hanging around a Fort Lauderdale condo while the two women shopped and got their nails done. Plus, he called the station house so many times to see how they were doing without him that Linda claimed flying back home would be cheaper than the phone bill.
He put water on to boil and collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs with his Coke. Linda had done something different with a St. Patrick’s theme. There was a new tablecloth on the table, new place mats and napkins, and curtains festooning the windows. All green-and-white fabrics, tweed and tiny gold-edged shamrocks and presumably Irish shepherds helping Irish shepherdesses over a stile. Their house was a laboratory for Linda’s burgeoning drapery business, which meant they were more or less in a state of constant redecoration. At least she had farmed out some of the work-three neighboring women stitched away at ruffles and blinds and whatnot, so Linda could meet her orders without sewing eighteen hours out of twenty-four.
The rattle of the lid on the pot told him the water had come to a boil. He heaved himself out of his chair and poured the macaroni in, stirring it with a big wooden spoon. Maybe he should have just said the hell with it and gone to Florida. Maybe he would. Just fly down there, surprise her. They could go out to dinner together, take a long walk, rent a boat and get out on the ocean. Well, no, she didn’t really care for long walks and she didn’t do too well on the water unless she was in something pretty big. Okay, he could swallow his dislike of sunbathing and lie around on the beach with her. He could make the ultimate sacrifice and take her shopping. Anything. They just needed to spend some time together and talk about something other than who bought the groceries and who was going to the bank.
He drained the pot, went upstairs, and changed out of his uniform into sweats. Back downstairs he ate his mac and cheese in front of the TV, flicking from one lousy show to another, wondering why the networks couldn’t schedule one of the NCAA finals on a night when he was at home. He rinsed out his bowl and loaded the dishwasher. He wandered down to his cellar workroom, but the thought of putting in time on one of his projects made him feel as if a lead blanket had been placed on his shoulders, so he went back upstairs. He thought about calling a few airlines to see how much it would cost for a last-minute ticket to Florida. He thought about calling his sister Janet, catching up with what his nieces were doing. He thought about calling his mom.
He picked up the phone and dialed Clare’s number.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Russ.” He could hear her smile. “I knew it was you.”
“How did you manage that? I didn’t know I was going to call until I had finished dialing.”
“I’m your Psychic Friend.”
He laughed. “Does that mean I’m being charged by the minute for my call?”
“Yeah, but think about it. Isn’t a dollar ninety-nine a minute a small price to pay to have all your secrets revealed?”
“God, I hope not. I don’t think I could live with all my secrets revealed.”
“Mmm.” There was something-an audible quality to Clare’s listening. He couldn’t ever put a finger on what it was, just that he could hear the force of her attentiveness. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m beat to the ground from working double shifts for the past few days, and Linda’s left for Florida, and there’s nothing on TV, and I guess I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself.”
“Why don’t you invite yourself to stay at your mother’s? She’d love to fuss over you.”
“I don’t need fussing over. I just need…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“A little human connection.”
“Yeah.” He pulled another Coke from the fridge and strolled into the living room. “What have you been up to lately?”
“Let’s see. Robert Corlew and I met with the roofing guys. It’s going to be a big job. The engineer says the chances are good that water has been spreading through the roof laterally, so there may be additional structural damage they’ll have to replace and more framing before they actually get to the reshingling and gutters. He quoted us some material costs. My Lord, you wouldn’t believe how expensive this waterproof-barrier stuff we’re getting is.”
He sat in his favorite chair. “I’ve checked it out myself. I believe it.”
“I have to confess, I’ve been feeling guilty as sin over taking Mrs. Marshall’s trust fund money and stiffing the clinic, but I walked away from the meeting so grateful that we at least have that option. I got the impression that the whole north aisle was ripe for a cave-in.”
“Well…,” he said, his skepticism showing through.
“I know, I know. But even if the damage is only half what they’re predicting, it’s still going to be a costly job.” She sighed. “When I became a priest, I surely didn’t think I was going to be spending so much time worrying about leaking roofs and the price of oil and water heaters.”
He laughed a little. “Every job has its boring scut work. It’s one of the great universal truths.” He drank from his can.
“What are you drinking?”
“Decaffeinated Coke.”
“I’m having a Saranac Winter Ale. Ha ha ha.”
He laughed. “Do you normally taunt recovering alcoholics with your beer drinking?”
“Just you. You’re special.”
They were silent for a beat. Then he said, “What else did you do?”
“I had a couple counseling session on Friday. Spent the afternoon in Glens Falls Saturday with one of my parishioners who’s undergoing surgery. So I missed my stint at the historical society.”
Russ clucked disapproval.
“It’s okay. I told Roxanne I’d be in Monday. Then, we had a nice Eucharist this morning. Practically a full house. I think everyone wanted to see the roof before it fell in.”
“Huh.” There was a clunking sound over the line. “What are you doing now?”
She laughed. “Putting another log on the fire. I’ve got a good one going to take the edge off the chill. This old house is drafty, and if I have to buy another tankful of oil, I’ll be eating mac and cheese for the next month.”
“You should have your church get it weatherproofed.”
“I don’t want to draw the vestry’s attention to the fact that they own a desirable property that’s wasted with one single woman rattling around in it. I’m afraid they’d sell it out from under me and I’d have to move to one of Corlew’s awful town houses.”
“One of those places with the fake names where they spell
She laughed. “Is this that kind of phone call?”
“Oh, Christ, you know what I mean. Sometimes people who aren’t used to the climate take a while to remember to put on another layer instead of turning up the thermostat.”
She was still laughing. Then she coughed, and in a heavy southern accent dripping with honey, she said, “I’m wearing nothing except some very high heels and a teeny-weeny-”
“No, no, no, no.”
She laughed some more. “I’ll bet the women who do those phone calls are dressed pretty much like I am now. Turtleneck, my brother Brian’s old Virginia sweatshirt, and these really warm leggings my folks sent me for Christmas. Woolly socks and ratty old Passamaquoddy slippers.”
“Oh, baby,” he said.
She giggled. “It’s the slippers, isn’t it? They drive men wild.”
“Up here in the North Country, you have to learn to appreciate warmth.”
“And my thermostat is set to sixty-two.”
“Jeez, that is cold. Maybe this spring I’ll check out your windows and walls, see if there are some simple things we can do to tighten the house up.”
“As long as I don’t have to go to the vestry for maintenance money, that would be-” She fell silent.
“What?” he said.
“Someone’s pulling into my driveway.”
He glanced at the anniversary clock on the mantel. It was almost 8:30.
