by Gayle Roper
Not that Pop and Honey had ever done anything to make her feel unwanted. In fact, they had done all the right things to make her feel included. Not only had they told her they loved her; they had shown her. They had come to her school plays, listened to her school concerts, and cheered at her field hockey games with the same faithfulness and enthusiasm they had given to Trev and Phil. They had listened to her opinions with respect even when they disagreed with her reasoning, and they wrapped their arms around her and hugged her with embarrassing frequency, regardless of where they were.
Then the miracle of miracles had happened, and Trev married her with promises of undying love. Surely now she would belong for she was finally and undeniably a Trevelyan.
Ha!
She had dropped the name even before she boarded her plane for San Diego all those years ago, at first because all her proofs of identity read MacAllister, then permanently because the name hadn’t made her belong.
In fact, the assumption of the name had led to the cataclysmic shattering that tore the fabric of her world and created a chasm of separation that she didn’t think could ever be crossed, no matter how much her heart yearned. And it had yearned, even as her stubbornness held her fast in California.
Now as she stood on the platform of Trev’s church, clutching his hand nervously and smiling at his people, she was named Trevelyan again for all the world to hear.
“I’ve been living in California for the past six years,” she told the congregation. “It’s good to be back East again. I’m looking forward to being here in Seaside with you—” she nodded at the people—“and with Trev.” She turned and smiled at him.
What a liar she had become.
Then Trev smiled at her, and any dream she’d ever had of happily ever after rose to taunt her.
It’s just fatigue, she told herself as she felt her answering blush. Utter fatigue.
As Dori gave the congregation a final smile and turned to go back to her seat in the first row, Janie Shaw rushed up the aisle.
“Wait, Dori,” Janie ordered as she mounted the steps to the platform. She was slightly breathless when she stopped beside Dori and Trev. “Excuse me, Pastor, but I have an announcement to make.”
Dori feared she knew what was coming. As if he understood her discomfort, Trev stepped to her and slid his arm around her waist. She allowed herself to lean against him, but it was only because of the fatigue that she gave herself that latitude.
Janie grinned at the congregation. “It’s not every day that our pastor gets married.” She turned her grin on Dori and Trev. “You might have thought you could escape all the hoopla by keeping everything quiet.” She turned back to the people. “But they can’t! Because Wednesday night we’re having a party in their honor. Right here at 7 PM.”
Dori forced herself to smile and look pleased when all she wanted to do was groan and take the world’s longest nap. Trev stepped back to the pulpit, dragging Dori with him.
“What a kind gesture,” he said with a sincerity that made Dori think he might just mean it. But then Trev always did like a party. “We are honored that you’d go to all this trouble for us.”
Dori nodded. “Thank you so much. We look forward to it.”
As the last words left her mouth, Dori’s eyes collided with Angle’s. Dori felt the resentment and anger blazing in the young woman like a slap in the face. Vaguely she heard Frank Shaw join Janie on the platform, heard him say that he was there to congratulate her and Trev on behalf of the church and welcome her to the Seaside Chapel family.
Dori pulled her attention from Angie to the kindness being extended her. She smiled as she shook Frank’s hand and returned the hug Janie gave her. As she resumed her seat to the clapping of the congregation, she swallowed against nausea. Nerves and fatigue. And Angie. She wasn’t used to people disliking her, especially so obviously. She swallowed again, deeply regretting the piece of raisin toast she had forced herself to eat for breakfast. And wasn’t there supposed to be some magic ingredient in Coke that settled your stomach? Little good her breakfast portion was doing her.
God, please don’t let me get sick!
Maureen pulled into the parking lot at Seaside Chapel hoping no one noticed her. She planned to slip into the back pew, observe, then leave during the closing prayer.
After Friday’s fiasco at the hospital, she had staked out the Trevelyan house, spending more boring hours freezing. But it had been worth every moment of discomfort when she saw Paul carry the black suitcase into the house late Saturday morning.
Immediately she called Greg Barnes at the police station on Central Avenue.
“It’s here.”
“Let me send someone to relieve you,” Greg said. “I want you to come in. We need to talk.”
Uncertain what “need to talk” meant, she reported for the meeting. She found not only Greg in the small conference room, but Fleishman too, still unhappy about being bumped from his car.
“Where’s my magazine?” he asked, looking extra grumpy.
Maureen thought of the disgusting periodical she’d found on the floor of his car. “In the trash where it belongs.”
“What? Why’d you do that? You had no right—” Fleishman began, but Greg held up his hand.
“Not now, boys and girls. We’ve got work to do. Let me get the chief in here.”
Chief Glenn Gordon arrived, and the four of them reviewed all their information, including studying the pictures Maureen had taken at the airport.
“I have a hard time seeing the Trevelyans, any of them, involved in the Matisse case,” Maureen told the men. “They just don’t seem the type.”
Cary Fleishman looked at her with an expression so blatantly dismissive that Maureen wanted to gnash her teeth. “There are bad guys who are nice looking and well educated,” he said in the tone one uses with a not-too-bright child. “The better to trick the naïve.”
