Around that time (around when you married Joyce), I married Ted’s sister, Prucilla. In all honesty, I never found Prue loving or lovable, but if I couldn’t love Ted, I figured I could at least marry into his family. By some perverse reasoning, that made me feel more joined to Ted.
Flash forward some thirty years. A couple of years ago, after Miles & Norris made such a splash with the opening of Questman Center, we found ourselves with more work than we could handle—and I’m talking big stuff—high-profile projects of artistic merit. We needed more staff, younger talent.
This is where Brody Norris enters the picture.
Brody is the son of Ted’s (and Prucilla’s) older sister in California, Inez Norris, a single mother who gave Brody the Norris surname. Brody is also an architect, originally inspired by his uncle Ted. Brody had established a respected career in the LA area, but a failed marriage to another man left him looking for a change of scenery. So Ted suggested to his nephew that he might consider joining the Dumont firm, and Brody hopped on a plane.
When he arrived—you guessed it—pow, fireworks, head over heels, and it was mutual. I had slogged through an entire life feeling repressed and frustrated. Never again. Within a day of connecting with Brody, I announced to Prue that I was leaving her.
Yes, it was something of a small-town scandal.
But that was overshadowed a few months later when Ted’s wife (his second, to be precise) died under circumstances that can only be described as bizarre. Amnesia. A past life. Witness protection. As you can imagine, this sent Ted into an emotional tailspin from which he has not yet fully recovered. He fled to an island where he could brood and heal, selling his interest in Miles & Norris to Brody and me. So the firm is still known as Miles & Norris.
But the new Norris is twenty-four years my junior. Enough said? More later.
Fondly,
Marson
When I finished reading, Marson said, “Hope you don’t mind my bragging on you.” With a sheepish expression, he added, “I still can’t believe you’re part of my life. And sometimes I can’t help feeling that I got the better end of the bargain.”
“Stop that,” I whispered, kissing the tip of my index finger, then touching it to his lips. “That bargain works both ways. I’ve never felt cheated in the least. In fact—”
We were interrupted by a ping from the tablet, announcing an incoming email. Marson and I both looked at it, then laughed.
From: Curtis Hibbard
To: Marson Miles
Cradle robber. I’m dying to meet him.
Best regards,
Curtis Hibbard, Founding Partner
Hibbard Belding & Smith, LLP
New York • London • Berlin
Riding to St. Alban’s that evening with Marson, I recalled the only other time I had visited the parish. The prior autumn, on a crisp morning, I had shuffled through fallen leaves to attend a funeral for a local doctor who had died under suspicious circumstances, which had gotten me involved in a murder investigation. But now it was spring, with its fresh beginnings and warmer days and later sunsets—and no hint whatever that I could be called upon once more to adapt the problem-solving skills of an architect to the headier conundrums of wrongful death.
Shortly before seven on that Thursday evening in May, the lingering sunshine angled golden through the arching elms and dappled the windshield of the Range Rover as we approached Dumont’s historic downtown commons. From the driver’s seat, Marson reached across the wide console to pat my leg. “It was sweet of you to come along tonight. I’m the one who volunteered for this.”
I reminded him, “We’re a team. Plus, it’s for Mary.” We not only owed her a great deal—the successful trajectory of Miles & Norris was due as much to her favoritism toward our firm as it was to Marson’s design talents—but we also loved her as a friend and enjoyed being of help.
We drove past the town’s original Carnegie library, a handsome neoclassical limestone building, and circled the park to the opposite side, where St. Alban’s steeple punctured the treetops. The parish meeting had already filled the church parking lot to capacity, so we cruised ahead, parked at the curb, and walked back a block.
Approaching the church, I thought it looked especially grim—a reaction that was at least partly colored by my upbringing. Inez Norris, a proudly single lesbian mom and community organizer, had raised me as a “heathen” (her word). Therefore, even though St. Alban’s had a distinct architectural charm and historic significance, I couldn’t help thinking of it as foreign turf, defined by traditions in which I was not only untutored, but thoroughly unbelieving.
