women. When they left she turned to him.
Colin said, 'I just wanted to thank you again.'
'I'm glad that you enjoyed it,' she said. 'Would you like to come to the parsonage for a glass of sherry?'
Colin could see that her words surprised her as well as him. 'Thanks. That would be nice.' He felt a kind of thrill, as if he were a boy getting to see the inside of a teacher's house.
'Great.' As Annie started toward the door, Burton Kelly appeared from the kitchen and stepped in front of her. His high forehead was dotted with sweat. He was wearing a blue shirt, the collar out over his light tan jacket, a pen clipped to the breast pocket. 'Going home?' he asked timidly.
'Yes.'
'I wonder if I could talk with you?'
'Sorry, not today, Burton. Do you two know each other?'
'Yes, we do,' Colin said.
'Tomorrow, then?' Burton sniffed.
She thought a moment. 'How about Wednesday? Tomorrow's a holiday and Tuesday's my day off.'
'Work,' he said gloomily.
'Wednesday after work?'
'Five-thirty?' He adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses, wiped away some beads of sweat from his long upper lip.
'That'll be fine.'
'The parsonage or your office?'
Colin bet he'd prefer the parsonage.
'Office,' Annie said.
Kelly's countenance fell like a failed facelift. 'See you Wednesday,' he said, and walked away.
'Goodbye, Burton.'
He answered with a wave over his shoulder.
Colin said, 'I'd say that's a disappointed man.'
'He's very sensitive.'
Colin thought it was more than that, like having the hots for his preacher.
This time they made it out of the parish hall and crossed to the parsonage. Colin stood on the steps while Annie unlocked the door. Looking out at the street, he saw Kelly sitting in his car across the way. When he realized Colin had seen him he started the car and drove off. Colin decided he didn't much like the guy.
Inside the parsonage Annie showed him to the living room. He found it warm and cheerful, a reflection of her. She handed him a sherry, then sat across from him. They looked at each other for a moment that seemed like hours. Colin heard his heartbeat and wondered if she heard hers.
'Is there any news about the murders?' she asked.
'Nothing. The state police have come in, though.'
'How does Waldo feel about that?'
'I haven't talked to him, but I'd guess he's not too happy. On the other hand, he's a decent man and I'd bet his first concern is getting this thing solved.'
'Yes, I'm sure that's true. I feel so terrible for the Higbees. I wish there was something I could do. There can't be anything worse than losing a child.'
Except maybe losing two and your wife, he thought, then nodded in agreement. 'You never had any?'
'No.'
Quickly he added, 'Sarah told me you'd been married. Your husband died?'
'Yes.'
She looked sad. He could have kicked himself for getting into this. Aside from making her unhappy, she was bound to ask him now.
'And you?' she asked, on cue.
He could feel his breathing coming faster, prayed he wouldn't have an attack. 'My wife is dead, too. An automobile accident.'
'I'm sorry. Bob had a heart attack. He was only thirty.'
Colin wondered if in some mystical way he was only capable of feeling for people who'd had a loss. Annie, Gloria Danowski's husband, Russ Cooper, the Higbees? 'Nancy was thirty-two,' he said, hoping she wouldn't ask about children.
She didn't, just nodded, understanding.
'It's hard, isn't it?' she said.
'Yes. Very hard. How long has it been for you?'
'Five years. And you?'
'Three, almost. Does it get easier?'
'I suppose so. Time dulls those sharp edges.'
It was different for him, but he couldn't say that. He wanted to get off this subject.
'Of course, there are times when it's as fresh as if it had happened yesterday,' she went on.
He knew all about those times.
They were silent, he examining his shoes, she intent on her glass of sherry.
Then Annie said, 'How do you like it on the North Fork?'
'It seems like a nice place.' He shook his head as if to dismiss what he'd said. 'I guess we're back at the murders. I mean, a nice place besides that.'
'It is a nice place. I lived here for awhile when I was a kid. That's one of the reasons I chose this parish. I remembered being happy here.'
'What's the other reason?'
'The other parishes were in the Midwest and the West. I wanted to be near my parents. My mother, especially. She suffers from depression. They live in Brooklyn Heights. Are your parents living?'
'My mother.'
For the next fifteen minutes they exchanged background information as if they were submitting resumes to each other. Siblings, schools, jobs. He discovered that Annie had a younger sister and brother, that she'd gone to Bennington, worked for CBS as a casting associate for two years, then became casting director on a soap. She was married at twenty-five to Robert Lockridge (Winters was her maiden name), lived in Greenwich Village for two years and, although she was ecstatically happy in her marriage, she felt something about her life was unfulfilled. It was then that she and Bob started going to a U.U. church.
'After about six months something happened. I guess the only way I can put it is to say everything I was doing then seemed frivolous. My job, the kind of life we were leading, our friends. I mean, there was nothing wrong with our friends, they were all nice people, but they were operating on a superficial level, as we were. I knew I needed something more. I needed to be in touch spiritually. I know that sounds corny.'
'Not at all.'
She smiled.
He felt it.
'I told Bob I wanted to be a minister. He was very encouraging and urged me to apply to divinity school. The only one I wanted to go to was Harvard and I was lucky enough to be accepted. We moved to Boston and seven months later he was dead. We'd been married two-and-a-half years.'
They were back to death again, Colin thought. 'What did you do then?'
'I took a leave of absence for the rest of the year. Then I sat in my apartment for six months and stared at the walls, cried, and felt sorry for myself. Bob left me a lot of insurance money, so I didn't have to worry about that. It probably would have been better if I'd had to. Anyway, one night I had this dream that Bob found me sitting in our apartment in my dirty robe, hair uncombed, cigarette butts in the ashtray, you get the picture?'
'I do.'
'Well, I was this mess in the dream-in life, too. And Bob came to me and said, 'What's wrong with you, Annie? You've got work to do. Get off your butt and do it.' That was it. When I woke up I felt better. I knew I had to show up for life again.'
'I can understand your grief but I'm surprised that you couldn't handle it differently. Didn't you think he was in
