Colin looked around at the congregation. It was small, perhaps forty or fifty people. Quite different from Our Lady of Sorrows. Or the Catholic church at the end of Fifth street, where he lived now. Those churches were always packed.
A middle-aged man and woman sat down in the pew in front of him. When they were settled they turned around.
"Good morning," the man said, holding out his hand for Colin to shake.
"Good morning," the woman said.
"Good morning," Colin replied, shaking the large hand, nodding to the woman.
The man said, "Glad to see you here."
"Thank you," Colin answered, slightly nonplussed by the friendliness of these two. After the couple turned back he noticed people all over the church shaking hands, smiling, talking to each other in a normal tone of voice. He thought back to his Sunday mornings as a teenager, lolling around in front of the church with his friends, smoking that last cigarette, exchanging notes about their Saturday night dates. But when they entered the church there was no more talking, no laughter. Church was a solemn affair. And no one ever looked glad to be there. It was different here. He could feel it.
The organist began to play, and Annie Winters appeared from a side door to the left of the altar. She crossed behind the pulpit, sat down in an ornately carved wooden armchair, and looked out at her congregation.
Colin felt something stir inside him when he saw her. She was dressed in a tan suit, red silk blouse, and brown pumps. Her wavy blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight coming through the windows. He wished now he'd been able to sit up front, see her better.
When the Prelude ended Annie walked to the pulpit. "Good morning," she said.
"Good morning," the congregation replied.
"Although it's a beautiful day," she said, "I'm sure that none of us is particularly joyful in light of recent events. In my sermon this morning, as you've probably noticed in your program, I will try to deal with sudden death and its repercussions.
"Now I would like to welcome any new people and invite you to join us after the service in the parish hall for refreshments and conversation. Please sign the guest book, which is on the piano, if you haven't done so before. And if you have any questions, please feel free to ask me or any member of the congregation.
"Today Deborah Bard will light the Chalice."
Annie returned to her chair as a young woman with one long braid rose from the front row and went up on the altar. On the railing was a large metal plate with a candle in the center. Deborah struck a match and lit the candle on the first try.
But Colin wasn't looking at Deborah Bard; his eyes were on Annie. Technically she wasn't a beautiful woman-not the kind who makes you turn around on the street or take a deep breath when you first lay eyes on her-but she was damned attractive and especially so up there behind the pulpit as Reverend Ann Winters.
Annie announced the hymn they were to sing, and with the rest Colin rose, opened the book, and began singing "The Morning Hangs a Signal."
How long had it been since he'd sung anything? He'd always enjoyed singing. He had a good rich baritone and sang with the glee club at Ann Arbor. But that was fifteen years ago. Then he remembered standing around the piano at Christmas with the Myrons, the Stimpsons, and the Lanes, singing carols. That had been his last Christmas with Nancy. By the end of the hymn he was feeling depressed, but when Burton Kelly, the organist, played "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" while the collection was taken up, he was somewhat cheered.
In the course of the silent meditation and prayer he found himself thinking of Mary Beth Higbee, Ruth Cooper, and Gloria Danowski, and wondering who would be next. He had no doubt that it would happen again and no faith that the state trooper was going to crack the case.
The chorus, ten men and women, sang "Movin' On," and then Annie came to the pulpit to give her sermon. Colin was enthralled. It was not only what she was saying but how she was saying it. She had a mellifluous voice and it washed over him, making him feel peaceful. Her ideas were original and fresh. By the end of the sermon there were tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with forefinger and thumb.
After the final hymn the congregation began filing out from the pews and going up toward the altar, where Annie waited to greet them. Colin was torn. He wanted very much to shake her hand, tell her how much the sermon meant to him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to join the others in the hall. He stayed in his place, staring down at his shoes, deliberating. And when he looked up again, the church was empty except for Annie.
"I'm glad you joined us today, Colin," she said. "How about some coffee?"
He rose slowly, like an old man, then found himself walking briskly down the aisle toward her.
"Thank you for a wonderful sermon," he said. She offered her hand and he shook it, holding it a moment longer than he should have.
In the hall Annie was immediately approached by a man and woman, and he was left standing to one side. But Burton Kelly rescued him and took him first to the large table that was laden with food, and then to the coffee maker.
A number of people he knew by sight came over to welcome him and engaged him in conversation. Colin thought these people were interesting-mavericks, independent thinkers. Now he understood why Mark and Sarah came to this church from time to time; he knew he'd be coming back, and not just to see Annie. He liked the atmosphere here, felt right at home.
By the time he'd finished his second cup of coffee, and a heated discussion about nuclear war, most of the people had left. He put down his empty cup and walked toward Annie who was saying good-bye to two young women. When they left she turned to him.
Colin said, "I just wanted to thank you again."
"I'm glad that you enjoyed it," she said. "Would you like to come to the parsonage for a glass of sherry?"
Colin could see that her words surprised her as well as him. "Thanks. That would be nice." He felt a kind of thrill, as if he were a boy getting to see the inside of a teacher's house.