The prior October, when I attended the funeral, with every pew packed shoulder to shoulder with mourners, I had paid little attention to the rites of Requiem being performed and, instead, had focused on my physical surroundings, on the disrepair, the smoke of candles and incense, the grime of ages, the leak-stained plaster, and the warped floor that threatened to snap, plunging our hundreds of hapless souls into a dank and dark forgotten cellar.
Granted, it was a frame of mind.
And truth be told, the windows were spectacular.
This evening, however, viewed from outdoors, the windows were black against the building’s dark interior, with the tips of their gothic arches jagged and menacing, a procession of gashes in the exterior walls of weathered yellow brick. And the front doors, painted a gleaming enamel that I have often described as Episcopal red, were not flung wide and welcoming, but locked and bolted.
Marson said, “I assume the meeting’s in the parish hall.”
We joined a trickle of stragglers making their way alongside the church, walking back into the parish grounds, where a red brick elementary school, closed for many years, hulked next to a newer building, probably a gymnasium, that had been converted to its current use as an all-purpose church hall and meeting room. A crowd mingled inside the glass doors of its sterile, brightly lit lobby.
Marson and I stepped inside. The din of conversation had a nervous edge to it, as if everyone understood the gravity of the situation that had called them together—they would be weighing the future prospects for the very existence of their beloved parish. Old acquaintances met and greeted each other, but there was little joshing and no laughter.
“My God,” said Marson, spotting a woman who stood greeting people at the entrance to the main hall, “it’s Joyce.” And he rushed me to her side.
She was just then disengaging from an elderly couple who took their leave to find seats. When she glanced over at us, she gave a polite smile, began to say something, then stopped short. With a gasp of recognition and a sparkle in her wide eyes, she asked, “Marson? Marson Miles?” And they fell into a hearty hug.
“Mother Hibbard!” said my husband. “What a remarkable coincidence—of all people.”
“Stop that.” She smirked. Turning to me and offering her hand, she said, “I’m Joyce. And unless I’m mistaken, you must be … Brody?”
I nodded. “Brody Norris. My pleasure, Joyce.”
She eyed me up and down. “I’ve heard all about you.”
Marson laughed. “Word travels fast—all the way from New York, I’ll bet.”
While Marson engaged in some quick catch-up with Joyce, I studied the woman, who had been accurately profiled by Glee Savage in Wednesday’s local paper. Barely sixty, Joyce Hibbard was not only energetic, but vital. Her speech was quick and confident, exhibiting obvious intelligence. Consistent with her résumé in law and business, which had been detailed in the Register, she was a classic overachiever.
She also had a keen sense of fashion—which is saying something, for a priest. That evening she was dressed for business, in a gray skirt-and-jacket ensemble (it looked like Armani), set off with a priestly bib and Roman collar, not of black gabardine, but shocking mercurochrome silk. She dressed it up with a bit of gold bling, all of simple, tasteful design, nothing liturgical. And the finishing touch was the Cartier watch referenced in Glee’s article�
��gold case and bracelet, diamond trim.
It was a warm evening, even more so in the crowded hall, and the stale air carried an olfactory stew of perfumes, colognes, and eaux de toilette. At close range, I winced at Joyce’s fragrance, which was particularly pungent.
Marson was telling her, “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me tonight. Mary wanted to be here, but she had a commitment she couldn’t break, at least not gracefully.”
“Oh, dear. I had so hoped to get to know Mrs. Questman.”
“And she’s eager to meet you,” Marson lied. “I’m here to ‘take notes,’ as it were. Sometime later, perhaps, we could all get together in a more social context. I’d be happy to introduce you.”
“Would you, Marson? That would be lovely.”
Marson said brightly, “I have an idea: I’ve been emailing with Curt, and he said he’ll come out for a visit at some point, so maybe Brody and I could throw a little dinner party at our place, and we’ll include Mary. It’ll be a nice reunion for Curt and me after all these years; it’ll also be a chance for you and Mary to connect.”
