“There’s an idea. You think maybe I could hire your wife to do them up for me?” The twist in her voice when she said “your wife” startled him. He stopped where he stood, one foot on the top step. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
He could smell roses heavy in the warm, humid air. He wondered if the church’s flower committee worked on her garden, as well. He looked at Clare, who was standing between the steps and the double door, almost invisible in the dark because of her black clothing.
“Thanks for bringing me home,” she said.
“I’ll call you tomorrow about retrieving your car.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t move. Neither did he. “You’ve walked me to the door. I’m safe. You can go now.”
“You go in first. And lock the door behind you, for once.”
There was a rustle as she crossed her arms. “Why can’t you leave first?”
He took the last step up onto the porch. “You know why.”
Her chin jerked up. Her face a pattern of pale and dark. She stood absolutely still, watching him. Measuring him. He didn’t think he could move even if a car jumped the curb and came straight toward them. Then she was gone, a whirl, the swish of cloth, and the door clunked shut behind her. He heard the clack of the bolt turning.
He backed down the steps, watching the house, but no lights came on. He climbed into his seat, fired up the truck, and pulled away. He unrolled the window, hung his arm outside, and, half-seeing the stars, drove all the way home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Clare woke up Saturday morning, she lay in bed for a long time, not moving. She hadn’t turned the fan on last night, and the air was thick and still, like another blanket weighing her down. From her open window came the drone of a lawn mower as someone got to their yard work early, before the heat and humidity became unbearable. She knew she should get up and get her run in early for the same reason. She lay on her back and studied the ceiling. There was a smear in the semigloss paint that looked like a bank of cumulus clouds. If she didn’t get up now and run, she would be cutting it too close to the time of the Veerhoos-James nuptials. The bride-to-be had described it as a “brunch wedding,” although no one would be eating before noon, since the service didn’t begin until eleven o’clock. Clare had turned down the invitation to the reception, so she would be free after the photos in the church. She wouldn’t want to run then, because it would be 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 tic-tic. The wind from the fan immediately blew them into the hallway.
“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.”