirmed yet.'
Joy was quick to say, 'That's no problem, Burton. You're in the pipeline, so to speak.'
'Right.'
'The only hiccup is that I've already spoken to someone else.'
The brown eyes narrowed. 'Who's that?'
'I'd rather not say until they make their decision.'
'But I'm a chartered accountant.'
'I know. Isn't it crazy, us overlooking you? Maybe at some future time.'
'Are you saying you don't want me?'
'Not at all. I didn't know you were up for it, that's all.'
'It's up to you, is it?'
'No, the PCC appoints the treasurer. Obviously I'm in a tricky position since I've talked to someone else already. Didn't expect you to come forward. It's not a plum accounting job.'
'I want to do it. What happens? Do we have an election, or what?'
'You're set on this?'
Sands nodded.
Dead set Otis Joy thought grimly. 'You'd better speak to someone else on the council like Geoff Elliott.'
'I already did. He's the one who asked me.'
Difficult. 'Did he? I see. No problem, then.'
Sands was still unwilling to leave it. 'As a candidate for the job, I'd like to look at the books.'
'The annual statement? That gets published at the end of April. Anyone can have a copy.'
'I said the books. The account books.'
'What for?'
'To see what really goes on. The statement you're talking about is just a summary. Tells you what they want you to know.'
Joy made light of it. ' 'What really goes on'? I hope you're not suggesting I eat the communion wafers on the quiet.'
'It's a reasonable request, isn't it?'
'Sounds reasonable to me, yes, but we don't even know for sure if there's more than one person applying for the post.'
'I am. That's the point.' His freckled face had become ominously pink.
'OK, Burton, I'll talk to the PCC. See what the form is.'
Burton Sands had no conception of the risk he was running. Joy watched him leave the rectory, rather as the hangman watches a condemned man in the exercise yard, taking stock. He looked at his watch. It was after eight, not too late to make a phone call to his first choice for treasurer.
Rachel, alone in her cottage, thought this might be Gary to say he'd arrived safely in New Orleans. Over there it was still afternoon.
In US style she gave a cheery, 'Hi.'
'Hi, there.' Definitely not Gary. 'That
'Yes.'
'Otis here. The rector.'
'Oh. I was expecting a call from my husband. He's in America.'
'Sorry to disappoint you.'
Disappoint me? You're joking, she thought.
'1 can call again at a better time,' he added.
'No, don't. Gary's got all night to get through-if he remembers. Knowing him, he won't.'
'You're alone, then? I was hoping to come round and talk about something.'
'That's all right.'
'It's getting late. There's never a right time, is there?'
'Now's fine by me.'
'Ten minutes, then?'
'I'll get the kettle on.'
Or should I have offered to open a bottle, her wilder self suggested when she'd put down the phone. Wow! Alone with Otis after dark. What would Cynthia say to this?
Cynthia. Panic seized her. What if the rector had got wind that gossip was being spread about the bishop and was trying to put a stop to it? Cringe!
Bloody Cynthia. To be lumped with her as a village blabbermouth was horrible.
She barely had time to freshen her face when the doorbell chimed.
He was in one of those grey shirts with a little strip of dog-collar across his throat. Formal, by his standards. She was so fearful of what he would say that she avoided eye contact.
'Tea or coffee, Rector?'
'How kind. Whatever.'
The perfect cue for the wine bottle, but she chickened out. Merlot didn't fit the butter-wouldn't-melt image she had to project.
He came through to the kitchen, insisting she shouldn't make the tea alone. She'd forgotten about her fractured arm. For a few minutes they talked about Gary's trip. You would think she'd been to New Orleans herself the way she listed its attractions while busying herself with the cups and saucers, desperate to put off the moment when he came to the point:
Then he managed to get in with: 'You won't mind me saying this, Rachel. I feel I know you better than many other women in the village.'
She felt the hairs rise on her unplastered arm.
He went on: 'I guess it's because we've shared in a couple of awkward moments, like the evening you caught me starkers except for an apron.'
'And my pratfall in the churchyard, which was worse,' she said before he could.
'I wasn't there when you fell over,' he gallantly said. 'When I arrived you were sitting on Waldo's grave with everyone around you. What I'm trying to say is that your calmness under fire is impressive. Cake stalls at the fete, door-to-door collections, a broken wrist-you take it all in your stride.'
'No use getting in a flap,' she said, wondering how this linked up with gossip about the bishop.
'Exactly. Thing is, I'm on the lookout for someone with a sure touch and a calm temperament.'
No reprimand, then.
Her face must have lit up, because he said, 'You'll do it?'
'What?'
'The job of parish treasurer. I started to mention it the other day when I asked if you had any experience of book-keeping.'
Reeling at how mistaken she had been, she succeeded in saying, 'But I told you I don't have any.'
'This is kids' stuff, Rachel. You don't need a degree in accountancy, just a steady personality. Stanley Burrows had it. He was no mathematician. Couldn't even use a calculator. I'd rather have someone like you than a busybody who throws a spanner in the works every time we need a ten-pound float for a Sunday School outing.'
She let him fill the teapot, wondering what had got into his head. Was she deluding herself, or did he fancy
