in the air as if sketching her, “you’re . . . memorable. Who you are just shines through your face.” He popped the bread in his mouth and watched, amused, as she blushed bright red. “You’re one fine-looking woman, Reverend.” She clapped her hands over her cheeks. He laughed.
She snorted loudly and jumped up from the table to ladle more stew into her bowl. “I should have you meet my mother. She loooves,” she drawled out the word, “a flatterin’ man.” She turned and batted her eyelashes hard enough to create a breeze. “More stew, Chief?”
He surrendered his bowl. “Yeah. Sounds like you miss your family.”
“Sometimes.” She put his stew in front of him and sat down. “Sometimes I’m glad we have some distance between us. My decision to enter the priesthood, coming on the heels of Grace’s death, was hard for them. It wasn’t what they had wanted for me.”
“You can’t blame them. It’s a lot to give up.” He blew on a spoonful of stew. “All parents want their kids to have the same things they had. Marriage and a family. I know my mom regrets that Linda and I never had any children.”
She leaned back in her chair, her head cocked. “Marriage and a family?”
“You know, giving that up to be a priest.”
She grinned, then quickly covered her smile with her hand. “I think you’re under some misapprehension here. Episcopal priests don’t take a vow of chastity. We can get married, have kids, the whole nine yards.”
“What?” He dropped his spoon into the bowl and stared at her. “But the old priest, the one you replaced, he was there forever and he never—”
“Some priests choose to remain celibate. But it’s just that, a choice. Not an obligation.”
“Huh. If that don’t beat all.” He watched as she devoured a wad of sauce-soaked bread. He felt unsettled and annoyed, as if she had deliberately kept the truth from him. He tried to picture her going out for a night on the town with a man and his mind drew a blank. “You’d think they’d just call you ministers, then, instead of all this priest business and the white collar and all.”
She sighed, pushed her chair back and headed for the living room. “Hang on,” she said. She reemerged a minute later to hand him a large paperback.
“
“If I can read up on the Iroquois Nation, you can read up on my church. Now, finish that stew up and you can have some pumpkin roll for dessert.”
He declined dessert on behalf of his waistband, which had a tendency to shrink in the wash when he ate too much. She turned down his offer to help wash the pots and pans, but she did let him load the dishwasher.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, I’d better get going. It’s late.” He climbed back into his boots and parka. “Thanks for the dinner.”
“It was my pleasure. Company makes the meal, Grandmother Fergusson used to say.”
He stuck out his hand just as she wrapped her arms around herself. Like an idiot, he shoved his hands into his pockets just as she reached out to shake. Finally, he slapped his hand around hers and pumped her arm like he was at a Rotary Club Meeting. Over the lingering odors of dinner, he could smell her, fresh and green, like new-mown hay in his brother-in-law’s field. “Night, now,” he said, and yanked open the door so hard he could hear the hinges bite into wood. They both looked at the door frame. He turned to her, frowning. “And for God’s sake, lock your doors.”
The squad car was freezing. He cursed the heater, cursed the weather, cursed the drive back to a dark and empty house. Why the hell had Linda gone on this fabric-buying trip anyway? He wanted her home. Only two more days. Then he’d feel better.
CHAPTER 19
Clare knew she ought to be more interested in the boiler. She flexed her chilly fingers together and glanced at the papers on the black oak table, listening for the telltale hiss and rattle of the radiators. She seemed to be the only one who noticed that the meeting room—the entire parish hall—never warmed up, so Robert Corlew’s projections on repairing the aging water heater ought to have her spellbound. Contractors, unfortunately, rarely made compelling speakers.
“—rests directly on blocks, so that the insulation can be applied—”
She needed to be getting more sleep. Through diamond-paned windows, she could see the front corner of St. Alban’s, its stone walls massed like a storm front against the wan December light. So little daylight on a Friday afternoon, she thought, already noon and only four more hours ’til sunset. A month or more until she could see longer days. She flexed her shoulders back, stretching the neckline of her thick wool sweater, causing her collar to tug against her throat. She turned her attention back to the table, where Vaughn Fowler was calling the vote.
“Aye,” she said, copying the rest of the votes. Had she just agreed to replacing the hot water heater with a nuclear powered furnace?
“All right, then, we’re agreed to hold off replacing Old Bessy until the replacement prices go down this summer.”
Terence McKellan and Mrs. Marshall pushed their high-backed chairs away from the table. “Before you go,” Clare said, “I’d like to update you on the Burnses’ situation. The letter-writing campaign is going very well, with lots of participation. The police have a strong lead on the identity of Cody’s father, and as soon as he’s identified, we’re going to try to persuade him to sign adoption papers naming the Burnses as parents.” At least she hoped someone would be able to get the paperwork in front of him before Russ hauled him off to jail. “With that in mind, I have some more facts and figures about the mother-and-baby outreach project that I intend to present at our next meeting.”
Sterling Sumner harrumphed, but the rest of the board managed at least polite expressions of interest. The meeting adjourned. Clare headed straight for the coffee machine. She poured herself a cup, yawning convulsively.
