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When Annie Winters finished her sermon on the Idea of Home the congregation stood to sing a final hymn. She looked out over the small group and wondered if she was getting anywhere. But where did she want to get? She knew she reached these people; there just weren't many of them.
She'd had the opportunity for a larger congregation. A sizable parish in Wisconsin had been offered to her, another large one in California, and this one. She'd told herself she'd chosen this small one because she wanted to be near her mother, who had bouts of incapacitating depression, and that the few months she'd spent in Seaville as a child were her happiest. But there was another reason, one she tried not to admit to herself. A small parish would be less likely to present romantic possibilities. And that was the way it had been-the way she wished it to remain.
So then what was her problem? There was only one: Steve Cornwell. And there he sat in the front row, staring at her. No. Glaring. Why did he bother to come, feeling the way he did? Meanness, she guessed.
The hymn ended and Annie made her closing remarks. Then, as Burton Kelly played 'Whispering' on the organ, one of his usual whimsical choices, the congregation began filing out. Most of them would join her in the parish hall behind the church for refreshments. She hoped Steve Cornwell wouldn't bother.
Some of the parishioners, both men and women, had laid the table with homemade coffee cake, cookies, cheeses, crackers, and fruit. Coffee being brewed in the kitchen filled the hall with a wonderful aroma. Annie was dying for a cup, but she was kept from the other side of the room by one after another of her congregation congratulating her on her sermon. From the corner of her eye she saw Steve Cornwell, still glaring. Perhaps she should speak to him. The truth was, he frightened her. A gigantic man, he towered over her, hulking and sour. But why talk with him? She knew winning him over was impossible. He was set: Women were not ministers. So there was nothing she could do that was right.
'I understand you were there yesterday, Annie.' It was Madge Johnson, warm and caring.
'You mean at the mayor's?'
Madge nodded and put a hand on Annie's arm. 'It must have been awful for you.'
'It was. I've seen death before but nothing like that.' Not even Bob's death had been so ugly.
'Are you talking about the murder?' said Carolyn Dobbs, a member of the church for twenty-seven years, also a bully and a gossip. Annie had tried, but she just couldn't like Carolyn.
Madge said, 'No, Carolyn, we were talking about the summer fair. Are you going to take a booth this year?'
Carolyn eyed them both curiously. 'I was sure I heard something. Well, never mind. You were there, weren't you, Annie?'
'Yes.'
'I hear she was from the other side, East Hampton.' She rolled her eyes as if to say, You know how they are.
'A wife and mother,' Madge said defensively.
Carolyn persisted, 'What do you suppose she was doing in Gildersleeve's pool?' She laughed. 'What an opening for a crack. What I mean is, who put her there? Do you think Carl did it?'
Annie sighed. She knew trying to stop the speculation would be impossible, and Carolyn's obvious relish for the murder was predictable. 'No one knows anything at this point, Carolyn.'
'You saw the body, didn't you?' she barreled on.
Annie said, 'I think I need some coffee. How about you?'
Ignoring the offer, Carolyn whispered, 'I hear she was raped.'
Annie knew that couldn't be the official word; there hadn't been time. 'I need coffee,' she said, refusing to worry if Carolyn thought she was rude. 'Excuse me.'
As she walked away she heard Carolyn say to Madge, 'She's a prude, but what can you expect?' She didn't hear Madge's reply, but Annie knew it would put Carolyn in her place.
Ruth Cooper stopped her. 'It was a wonderful sermon, Annie. I don't know where you get your ideas.'
Russ, her husband, said, 'That's a trade secret, isn't that right, Annie?'
She smiled enigmatically.
'You know I had this grand idea myself,' Ruth went on. 'I thought a sermon on the birds and bees might be nice. The real birds and bees,' she amended, giving her husband a curious glance. 'Would you like to do one on that, Annie?'
'Why don't you do it yourself, Ruth? Any third Sunday in the month.' Once a month a parishioner conducted the service while Annie sat out front.
'Oh, I couldn't,' she demurred.
'Sure you could, Ruthie,' Russ said proudly. 'You'd be real good at it, too.'
'No, I don't think so.'
'From reading your column, Ruth, I think Russ is right.' Ruth Cooper wrote the Bay view News column for the Gazette. The other women who did the columns for the various towns on the Fork reported straight news, but Ruth always started hers with a paragraph devoted to nature observations. Annie recalled that last week's column had begun: 'Lacy curtains of dew cloaked the grass and shimmered in the May sunshine.' Some laughed at Ruth's efforts but Annie, while she didn't think the woman had a literary career ahead, admired her intentions. 'Give it some thought,' she added, and patted Ruth's arm.
'I will,' she said, beaming. 'I seriously will.'
'Good,' Annie smiled and moved away.
Burton Kelly almost tripped her. 'Sorry, Annie.'
'That's all right.'
'I was bringing you some coffee. Black, no sugar, right?'
'Right. Thanks.' Burton was an odd person, she thought. He was always helpful, always offering his services, but she knew practically nothing about him except that he worked for Seaville Water & Light. Tall and thin, his sandy hair was parted low on the right side, then combed over to the left in an effort to disguise his balding head. She wondered why men did that-it drew so much more attention to the condition than if they'd left it alone.
Burton said, 'I saw Carolyn flapping her mouth at you and thought you'd need some strong coffee.'
She diplomatically refrained from commenting, sipping the coffee instead. Her friend, Peg Moffat, swore Burton had a crush on Annie, so she tried never to encourage him. But lately she thought it was possible that he was working up to asking her for a date. Her next thought was Colin Maguire. Inwardly, she laughed at the connection. Did she want to date Colin? Ridiculous. She didn't even know him.
Yet she thought that if she'd had her sermon written last night, she might have met him for that drink. It puzzled and intrigued her.
'You okay, today, Annie?' Burton inquired.
'Sure. Why?'
He shrugged. 'Well, I heard.'
'Oh. Yes, I'm fine.' Quickly, she changed the subject. 'You sounded great this morning, Burton.'
'Thanks,' he said, shuffling and spilling a few drops of coffee on his shoes.
Annie pretended she didn't notice and looked past Burton at Peg Moffat, who was talking to a group across the room. Their eyes met and they smiled.
Annie said, 'Will you excuse me? Thanks for the coffee.'
She threaded her way through some people to join Peg, who broke away from her group and met Annie halfway.
'Good sermon, Annie. You never fail to give me something to chew on all week.'
'Thanks.'
Peg was Annie's age, thirty-three, and married to Tim Moffat who had his own small advertising firm. They had two children Karen, ten, Beth, three. Sunday mornings Tim stayed home with the girls. Annie and Peg had been friends from the start, discovering they both liked Mahler and the Rolling Stones. Physically they were opposites. Where Annie was tall, thin, and blond, Peg was short, chunky, and dark. But otherwise they were similar, liked the same people, books, movies, music. Food, too. Sometimes they'd drive down the island together and pig out at a
