too hot. Or raining, from the feel of it. And she had to get her grocery shopping done and pick up her car.
The night before reassembled in her memory, the pieces clicking into place—the kir royales, Hugh Parteger, her raid on Malcolm’s bedroom, the porch roof. What in God’s name had she been thinking of? Then riding home with Russ—no, with Chief Van Alstyne. Her attempt at distancing him was so transparent, she sneered at herself as soon as she thought it.
She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. She tried lying in that position until her mind went blank, but she couldn’t breathe very well. If she didn’t get up and strap on her running shoes right now, it wasn’t going to happen. With a groan, she surrendered to the demands of life and climbed out of bed.
She had known several priests and seminarians who liked to use the early-morning hours for private prayer and contemplation. She got the same results from running. Rain or shine, hot or cold, at some point during her five-mile run, the worries and questions that swarmed around her head like blackflies always blew away and she could feel that simple, bell-clear connection to the world around her, the weather, the working of her body. Being in the moment, that was being with God. One of her seminarian friends told her she should have been a Buddhist. One of her army buddies had pointed out that her spiritual experience was more likely the result of endorphins kicking in than opening a channel to the divine. Clare didn’t care. She would take whatever peace and certainty she could get. And run with it.
She was in a much more balanced state of mind a few hours later when she stood before the lower altar, facing Michael Veerhoos and Delia James. The bride and groom kept looking away from her and at each other, their expressions mirroring a kind of awed disbelief that they were doing this monumental thing. Clare looked at their family and friends during the prayers, at the wistful smiles and silent tears, at the way couples glanced at each other or took hands when she prayed, “Give them wisdom and devotion in the ordering of their common life, that each may be to the other a strength in need, a counselor in perplexity, a comfort in sorrow, and a companion in joy.” The parents of the bride and the groom—each post-divorce, each with a new spouse—were all pride and teary tenderness. It never ceased to amaze her, the power of this act, that people who had been through the worst of marriage, its ruin and desolation, still beamed with happiness as another couple bound themselves together in hope and ignorance and courage.
The new Mr. and Mrs. Veerhoos still looked shell-shocked by delight during the photo session afterward. Clare had to be in a couple of obligatory shots, re-creating parts of the ceremony the photographer had missed during the actual event, and then she escaped to the sidelines. The photographer herded family members in and out of formation in front of the altar while his assistant darted back and forth, adjusting lights and reflective umbrellas. Clare accepted three damp, crumpled envelopes from the best man, addressed to “Priest,” “Organist,” and “Custodian.” Mr. Hadley wouldn’t like that last. He was proud of his title of sexton of St. Alban’s. She heard him banging around in the supply closet as the picture taking wound down, and by the time she had ushered out the last guest, he had fired up the floor polisher and was already attacking the tiles in the center aisle. It was 12:15. Excellent time for a wedding without Communion.
Clare retreated to the sacristy to remove her vestments, then walked to her office, wishing she had had the foresight to bring shorts and a T-shirt from the rectory. The offices and meeting rooms didn’t have the advantage of the church’s stone walls, which were thick enough to repel cannon fire, so Clare was damp and sticky by the time she reached her desk. She flicked on the standing fan, which cheerfully began blowing hot air at her. She sank into her chair, intent on finishing the paperwork she would have to mail to the state’s Department of Records.
Over the rush of her fan, she heard the floor polisher shut off. There was a pause, and then it started up again. She bent her head over the officiant’s record. There was a rap on her doorjamb, and Russ stuck his head inside. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi there.”
He leaned against the door frame, not entering the office. “There’s birdseed on the walkway in front of your church. I’m afraid I tracked some in.” He lifted one foot and examined the deep tread of his hiking boot. A few minuscule pellets dropped to the floor with a faint
“Did Mr. Hadley yell at you?”
“Not yell, exactly. He wasn’t very happy, though.”
She squared off the marriage papers and stood. “You’re not in uniform.”
He looked down at himself, as if surprised to see jeans and a polo shirt instead of brown poplin. “It’s my weekend off, so I’m not officially on duty.” He grinned at her, showing a bit of his eyeteeth. “You look like you are, though.” He gestured toward her short-sleeved clerical blouse and black skirt.
“I’m finished up for now. Let me hit the rectory and change; then I’ll be ready to get my car.” She glanced at him before unnecessarily squaring off the documents again. “If you still want to take me.”
“I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“I could always get a ride from”—she drew a blank on any of her parishioners who might be headed out toward Peggy Landry’s house—“someone.”
“But you don’t have to, because I’m taking you. Besides, you’re supposed to smooth the way so I can question Ms. Landry about her nephew, remember?”
She wished she didn’t. It was amazing how drink-induced ideas looked in the clear light of day. “Okay, then.”
“I’m parked out back.”
“I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
“Bring some water. It’s going to be easy to get dehydrated today.”
She fled before she could drivel on with increasingly meaningless sentences. In the rectory, she threw on shorts and a sleeveless blouse, grateful to be shucked of her hot black uniform. She took a quick look at her hair in the bathroom mirror, but she had taken the time to braid it tightly against her scalp after her shower, so it was still neat and cool. She slipped on her sneakers, grabbed a bottle of Poland Spring from the fridge, and ran back to the small parking lot behind St. Alban’s.
The seat in Russ’s pickup stuck to the back of her thighs. He had both windows rolled down, but the wind that blew through the cab felt like exhaust from a dryer. “Don’t you have any air conditioning in this thing?” she said.
“Oh, yeah.” He patted the dashboard affectionately. “This is my baby. She comes fully loaded.”