"Great." As Annie started toward the door, Burton Kelly appeared from the kitchen and stepped in front of her. His high forehead was dotted with sweat. He was wearing a blue shirt, the collar out over his light tan jacket, a pen clipped to the breast pocket. "Going home?" he asked timidly.
"Yes."
"I wonder if I could talk with you?"
"Sorry, not today, Burton. Do you two know each other?"
"Yes, we do," Colin said.
"Tomorrow, then?" Burton sniffed.
She thought a moment. "How about Wednesday? Tomorrow's a holiday and Tuesday's my day off."
"Work," he said gloomily.
"Wednesday after work?"
"Five-thirty?" He adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses, wiped away some beads of sweat from his long upper lip.
"That'll be fine."
"The parsonage or your office?"
Colin bet he'd prefer the parsonage.
"Office," Annie said.
Kelly's countenance fell like a failed facelift. "See you Wednesday," he said, and walked away.
"Goodbye, Burton."
He answered with a wave over his shoulder.
Colin said, "I'd say that's a disappointed man."
"He's very sensitive."
Colin thought it was more than that, like having the hots for his preacher.
This time they made it out of the parish hall and crossed to the parsonage. Colin stood on the steps while Annie unlocked the door. Looking out at the street, he saw Kelly sitting in his car across the way. When he realized Colin had seen him he started the car and drove off. Colin decided he didn't much like the guy.
Inside the parsonage Annie showed him to the living room. He found it warm and cheerful, a reflection of her. She handed him a sherry, then sat across from him. They looked at each other for a moment that seemed like hours. Colin heard his heartbeat and wondered if she heard hers.
"Is there any news about the murders?" she asked.
"Nothing. The state police have come in, though."
"How does Waldo feel about that?"
"I haven't talked to him, but I'd guess he's not too happy. On the other hand, he's a decent man and I'd bet his first concern is getting this thing solved."
"Yes, I'm sure that's true. I feel so terrible for the Higbees. I wish there was something I could do. There can't be anything worse than losing a child."
Except maybe losing two and your wife, he thought, then nodded in agreement. "You never had any?"
"No."
Quickly he added, "Sarah told me you'd been married. Your husband died?"
"Yes."
She looked sad. He could have kicked himself for getting into this. Aside from making her unhappy, she was bound to ask him now.
"And you?" she asked, on cue.
He could feel his breathing coming faster, prayed he wouldn't have an attack. "My wife is dead, too. An automobile accident."
"I'm sorry. Bob had a heart attack. He was only thirty."
Colin wondered if in some mystical way he was only capable of feeling for people who'd had a loss. Annie, Gloria Danowski's husband, Russ Cooper, the Higbees? "Nancy was thirty-two," he said, hoping she wouldn't ask about children.
She didn't, just nodded, understanding.
"It's hard, isn't it?" she said.
"Yes. Very hard. How long has it been for you?"
"Five years. And you?"
"Three, almost. Does it get easier?"
"I suppose so. Time dulls those sharp edges."
It was different for him, but he couldn't say that. He wanted to get off this subject.
"Of course, there are times when it's as fresh as if it had happened yesterday," she went on.
He knew all about those times.
They were silent, he examining his shoes, she intent on her glass of sherry.
Then Annie said, "How do you like it on the North Fork?"
"It seems like a nice place." He shook his head as if to dismiss what he'd said. "I guess we're back at the murders. I mean, a nice place besides that."
"It is a nice place. I lived here for awhile when I was a kid. That's one of the reasons I chose this parish. I remembered being happy here."
"What's the other reason?"
"The other parishes were in the Midwest and the West. I wanted to be near my parents. My mother, especially. She suffers from depression. They live in Brooklyn Heights. Are your parents living?"
"My mother."
For the next fifteen minutes they exchanged background information as if they were submitting resumes to each other. Siblings, schools, jobs. He discovered that Annie had a younger sister and brother, that she'd gone to Bennington, worked for CBS as a casting associate for two years, then became casting director on a soap. She was married at twenty-five to Robert Lockridge (Winters was her maiden name), lived in Greenwich Village for two years and, although she was ecstatically happy in her marriage, she felt something about her life was unfulfilled. It was then that she and Bob started going to a U.U. church.
"After about six months something happened. I guess the only way I can put it is to say everything I was doing then seemed frivolous. My job, the kind of life we were leading, our friends. I mean, there was nothing wrong with our friends, they were all nice people, but they were operating on a superficial level, as we were. I knew I needed something more. I needed to be in touch spiritually. I know that sounds corny."
"Not at all."
She smiled.
He felt it.
"I told Bob I wanted to be a minister. He was very encouraging and urged me to apply to divinity school. The only one I wanted to go to was Harvard and I was lucky enough to be accepted. We moved to Boston and seven months later he was dead. We'd been married two-and-a-half years."
They were back to death again, Colin thought. "What did you do then?"
