She felt the hairs rise on her unplastered arm.
He went on: "I guess it's because we've shared in a couple of awkward moments, like the evening you caught me starkers except for an apron."
"And my pratfall in the churchyard, which was worse," she said before he could.
"I wasn't there when you fell over," he gallantly said. "When I arrived you were sitting on Waldo's grave with everyone around you. What I'm trying to say is that your calmness under fire is impressive. Cake stalls at the fete, door-to-door collections, a broken wrist-you take it all in your stride."
"No use getting in a flap," she said, wondering how this linked up with gossip about the bishop.
"Exactly. Thing is, I'm on the lookout for someone with a sure touch and a calm temperament."
No reprimand, then.
Her face must have lit up, because he said, "You'll do it?"
"What?"
"The job of parish treasurer. I started to mention it the other day when I asked if you had any experience of book-keeping."
Reeling at how mistaken she had been, she succeeded in saying, "But I told you I don't have any."
"This is kids' stuff, Rachel. You don't need a degree in accountancy, just a steady personality. Stanley Burrows had it. He was no mathematician. Couldn't even use a calculator. I'd rather have someone like you than a busybody who throws a spanner in the works every time we need a ten-pound float for a Sunday School outing."
She let him fill the teapot, wondering what had got into his head. Was she deluding herself, or did he fancy her like crazy?
"I might be willing to give it a go if someone could help me at the beginning," she said after a moment. "There's no one I can ask, with Stanley gone."
"Ask me. I'll spend as long as you wish going over the books." His golden-brown eyes glittered encouragement and that sexy voice of his made it sound like a come-on.
"Thanks."
He carried the tray into the living room.
There, he spotted her copy of the play and asked about her acting, bombarding her with questions that sounded as if he really wanted to know. It was like being on a first date, and she basked in his interest, telling him everything, from the walk-on as a maid in an Ayckbourne comedy with the Frome Troupers to her great week as Portia in the prize-winning production at the Merlin. She made him laugh about the battles over the choice of play, of how transparent people are when pushing their choice-the would-be St. Joans being pressed reluctantly into bimbo parts in bedroom farces.
"How I sympathise," he said. "It must be hellish for actors having to go downmarket. You know the story of Julie Andrews. I can't say how true it is, but she's supposed to have gone around wearing a badge that said 'Mary Poppins is a Junkie.' "
Rachel had relaxed enough to laugh at that.
"All these egos fighting it out," he said. "This is fascinating stuff. I want to see the next show. October, you said. I'll be there. Front stalls. And I want to hear all the backstage goss, whose lines are cut and who demands a better costume. It's always a lot more fun than the play itself."
"From a safe distance," she said, "but not if you're in the thick of it."
"You can tell me. I can keep a secret better than most."
She smiled. "OK."
"I haven't kept up with die stage since I was ordained. It's a pity, but there isn't time for everything. And we do get a certain amount of theatre in church. Dressing-up, for one thing. And making an entrance."
"Speaking lines."
"And trying to hold an audience."
"Singing."
"Not my strong point, Rachel. The Sung Eucharist is an ordeal for me, and worse, I'm sure, for the congregation. Thank heaven there's no dancing in the C of E-not in the churches I've known, anyway."
"Like Hare Krishna?"
"Or whirling Dervishes. I'm not a pretty mover."
In this self-mocking mood, he seemed open to the kind of question Rachel put next. "What led you to become a priest? Was it a calling?"
"In a way it was. A Road to Damascus thing. I was raised as a Catholic. Went to a Jesuit school. When I was in my early teens I went to a C of E wedding at a church tucked away in the country and heard the vicar conducting the service in the simple, lovely words of the sixteen sixty-two Prayer Book-'Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder'-and I thought, magic! This is what I must do. My future was decided that morning. Of course it was a hard slog in theological college learning the doctrine, but I never wanted anything else."
"Even though the words have been modernised?"
"They changed them a long time before I was ordained. I understand the reason and I don't knock it. As you know I still make a point of using the traditional liturgy one Sunday each month. Some people come specially for that service. I never see them otherwise."
She ventured into another personal area. "You've got the ideal name for the work you do."
"My name?" He smiled. "I've taken some stick for it, but people remember it, which isn't a bad thing. I can tell you a story of how it came about, but I can't guarantee it's true. The midwife at my birth was a West Indian called Miss Pushmore."
"No!"
"Really. People do get names that fit their jobs. And the story goes that at the critical moment Miss Pushmore cried out, 'O, 'tis joy, it's a boy!'-but I don't believe that one. And I don't believe the other story either."
"What's that?"
"That my parents didn't realise what they were doing when they named me. It's more likely, isn't it, that they were feeling playful when they were going through the possible names, and had a laugh about Otis and then decided it sounded rather good and took it seriously?"
"You never asked them?"
"They died when I was this high."
"Oh."
"At seven, I was shipped off to a children's home in Ireland. The nuns didn't call us by our names much. It was a case of 'You, boy. Hold out your hand.' "
"I'm sorry.
"Don't be. It paid off in the end. Learned my Bible from the nuns. Served me in good stead."
"Otis is distinguished. I like it," Rachel told him, wanting to hear more about his personal history, but not by probing.
"Then feel free to use it. I've already dropped into the habit of calling you Rachel." He looked at the clock on the wall. "I should be off. Thanks so much for the tea. And, more importantly, for agreeing to let me put you up for treasurer."
"If you're sure you want me."
"That's why I'm here. Between you and me, I wouldn't say anything about your inexperience to other people in the village. Let them think you're confident you can handle it with ease." He picked up the tray and carried it through; to the kitchen.
She followed. "Does it h|ave to be confirmed by the Parish Council?"
"Yes, and there may be another name bandied about, but you have my support, which ought to swing it."
She was alarmed by that. "Someone else is up for it?"
He put down the tray, turned and reached out, placing both hands on her upper arms. "My dear, you don't have to do a thing. It's pure formality. The PCC has to have a couple of names to consider so that it doesn't look like a fix."
She felt his fingers squeeze her slightly and convey something extra.
"Trust me?"
She nodded.
"Say it. Say, 'Otis, I trust you.' "
She repeated the words.
"Good. The next time I call, it will be to congratulate you."
He let go of her, went to the front door and opened it. "I hope you get your phone call."
She didn't understand.
"Your husband."
"Oh."
She watched him go.
Gary didn't call that evening, but she wasn't bothered. Her thoughts were all on this amazing conversation, on the way he'd held her, looked into her eyes, spoken to her.
"Trust me?"
She finished the wine, shaking her head at intervals. She was mature, married, sexually experienced, yet she felt like a teenager with a crush on some unattainable man. She could still feel his touch on her arms. Why would he single her out for this job she had no aptitude for unless he fancied her? "I'm happy to spend as long as you wish going over the books." So was it just an excuse to spend time with her? And what did he want-companionship? Or, God forgive her, a relationship?