“Did someone forget to tell me we were having a meeting?” Clare Fergusson joined them, looking like an extra in a historical movie in her long white robe and ankle-length black cape.
Stillman nodded to her. “That was a beautiful service, Reverend.”
“You usually call me Clare now.”
“I do?” He frowned. “Thanks.”
Sarah looked at the priest. “How are you doing, Clare?”
“Okay. I’ve got an appointment with an addiction counselor tomorrow. My husband”-at the words, her face lit up and she smiled an involuntary smile-“is helping me keep things under control.”
“Enjoying marriage, are you?”
“It’s wonderful.” Fergusson glanced over her shoulder to watch her husband walk toward her. “I recommend it for everyone.”
McCrea twisted the ring on his finger. “Any progress on that front?” Sarah asked him quietly.
“No.”
He didn’t say another word. Sarah couldn’t tell if that was because things with his wife felt hopeless or because his boss was within earshot.
“Hi,” Chief Van Alstyne said. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Fergusson. In his fitted dress jacket with its golden braids, he looked like a palace guardsman keeping watch over a particularly somber princess. “Hell of a thing.”
Everyone nodded.
“I talked to him before he left for California for sniper training. Ethan, I mean. Told him to come back safe to us.” He smiled a little. “Back in the day, Chief Liddle said the same thing to me, before I shipped out to Vietnam. And here I was, a lifetime later, wearing Chief Liddle’s badge, and I remember wondering if Ethan-” His voice cracked. Fergusson took his hand and laced her fingers through his.
What a waste. Sarah could hear it in the air between them. Of course, no one could say it. The war dead are heroes. Their lives can’t be counted as wasted.
“So,” she said. “How do you all feel now? Here, today?”
They all looked toward the family in black. The girl and her orphaned baby. The mother’s ravaged face. The coffin, waiting in front of the delicately concealed mound of soil. There was a long silence.
Finally, Will Ellis said, “Lucky.”
Clare Fergusson laid her hand on his shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “Lucky.”
The answering machine was blinking when they got home to the rectory. Clare cast a glance at it on her way through the kitchen. “Oh, God. That better not be a pastoral emergency. I don’t think I’ve got anything left to give today.” She headed for the stairs. “I’m going to change out of my clericals. Can you see who it is?”
Russ wrestled out of his close-fitting dress uniform jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair. He punched the button while loosening his tie.
“Hello, Ms. Fergusson, this is the Washington County Hospital Outpatient Clinic, calling about your blood test. I’m sorry about the delay-we’re usually much more prompt than this, but Doctor Stillman’s sudden retirement caused a bit of confusion over here. In any case, could you please call as soon as you get this? I have important information for you and your primary care physician.”
Russ jotted down the number while his insides congealed into a frozen lump. That test was supposed to have been for Trip Stillman only, to determine whether he would write Clare another prescription for sleeping pills and Dexedrine.
“If it’s my mother, you can call her back and tell her I’m writing the thank-you notes as fast as I can.” She wandered into the kitchen in jeans and an old sweater. His wife.
His wife.
“Did you go ahead and ask Trip for another prescription?”
She glared at him, then settled. “No. I didn’t. I ran out of sleeping pills two days ago, and I’m almost out of the uppers.” She wrapped her arms around him. “I’m serious about kicking them, Russ. If I’m tempted to cheat, I’ll tell you.”
“You need to call the blood clinic. Now.” He pushed her away and gave her the slip of paper.
She frowned as she read the number. “Why?”
“They called you. I don’t know why. Just get back to them. Please.” He walked into the living room while she dialed. Maybe she didn’t think about cancer, but he did. He paced from the sofa to the desk to the teetering pile of gift boxes beneath the front window. Maybe she was happy to ignore the connection between her sister’s cancer and her own increased risk of the disease, but he wasn’t. He unhooked his parka from the coat tree and rehung it on a different dowel. They hadn’t even had time to move the rest of his stuff into the rectory. He wished he believed in God. It would be nice to have somebody to bargain with. Let her be okay and I’ll- what? What did people offer an almighty being, anyway?
He forced himself to go back into the kitchen. Clare was standing with her back to him. She was very still. “Are you sure?”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.” She paused. “No, but I can get a recommendation from my GP.” She paused again. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone. She didn’t face him.
“What?” His voice came out more harshly than he intended. “For God’s sake, just tell me.”
She turned around. Bit her lower lip. “It’s a good thing I was planning to quit the pills and booze.” She started to laugh, a loose, helpless laugh that was very close to crying. She held out her hands.
He took them. “I’m holding on.”
“Don’t let go.” She took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”
JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING
