Robert climbed back out of the hatch with his own beer, in a glass, and slipped behind the large wheel to sit on the transom locker at the very stern of the boat. “Cheers, everyone,” he said, and raised his glass.
“Cheers,” they all replied.
Clare twisted in her seat to look back at the shoreline slipping past them. A boardwalk jutted into the water, crammed with arcades, T-shirt shops, and rickety stands selling Italian sausages and fried dough. A redheaded man, bearded and bespectacled, was trying to keep a pair of skinny kids from falling off the edge of the pier. The children, holding clouds of cotton candy bigger than their heads, waved energetically at the boat. Clare waved to them and turned back toward her companions, inexplicably buoyed up again. It was too beautiful a day to feel bad, and the thought gave her another epiphany. The long, hard winter had given her an appreciation for the summer that she had never had before. The sun, the clear blue sky, the green and growing things were blessings that she enumerated day by day, because they would be gone in a twinkling, in a heartbeat. Winter was the default here, with summer a brief and glorious escape. She felt that this ought to provide her with some solid spiritual insight, but all she could think was that she now understood why no one was attending the Sunday services.
“You’re looking particularly thoughtful, Ms. Fergusson.” Mrs. Marshall, silver-haired and elegant, could never bring herself to address Clare either by her first name or as Reverend Fergusson. Clare couldn’t blame her for the latter—she herself had grown up hearing that the word reverend was an adjective, not a title. Her grandmother Fergusson would no more have addressed a priest as Reverend than she would have attended services without a hat. Of course, Grandmother Fergusson’s priests had all been male. Father was not a title that Clare would choose. She supposed she would have to either get her doctorate in divinity or rise to a post in the Episcopal hierarchy in order to get a proper gender-free title. Bishop Fergusson…
“Isn’t this the point where you say, ‘I’m sure you’re all wondering why I brought you here’?” Sterling Sumner said. The word Clare usually applied to Sterling, in the deepest recesses of her mind, was disagreeable. In vestry meetings, the architect was impatient and prone to dismiss the opinions of others as uninformed. Today, his face was pinched into an expression that suggested irritable bowel syndrome.
Robert Corlew broke in before she could answer him. “I think we all know what we’re here to talk about. Let me try to frame the issue. We’ve had some very unfortunate episodes of violence this summer around Millers Kill.”
Clare opened her mouth to point out that a bloody murder was a bit more than an unfortunate episode, but then she thought better of it and shut it again.
“It appears that there may be a connection between the attacks and the victims’ lifestyles. In other words, all the men involved were homosexuals. Reverend Clare made a statement to the press, expressing her opinions. I’m sure you all saw it. Now, if I understand what she’s told me, she wants St. Alban’s to get involved in some way.” He sat back down on the transom chest so abruptly, Clare was startled. She had expected him to start in on what he wanted to see happen.
Everyone looked at Clare.
She could feel things slipping out of control, her own waspish reaction ready to burst forth, her impatience with having to deal with these people.
Not these people. My people, came the thought. Her thought? She wasn’t sure. But she knew what she had to do. She put her glass into one of the cup holders molded into the side of the bench.
“I’d like us to start with a prayer,” she said. Corlew looked surprised, then nodded. She watched each of them as they gathered into themselves. Mrs. Marshall folded her hands neatly beneath her chin. Sterling ducked his head and covered his face with one splayed-fingered hand. Corlew, still standing at the wheel, tilted his head back, a practical position that left his eyes half-lidded but still able to see. Terry Wright laced his fingers together easily and rested them in his lap, head bowed. For a moment, she wished she could bring them together, hold hands, and pray, but they were all Episcopalians, after all, and holding hands was not the way things were done. It would only make them uncomfortable.
“Lord God,” she said, “if there’s one thing we know about You, it’s that You love boats. You chose fishermen to be Your companions, and You walked to them across the water to quell their fear and doubts. Be with our company in this boat, Lord, and help us to remember that, quarreling and disputatious as we might be, we are all Your apostles. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
Everyone repeated the amen, and there was a moment when they all looked up and around them at the taut sails and the sun and the fast-slapping water racing past their hull.
“My thought is this,” Clare said. “I believe we have an obligation to speak out against hate crimes. I believe that we can’t, in conscience, stand aside and witness attacks like these happening and not come forward and say, ‘This is wrong.’ ”
“But there’s no doubt that it’s wrong,” Terry Wright said in his mild, reasonable voice. “It was obvious from the papers that the attacks were horrific and that the police are going after the culprits with everything they’ve got. What more could we do?”
“It’s not as if the news of Ingraham’s murder was followed by editorials ripping up gays for their lifestyle choice,” Corlew said. “I can personally attest to the fact that not one person I’ve met over the course of the past week has said anything along the lines of ‘Good, they’ve got it coming to ’em.’ ”
“My position is very simple. I don’t want to see St. Alban’s name dragged through the mud again,” Sterling Sumner said. “After last winter’s debacle, I say we need to keep our heads down and our noses clean. Where is all this going to lead? People associating our name with crime and homosexuality. That’ll be bringing new recruits in by the busload. You do remember that we wanted you to increase membership, don’t you?”