“Perfect,” said Joyce. Behind her thoughtful expression, I saw the gears turning.
“So,” said Marson, “whenever Curt decides on his plans, just—”
Joyce interrupted, “As a matter of fact, I have an update. Curtis and I talked this afternoon, and it seems he suddenly misses me. He has some loose ends to tie up, but he wants to fly out here right away. He’s arriving Sunday night.”
Oh, brother. That same morning, Curtis Hibbard had sent Marson an email declaring he was dying to meet Marson’s young husband—that would be me—and now Curtis was telling his wife that he was breathless to come visit her.
Marson’s eye caught mine; his grin seconded my suspicion. Then he said to Joyce, “Let’s see. Mary’s planning a trip later next week, so we’ll need to book our dinner fairly soon. Arbitrarily, how about … Tuesday?”
“Tuesday,” agreed Joyce. “We’re on.”
Inside the parish hall, Marson and I got our bearings and looked for seats. Rows of gray metal folding chairs had been set up on either side of the doors, creating a wide center aisle where people milled and gabbed, making it difficult to distinguish which seats were available and which had been saved.
At the front of the room, a row of banquet tables was set up with about a dozen chairs facing the audience. Behind the table, which would seat the parish vestry, stood symmetrically placed staffs bearing the American flag and the Episcopal flag. Centered between them, on an otherwise bare wall of cement block, hung a small crucifix. Less than a foot high, it was so under-proportioned to the gaping space of the gym, it looked like an afterthought.
Typing on his phone, Marson said, “There. Checked with Mary. She’s fine with Tuesday—not thrilled with it, but I promised to make the setup with Joyce as painless as possible.”
“Well, good evening, gentlemen,” said a voice from behind us.
We turned to find a tall, handsome man smiling at us—late twenties maybe, tousled flaxen hair, with a corn-fed hotness, arty to the max, a bit of a swish, and heavily perfumed. He looked familiar.
Then it clicked. “You’re the choir director,” I told him.
“Guilty,” he said, flipping both hands. “David Lovell.”
Marson and I greeted him, reintroducing ourselves, shaking hands. We had met him in this same hall at a reception following the funeral we’d attended in October. There wasn’t much of a gay community in Dumont, so we had wondered if David’s friendship might be worth nurturing. But life can be busy, and it never happened. David had recently sprung to mind, however, when Curtis Hibbard’s lengthy email to Marson referred to “the studly young choirmaster, who was easy on the eyes.”
“Know what?” I said, turning to Marson. “I think it might be a good idea to invite David to our little gathering on Tuesday night. Right now, it’s dinner for five—might as well make it six.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Marson. Turning to David, he explained that Mother Hibbard and her husband would be there, as well as Mary Questman. “Plus,” he said, we’d like to get to know you.”
“I’d love it,” said David, all bubbly and adorable. When I asked how to reach him with details, he handed me his card, which listed contact information on the back. On the front side, a single elegant line: DAVID LOVELL, CHOIRMASTER.
The vestry members were drifting toward their table at the front of the room, so the crowd began to clear the aisle and take their seats.
Amid the jostling, I said hello to Thomas Simms, our dapper county sheriff, dressed impeccably, as always, in a dark business suit, immaculate white shirt, and a snappy striped-silk necktie. With him were his wife, Gloria, and their son, Tommy, a second-grader who, I now recalled, sang in the St. Alban’s choir. The Simmses were black—a distinct minority in Dumont. Sheriff Simms had once mentioned to me that they were the only black family at St. Alban’s.
As we made our way across a crowded row of knees toward two empty seats at the far end, near the side wall, Marson paused to greet Dr. James Phelps, an old-time veterinarian who ran a one-man practice in a quaint, shingled office on the outskirts of town. Tonight he wore a corduroy sport coat with knotted-leather buttons and suede elbow patches. When I leaned to pat his shoulder and say hello, I got a whiff of the persnickity smell of his cherry pipe tobacco. Jim was Mary Questman’s vet—or rather, Mister Puss’s.
