“Excellent. A witness is always good.” The priest nodded solemnly. “Anything else?”
“Darleen and I fought almost from the first day of our marriage.” A flicker of impatience crossed Wally’s eyes, but his voice was unruffled. “It’ll be awkward, but any number of people can testify to that.”
“I’m sorry for your embarrassment, but those people’s statements will help to disprove a letter such as the one you described.” A corner of the priest’s lips turned up slightly. “I do understand that for a non-Catholic such as you, this process must appear absurd, but without it your marriage to Skye will not be valid in the eyes of the Church.”
“Believe me, I understand how much this means to her.” Wally looked at Skye, who nodded.
“This great act of self-giving love will only make your marriage stronger.” Father Burns looked heavenward and added, “God doesn’t always give us only what we can handle. But He does help us handle what we are given.”
Skye heard Wally grind his teeth, so she hastily rose from her chair. “Thank you, Father. We won’t keep you any longer.”
As the priest ushered them to the door, it occurred to Skye that he might have known Quentin Neal. “Do you have one more minute, Father?”
“Certainly, my dear.” The priest paused with his hand on the knob.
“Do you remember a man by the name of Quentin Neal?” Skye held tight to Toby’s leash as the little dog lurched toward the exit. “He was active in the choir about twenty-seven years ago.”
“He doesn’t sound familiar.” Father Burns stepped over to a wooden stand and opened a large book, flipping through the pages. “Ah, that’s why I don’t remember him. He was here only ten months in 1978, and that was the year I was on sabbatical in Rome.”
“Rats!” They just couldn’t catch a break. “Are the names of his family members listed?”
“No. Sorry.” The priest ran his finger over the paper. “Only he was a member.”
“How about an address?” Skye crossed her fingers that she could narrow down the location. Noreen had remembered only the name of the street.
“That is here.” Father Burns leaned forward and read, “Thirteen oh eight Singer Lane.”
“Terrific.”
Just before Skye and Wally stepped across the threshold, Father Burns said, “Something to think about. Everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but a lot of happiness and self-growth happen while you’re climbing it.”
After thanking the priest, Skye and Wally strolled out to the parking lot together. The leaves were finally changing colors. A shower of rust, orange, and yellow rained down on them as they walked beneath a massive old oak tree. Skye giggled and Wally brushed them from her hair and shoulders. They lingered there for a few minutes, enjoying the beauty of their surroundings and each other.
Eventually Skye turned serious. She gave Wally one last lingering kiss and said, “You aren’t going to pay Darleen, right?”
“No.” He shook his head. “If she writes that negative letter, I’ll round up the witnesses that support my view of the marriage.”
“And you’ll be willing to wait for the annulment?” Skye persisted as they walked toward their cars, Toby prancing by her side.
“Yes.” Wally cupped her cheek and gave her a serious look. “But if that happens, I’d like you to consider us living together.”
“If it’s more than a year delay, I will consider it,” Skye promised.
“It’s a deal.” Wally kissed her forehead. “Do you want to get a quick bite before I go back to work?”
“No.” Skye opened the Bel Air’s door. “I’m going to knock on doors near that address on Singer Lane. Maybe one of the neighbors will remember the Neals and their children.”
“Okay, but be careful.” Wally kissed Skye and patted Toby. “I’ll come over to your house after I make the call to Darleen’s boyfriend.”
“Good.” Skye put the dog in the Chevy’s backseat and slid behind the wheel. “I’ll pick up some food from the grocery store deli, and we can have a late supper.”
Skye drove to McDonald’s and parked her Bel Air in the back lot. After crossing Stebler Road, she and Toby hiked the length of Singer Lane—all two blocks of it. When she got to the end at Chestnut Court, she turned around and walked back, this time on the opposite side of the street.
No one was outside, which wasn’t surprising since it was a few minutes before six and most folks would have just finished dinner. The average Scumble Riverite ate lunch at noon, supper at five, and then settled down in front of the TV for the rest of the evening.
The address Father Burns had provided was located in the middle of the second block, a nondescript ranch with beige vinyl siding. Near the sidewalk, a FOR RENT sign with a plastic tube attached was staked into the meager brown lawn. Skye flipped open the cap and took out one of the flyers. When she saw that it contained a floor plan, she stuck the leaflet into her tote bag, thinking it might come in handy.
After trying the neighbors on either side of 1308, Skye was discouraged. The woman on the right had lived there for only a couple of years and the one on the left had moved in that summer. Both women said that most of the houses on Singer Lane were rentals.
Skye looked down at Toby. “Shall we try a few more?”
The little dog yipped, which she took as an affirmative. Crossing the road, she knocked on the door directly across from the Neal family’s former residence. This house was slightly bigger than the others on the street, and much better maintained. The trim was freshly painted, the leaves raked, and the cement walk crack free.
A man wearing sweatpants and a Bears jersey opened the door a cautious inch, and she said quickly, “Hi. My name is Skye Denison.” She reached in her pocket and handed him her card. “I’m the Scumble River Police Department psychological consultant.”
“I’m Hank Vanda.” He let the door swing open a little wider. “Are you here about those druggies on the end of the block?”
“No. Sorry, but I will tell the chief about your concern,” Skye assured the man. “I’m trying to find someone who lived in this area back in 1978.”
“Let’s see.” He tugged on his chin and his lips moved silently. At last, he said, “We moved in when I was two, so that would be 1977.”
“Oh.” Skye’s heart sank. Finally someone who had lived on Singer Lane during the right time period, but he’d have been too young to remember anything that happened back then. “Well, thanks anyway.”
“Don’t you want to talk to my mom?” Hank cocked a thumb behind him.
“Oh, yes.” Skye brightened. “That would be wonderful.”
“Well, then you better talk fast. Her programs start at six thirty and she doesn’t let anything interfere with her television time.”
“Thank you.”
As she followed Hank through the living room, Skye noticed a pair of binoculars resting on the sill of a picture window facing the street. A worn recliner, its back to the rest of the room, was stationed nearby. She doubted the field glasses were used for bird watching. If Mrs. Vanda was the snoop, Skye might be in luck!
The kitchen walls were painted a bright red, with images of apples decorating the curtains, place mats, and canister set. Even the linoleum was imprinted with the fruit. Hank’s mother stood at the sink washing dishes.
After her son introduced Skye, explaining who Skye was and what she wanted, the woman wiped her hands dry on a terry cloth towel hanging from a drawer handle and said, “I’m Jenny Vanda.”
“Nice to meet you. What a cheerful kitchen.”
“Thanks. I decorated it myself.” Jenny gestured to a chair whose cushion was also festooned with apples. “Have a seat. Would you or your puppy like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Skye sat. “I don’t want to take too much of your time.”
“Fair enough.” Jenny glanced at the red plastic clock hanging on a soffit over the sink. “Who do you want to know about?”
“The Neals. They lived across the street from you in 1978.” Skye patted Toby, who lay quietly at her feet. “I’m trying to find out the little boy’s name. Do you remember it?”