“There are three new families attending St. Alban’s since I became rector,” she said.
He sniffed. “That’s a start….”
“I haven’t been here a year yet!”
“Calm down, Reverend Clare. No one is questioning your ability to get the job done. Get up on top of the bench, will you?” Corlew turned the wheel slightly and released the jib several inches. The boat responded by keeling starboard, away from the wind, and Clare and Terry stepped up on the padded seat and sat on the outer edge of the cockpit, leaning against the yaw of the boat.
“Sterling’s raised a valid point,” Mrs. Marshall said, taking a small sip from her gin and tonic. “How do you answer it, Ms. Fergusson?”
“I don’t think anyone would mistake our concern for victims of crime as an association with crime, any more than our mentoring program for teen mothers is a stamp of approval for girls getting pregnant.”
“Another idea of which I did not approve,” Sterling said.
Clare ignored that. “And as for people shunning us because of our known association with homosexuals”—here she wiggled her eyebrows, because she sounded ridiculously like Joseph McCarthy—“I say we don’t want new members who would think like that. We want people who will admire us for taking a stand and who will say, ‘Yes, that’s Christianity; that’s how I want to live it and that’s the church I want to belong to.’ ”
“So what is it you envision us doing, dear?”
Clare bit back a smile. She thought Mrs. Marshall’s endearment was a slip of the tongue, but it was a sweet one. She had to confess that it didn’t throw her so much when the eighty-year-old lady treated her as a girl instead of a leader. It was the men she had to whip into shape.
“Nothing aggressive or in-your-face. But noticeable. Something that makes us and our support of our neighbors visible.”
“How about a one-eighth-page block ad in the Post-Star?” Sumner said.
She looked directly at him. “Sterling, what would you do if you wanted to tell your community that all people, regardl
ess of their sexual orientation, were accepted and valued?”
“Huh.” Sumner jerked one end of his scarf. “The truth is, not all people are accepted and valued. Whether it’s because of their so-called sexual orientation or just because they’re unlettered idiots.” Mrs. Marshall murmured a reproving sound. “I can’t help it, Lacey,” Sumner said. “It goes against my grain. These men running around, doing whatever they want to, with no sense of discretion—”
“I rather think that’s the point,” Mrs. Marshall said. She laid a hand over Sumner’s arm. “That people can live their lives without having to fear that a slip of the tongue or being seen in the wrong place at the wrong time will make them pariahs.”
She knows. That was Clare’s first thought, and she realized there was something very old here between these two friends, old and buried, but not forgotten. She felt suddenly ashamed that she had been trying to maneuver Sumner into a corner.
Corlew looked at Terry Wright, discomfort and determination chasing each other on his face. “We’re not trying to make anyone a pariah. We’re simply looking out for our own.” Clare opened her mouth and he shot a hand up, waving the words away. “No, no, sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I think, gentlemen and ladies, that Clare is right.” As always, Terry’s voice was easy, jovial—the dealmaker making a deal. “I think we could have easily sidestepped the whole issue, but now that our, ah, energetic young priest has brought it up, we’re not going to get away without some show of support. If for no other reason than if we don’t, we’ll feel like a bunch of bigots.”
Sumner made a noise.
“So we might as well come to an agreement on how we’re going to stand up and be counted. Clare?”
“I was thinking of a march from St. Alban’s to the town hall and—”
“No. No marches.” Corlew slugged back some of his beer. “The downtown merchant’s association would kill us.”
“He’s right,” Terry said.
“Maybe we could have a fund-raiser?” Mrs. Marshall suggested. “A dinner dance. It’s short notice, but we could probably get together a committee and be able to present it by mid-September.”
Clare shook her head. “I think that’s too removed in time from what’s happening now. Besides, a dinner dance is private by definition. We need something public. How about a rally in Riverside Park?”
“You mean like that damned antidevelopment group?” Corlew’s skin took on an alarming purple shade. “Those tree-huggers? Those backward, head-in-the-sand—”
“Well,” Clare said, “not exactly like them, no. I was thinking we would get a permit, for one….”
“I don’t think a rally is a good idea,” Mrs. Marshall said. “After all, they rather depend on a large crowd for their effectiveness, don’t they? Otherwise, all you have is a handful of malcontents talking to one another.”
“A candlelight vigil,” Sumner said.
They all looked at him. “What?” Clare said.
“What are we? A church. What do people think of when they think of a church? Quiet, hymns, candles. You want to draw attention to the church’s stance. Is this going to happen by marching through crowds of tourists in the middle of the day? No, it is not. You want contrast. People, at night. Light and darkness. Some music—not that dreadful guitar-strumming ‘Michael, Row the Boat Ashore’ protest stuff. Something that works as a counterpoint—a solo voice or a single wind instrument.”
They all looked at him.
“You’re thinking of this in terms of a military campaign. Think of it as a design problem. You have a message that may be uncomfortable or unpleasant to some. You have to create the appeal, the comfort.”
“Sterling,” Clare said. “I think you must be a remarkable architect.”
He snorted. “Mostly retired now. I do teach a bit, though, at Skidmore and down in Albany. One thing I tell my students is that there is always a solution to a design problem.”