When we were at last seated and the babble of the crowd subsided, a metal chair clanged into position in the narrow space between me and the wall. And suddenly, there sat Glee Savage, hip to hip with me. “Room for one more, love?”
I told her wryly, “Seems so, yes.”
She leaned across me to smooch Marson; I ducked as the wide brim of her hat grazed my hair. I smelled her scent, which she frequently switched. Her current selection was spicy, verging on bitter, reminding me of marijuana. I assumed it was patchouli.
Glee was the recognized fashionista of our timbered hinterland, having reported on all things cultural in the Dumont Daily Register for nearly four decades, so she rarely appeared in public without a big hat, big purse, big red lips, and big spike heels. Settling in, she snapped open the purse, removed a steno pad, and readied it on her lap, pen in hand.
Stupidly, I asked, “Working tonight?”
She gave me a look. “Let’s hope they make this quick.”
But something told me they wouldn’t.
A gavel rapped.
Seated at the center of the front table was a bland-looking man in a drab business suit, not old, not young, maybe forty or so. An oblong brass placard identified him as BOB OLSON, SENIOR WARDEN. He stood, saying, “Let’s start with a prayer.”
Everyone stood as he began reciting, which the others picked up and recited with him. I didn’t pray. Neither did Marson. Neither did Glee. She scribbled shorthand while leaning to tell me, “He’s an accountant,” which I presumed was meant to explain his dryness. She added, “Glad I’m not in his shoes,” which I presumed was a reference to the financial plight of the ailing parish. Several people near us glanced in Glee’s direction, as if to shush her, but if she noticed, she didn’t let on.
Marson leaned over to tell both Glee and me, “Bob’s a damned good money manager. St. Alban’s is lucky to have him. In effect, the vestry’s ‘senior warden’ is the board president.”
“Amen.” Bob Olson gestured for all to sit. A feisty toddler yelped. When his mother had reined him in, Bob continued, “Before we get down to the nitty-gritty of tonight’s meeting, our rector would like to have a few words. Mother Hibbard?”
Joyce, seated next to Bob, arose from her chair and stepped around to the front of the table to address her flock at closer range. “My dear friends in Christ,” she began, “during the short time that I have been entrusted with the care of your spiritual home…”
I noticed at once that her manner of speech had changed. While gabbing in the lobby, her conversational tone was int
elligent and proper, but now it was far more “elevated”—not only in the sense that public speaking requires a slower delivery, with greater projection, but more conspicuously, her tone had taken on an air of affectation. Her speech was now colored by a hint of British, as if she were an actor performing a role.
Marson noticed it, too. With a nudge of his elbow, he whispered to me, “Episcopalians—I think they’re all anglophiles at heart.”
“…so I seek your guidance tonight. As rector of St. Alban’s, I am truly but a servant. I am here to serve your will—yours, and that of our esteemed vestry.”
Glee turned to me. When I returned her gaze, she rolled her eyes.
To a smattering of applause, Joyce returned to her seat, next to Bob Olson.
Seated at Bob’s other side was a prim little woman, identified by her placard as LILLIE MILLER, SECRETARY. Her stodgy, tweedy attire—dead wrong for a warm evening in May—made her appear frail and elderly, but her pleasant face and untroubled features suggested she was not that old, perhaps in her fifties. Bob asked her, “Could you read from the order of business, Lillie?”
She cleared her throat, lifted a printed page, and recited in a monotone: “May twelve. Special open session, parish vestry, St. Alban’s Episcopal Church. The agenda contains a single item: Discussion and resolution of issues pertaining to the conditions of, and repair or replacement of, parish properties and structures. We note the presence of one invited speaker: Ms. Nia Butler, code-enforcement officer, City of Dumont.”
“Very good,” said Bob. “Officer Butler? I wonder if you could summarize for us the issues that bring us together tonight.”
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