Hallowed

Mom’s already reached Billy, who throws her arms around my mother like the two are old friends. Then they turn and start back toward us, and when she gets close enough this Billy woman hugs me too, a giant bear hug with surprising strength.

“Clara!” she exclaims. “I can’t believe it. I haven’t seen you since you were knee high to a grasshopper.”

“Uh, hi,” I reply stiffly against her hair, which smells like wildflowers and leather. “I don’t remember. . ”

“Oh, of course not,” she says with a laugh. “You were tiny.” She peers over my shoulder.

“And this is Jeffrey. Good God above. Already a man.”

Jeffrey doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s pleased by this announcement.

“Meet Wilma Fairweather,” announces my mom as a formal introduction.

Wilma smirks at us. “Billy,” she corrects.

“And this is Angela Zerbino,” says my mom, not to overlook any of us.

Billy nods, looking at Angela so intently that Angela actually blushes. “The Pink Garter, am I right?”

“Yeah,” says Angela.

“Welcome! Are you hungry?”

We glance around at each other. Food is the last thing on our minds.

“Of course you are,” Billy says. “Why don’t you go over there and get some grub?” She gestures off to one side of the meadow, where there’s a plume of smoke coming up over what looks like a big stone barbecue grill. “Corbett makes the best burgers, I swear, enough to get me to eat meat a few times a year, anyway.” She laughs again. “Go eat and then you can start setting up your tents. I want you all right by me.” She links her arm with Mom’s. “You finally got the guts to bring them, Mags. I’m proud of you. Although I guess this means—”

“Bill,” Mom says with a warning in her voice, looking at me. Then she shakes it off and smiles at Billy. “We’ve got a million things to talk about, you and I.” And with that, they walk away, leaving us staring after them.

We make our way over to the barbecue. When we get there we can see that it’s being manned by a white- haired guy with a long ponytail wearing a Hawaiian-style flowered shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. He’s flipping meat on the grill like a professional.

“What’ll it be, young’uns?” he calls back without bothering to turn around.

“Cheeseburger or regular?”

“Cheese,” answers Jeffrey, who can always be counted on to think with his stomach. “I’ll take two.”

“Right-o,” says the guy, and then he turns and squints at us. “What about you, Clara?” It’s Mr. Phibbs. My English teacher. Mr. Phibbs in flip-flops. My head is going to explode.

“A bit of a shock?” he says good-naturedly, taking in our expressions, as if it has only now occurred to him that we might be surprised to see him. “We decided that it was for the best if you didn’t know.”

“Who decided?” I can’t help but ask.

“Your mother, mostly,” he says. “But it was something we all agreed upon.”

“You’ve known about us all this time?” Angela manages.

He snorts, which is the strangest sound ever coming from him. “But of course. That’s why I’m there. You kids need someone to keep an eye on you.” He turns back to the grill, whistling. He serves us up two hamburgers each, which we balance on paper plates with potato chips and fruit salad like this is a Fourth of July picnic. We wander off dazedly to sit in the grass and eat. I discover that I’m ravenous. And the food is wonderful.

“Oh my God,” Angela says, when she finally stops eating long enough to talk. “This is so cool. I would never have guessed there’s a group. The congregation.” She says the word like she’s trying it out on her tongue, like it’s a word with magic powers. “I want to talk to Billy again.

She seemed fabulous. Holy geez,” she exclaims, pointing across the meadow. “That’s Jay Hooper, you know, who manages the rodeo arena in Jackson.”

“Are all these people from Jackson?”

“Don’t think so,” she says. “A few, though. I can’t believe that I’ve lived here for my entire life and I didn’t know about this. I wonder if it’s like this in every city, or if it’s just Jackson. I have that theory that angel-bloods are attracted to the mountains, did I ever tell you?

Whoa, that’s Mary Thorton. Wow, I wouldn’t have pinned her as the angelic type.” I stare at her blankly.

“I guess you never know,” Angela says, still looking around. “Oh, and there’s Walter Prescott. He owns the bank.”

“Walter Prescott?” I whip around to see where she’s looking. “Where?”

“The blond one, in front of that big green tent.”

I locate him, a tall light-haired man building a fire. I wouldn’t have guessed he was Christian’s uncle, looking at him, mostly because his hair is that towheaded blond that almost looks white, nothing resembling Christian’s dark messy waves.

“I wonder if we’ll see Christian,” says Angela.

In that moment I know he’s here. I can feel him.

“There he is.” Angela points to a group of people who are helping to guide a motorboat trailer into the lake. “Christian!” she yells suddenly. She cups her hands around her mouth and belts it out. “Paging Christian Prescott!”

Mortifying, but effective. Christian turns at the sound of his name. Sees us. Then he’s striding toward us through the grass, wearing rolled-up jeans and a T-shirt, no shoes, which seems to be the style here in the meadow. He seems relaxed, hands in his pocket, not in a particular hurry to get to us.