“Sounds good to me,” Corlew said. “As long as you keep it nice and peaceful.”
“And don’t block any storefronts!” Terry added.
“In front of town hall,” Clare said. “Peaceful. And tasteful.”
The four vestry members and their priest looked at one another in wary agreement, as if not trusting the fragile accord to bear the weight of anything more enthusiastic.
“Maybe getting known as a more liberal parish won’t be so bad,” Corlew said.
“We can hardly get a rep as a more conservative group,” Terry said. “I think the last parish census showed the average age of our congregants was fifty-six. It’s not like we’ve been bringing new blood into St. Alban’s with what we’ve been doing.”
“Didn’t someone say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting new results?” Clare said.
“That holds true until you start thinking about having children, dear,” Mrs. Marshall said.
“Or playing the stock market,” Terry added.
There was another pause. Clare could hear the quick thwap-thwap-thwapping of the sail as it lost the wind. “I’m going to tack,” Corlew said. He hauled in the jib and released the boom. Clare and Terry dropped down into the bench and ducked as the boat turned and the boom sliced through the air over their heads. “Reverend Clare, can you get up there and tie off the boom?” he asked. “Terry, take the wheel. I’m going below for a sec.”
She scrambled over the hatch and secured the boom in its new position. The wind had lessened from its earlier slipstream rush and now the boat sailed up the lake like a determined woman through a crowded fairground, sweeping past the people and the glittering carny amusements, making her way steadily up the midway, headed for the open air.
She stood mastside for a few minutes, feeling the easy motion of the boat through her feet, hearing Corlew clumping around in the cabin below and the square clinking of ice in glasses.
“Reverend Clare, you want another one?” Corlew twisted backward to see her from the hatch.
She slid down to the rail deck and walked to the cockpit. “I’d better not. I’ve got to drive. And tonight’s that party at Peggy Landry’s.”
“Is that Margaret Landry? I used to know her mother,” Mrs. Marshall said. “How did you come to meet her? I don’t believe any of the Landrys have attended St. Alban’s since old Mr. Landry died, and that was before the war. World War Two,” she added.
Clare sat on the edge of the cockpit and braced her feet against the seat cushion. “Her niece Diana is getting married at St. Alban’s next month. She and her fiancé have been putting off their premarital counseling sessions, and when I pushed Diana on it, Peggy asked me to come to her house and sit down with them before this party. I guess she figured she owed me a dinner if I drove out there for counseling. I have to confess I’m not wild about attending. Standing around making small talk with a bunch of New Yorkers. Plus, I’ll have to wear heels. I hate wearing heels.” She waggled one sneaker-shod foot.
“I hope we’re getting a good donation for the use of the church,” Terry said. He reached past Clare’s legs and accepted a new beer from Corlew. “We’re becoming awfully popular with the wedding crowd. Maybe we ought to institute a series of fees. You know, one rate if you have some family connection, another if you’re a total stranger. It’s not as if their pledges are supporting our expenses.”
“Peggy ought to be good for a hefty chunk of change, after what she got in that deal with BWI.” Corlew emerged from the hatch with his own drink and took the wheel from Terry. “Word is, that spa is going to put her into the big leagues. I didn’t think she was ever going to be able to unload that white elephant, to tell you the truth. I know someone out of Albany who looked pretty seriously at trying a vacation condo community there, but it never went through.”
“Why not?” Clare asked.
“Who knows? It’s a tough site. Environmental impact, the old PCB issue, and it’s remote. People want to vacation where they can reach thi
ngs, not where they have to drive half an hour to get a burger and a movie. Peggy needed an outfit like BWI, with deep pockets and a long-term plan. They’re going to need to pump a hell of a lot of money into that place for the first few years.”
“You mean to build the place? Or to keep it running?”
“To build clientele,” Terry said. “It usually takes several years for any resort or vacation-oriented property to have enough name recognition to start making money, instead of spending it. Even when there’s an established attraction nearby, like a good ski resort or”—he waved a hand, encompassing the water and mountains around them—“a lake. When the bank structures a loan for a resort-related development, we figure in a minimum of three years before we can expect any profit.”
“So BWI isn’t just going to build the place and put in the staff. They have to keep it afloat for the next several years?”
“That’s why BWI is the perfect partner for Peggy,” Corlew said. “They don’t wait for visitors to discover nearby attractions. They are the attraction. I’d love to know how a small-time player like Peggy got their attention.”
Sumner cleared his throat. “I understand that Landry’s nephew was a particular friend of the late Bill Ingraham.”
“What?”
“Get out!”
“Where on earth did you hear that?”
He affected a pained expression. “I normally avoid gossip at all costs, but still, one hears things.” He leaned forward, and everyone else leaned in, as well. “I understand that the boy is what might have been called a gold digger by an earlier generation. What I heard is that he latched onto Bill Ingraham as his sugar daddy. At some point during their friendship, the boy introduced Ingraham to Peggy and she, evidently, put on the full-court press. Next thing you know, good-bye, white elephant, hello, Algonquin Spa.”
Clare sat back up. “But I heard Ingraham broke up with his boyfriend months ago.”
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