"I took a leave of absence for the rest of the year. Then I sat in my apartment for six months and stared at the walls, cried, and felt sorry for myself. Bob left me a lot of insurance money, so I didn't have to worry about that. It probably would have been better if I'd had to. Anyway, one night I had this dream that Bob found me sitting in our apartment in my dirty robe, hair uncombed, cigarette butts in the ashtray, you get the picture?"
"I do."
"Well, I was this mess in the dream-in life, too. And Bob came to me and said, 'What's wrong with you, Annie? You've got work to do. Get off your butt and do it.' That was it. When I woke up I felt better. I knew I had to show up for life again."
"I can understand your grief but I'm surprised that you couldn't handle it differently. Didn't you think he was in a better place?"
"You mean an afterlife?"
"Yes."
"I don't believe in an afterlife."
"I didn't know you people didn't believe in that."
"I said, I didn't believe. Many U.U.'s do."
"You mean you can believe what you want?"
"Just about."
"But you must stand for something."
She smiled. "We have a saying: 'Unitarian Universalists don't stand for anything. We move.'"
Colin liked that, liked her. "Listen, would you mind if I smoked?"
"Go ahead." She opened a drawer in an end table and took out a brown-and-white ashtray.
When she handed it to him their hands touched. For Colin it was electric. Wondering if she felt it too, he said, "So after the dream you went back to school and then what?"
"I graduated and came here almost two years ago."
"Don't you ever miss the beat of a big city?"
"I thought I might, but I'm so busy here I don't have time to think about it. What about you?"
"I guess I'd have to say the same. But I've only been here a short time. I can imagine missing certain options, though."
"Like what?"
"Oh, theater, concerts-even movies. It's pretty bleak when something like Conan the Barbarian is your only choice."
She laughed and he felt himself respond, smiling at her.
He said, "Did you know that the guy who wrote the book Conan the Barbarian lived with his mother until he died?"
"You know," she said, "this will probably shock you, but I didn't know that."
Now he laughed.
Annie said, "I won't deny that the North Fork is often a cultural desert, but we try to rectify that as much as possible. We have music programs, poetry readings, even some theater."
"I thought the biggest form of entertainment around here was yard sales."
"Sometimes it feels like that. Thank God for the library. Have you tried it?"
Colin shook his head. He'd assumed the Seaville library stacks were loaded with romances and how-to junk.
"Last year we got a new, smart librarian and the whole place has changed. Betty'll get you any book you want." Annie cocked her head to one side. "Assuming you read, of course."
"I've been known to crack a book now and then."
They were smiling at each other again, eyes meeting. Colin felt it in his toes. And then they were exchanging names of authors they liked. He experienced a kind of excitement he hadn't felt for a long time-that magic when you discover someone you like has the same taste as you. They had just started on movies when Annie realized the time.
"I'm sorry, Colin, I have to go. I'm late already."
They both rose.
He knew it was none of his business, but he asked anyway. "Where are you going."
She was clearly surprised by his question. "Sunday dinner with parishioners."
"Have it with me," he said recklessly, "I'm a parishioner."
"Are you?" she asked softly.
"Yes."
"I'm glad."
They looked at each other for several moments before she picked up their empty glasses.
In the kitchen Colin asked, "Do you always have Sunday dinner with a parishioner?"
"Almost always."
They were standing very close and he wanted to kiss her. "How about Saturday night dinners?" he sai
d instead.
"That depends"
"On what?"
"The kindness of strangers."
"I'm a stranger."
"I thought you were a parishioner."
"A strange parishioner."
"Yes," she said.
"Yes, I'm strange or yes, you'll have dinner Saturday night?"
"Both."
"Good."
They left the house together, and he walked her to her car.
Bending down, he spoke to her through the open window. "It's going to be a long week."
She smiled. The engine turned over and she put the car in gear.
Colin watched as the Escort pulled out onto the main street and turned left toward Bay View. He stood watching until it was out of sight.
In his own car he sat for awhile and smoked a cigarette. He felt odd, as if he'd done something terrible. Was this what Dr. Safier tried to warn him about? The feeling of betraying Nancy? He had no doubt that what he was experiencing was guilt. Why should he feel guilt just from making a date with a woman? But that was rational. Feelings weren't rational. So what was he feeling? Guilt and anxiety. And lust. Don't forget good old lust.
He flipped his cigarette out the window, started the car, and sat waiting to pull out while two cars went by. The second was Burton Kelly's. Kelly looked straight ahead as he drove past. Colin couldn't help wondering what the man was doing around there again; then decided he was making something out of nothing. After all, it was the only road into town. Still, something about it bothered him. Maybe the intense way Kelly had been driving, hands gripping the top of the wheel, eyes glued to the road. He waited until four more cars went by. Each driver looked his way, checking for a car that might pull out. It was a reflex, natural and predictable. Only Burton Kelly had kept his eyes straight ahead. Colin surmised that Kelly didn't wish to be seen driving by the church again, driving by Annie's.
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