She took a deep breath and swallowed her anger. “Granted. But a pastor and a pharmacist? And both Trevelyans have been here for over two years.”
“Smart planning on someone’s part,” Fleishman said. “And everyone knows that ‘men of the cloth’ are all phonies.”
Maureen glowered at him. She was almost certain that he was just baiting her for the fun of it. Surely no one was really as dumb as he appeared to be. “Do you ever go to church, Fleishman?”
He started. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I go regularly.”
“Now why am I not surprised.”
She ignored him. “Believe me when I say that two and a half years is a long time to fool people who listen to you and work with you every week. Besides, certainly they checked his resume before they called him.”
“Called him what?” Fleishman asked with a nasty grin. “Jimmy Swaggart?”
Maureen looked at her white running shoes sticking out below her jeans and wished she had on her heavy uniform brogues instead. Not that she’d ever actually have the nerve to kick Fleishman in the shins—unfortunately Mom had done too good a job instilling manners—but it was an interesting thought. “Called him period, as in asked him to be their minister.”
Fleishman grunted understanding.
“They’ve only asked him to be their interim,” Greg said. “They’ve never called him full-time. Now why is that?”
“Interim for over two years?” Maureen asked, surprised. “That’s a long time. Usually an interim is there to cover the time after one pastor leaves and before the next one comes. Six months, a year tops.”
“And then there’s the strange marriage situation,” Fleishman said.
Maureen thought of Phillip telling her about his brother’s wife living in California for six years. There was definitely a story there, but she doubted it had anything to do with the missing paintings, so she kept her own counsel.
“What I want to know,” Chief Gordon said, “is where the brothers got their money.”
“What money?” Maureen asked.
“The offering plate?” Fleishman suggested.
The chief shook his head. “A church the size of Seaside Chapel couldn’t generate that much money in that short a period of time, and even if they could, I think someone would notice if an amount that large went missing. There’s another source, and we need to find out what it is.”
Maureen felt her heart pinch. Could she be wrong? Were the Trevelyans so good at creating the desired image that she’d mistaken mere façade for substance?
“I know we have questions,” she said, “but I still think it was just an inadvertent mix-up of suitcases.”
Fleishman gave her a dirty look. “Come on, cutie. Even you have to see that the timing is suspicious. The little wifey just happens to come back now, the very time the paintings come here? And she just happens to bring them with her in her suitcase?”
Maureen stared at him, her gaze as steely as she could make it. “My name is Officer Galloway.”
“I like cutie better,” he said blandly. “And it’s a compliment.”
“I don’t, and it’s not.” She spoke through gritted teeth.
“Enough!” Chief Gordon’s voice was a whiplash.
Maureen was afraid to breathe as the chief looked at her. Had her pique at Fleishman made her appear petty or unprofessional? She was the only woman on the Seaside force and the youngest besides. She had to be so careful. Don’t take me off the case. Please don’t take me off the case.
“Officer Galloway,” he said slowly and distinctly, then flicked his gaze to Fleishman to see if he had heard.
Fleishman flushed and began studying the scuffed linoleum underfoot.
Chief Gordon turned back to Maureen. “Officer Galloway,” he repeated, “I want you to make the Trevelyan family your best buddies.”
She tried to keep her smile under control, but she was as pleased as a kid with five bucks to spend at the ice cream truck. She was still on the case.
“I want you to study them,” the chief continued. “Get to know them, learn everything there is to learn about them. It is your responsibility to prove they are as innocent as you obviously believe.”
“Yes, sir.” She knew her smile stretched from ear to ear, and she was careful not to look at Fleishman. “My pleasure, sir.”
So here she was in the parking lot of Seaside Chapel. She found a space and climbed out of her car. She studied the building as she walked toward the front door. Dark brown cedar siding, freshly stained. A sharply slanted roof shingled in brown. A small steeple, its white spire pointing, appropriately, to heaven. Three arched stained glass windows above the small portico. All in all, it was a very attractive, well-maintained building.
She climbed the steps, crossed the narthex, and took a seat in the next-to-the-last pew. Immediately her eyes were drawn to the circular stained glass window above and behind the pulpit, a picture of Jesus kneeling in prayer. Sun streamed through the colored glass, bathing the platform in dazzling light.
Paul Trevelyan stood behind the pulpit, obviously at ease there. Maureen always marveled at people who made their living by speaking to other groups of people. In all the lists of things people feared most, speaking was always at or near the top, way ahead of dying even, and Maureen understood completely. The idea of standing before a congregation, a club, a class, anyone who breathed, was too terrifying to contemplate.
Paul smiled at his people. “I know many of you have heard the rumors swirling.” His smile broadened to a grin. “Well, for once they happen to be true.” He looked down at the front pew on the left. “Dori, come on up.”
The woman who took the suitcase from Joanne Pilotti climbed the four steps to the platform. Today she wore a winter-appropriate outfit of light gray slacks, a red turtleneck, and a black blazer. A large silver pin accented one lapel, and silver flashed at her ears. Her dark brown hair fell sleek and shining to her chin.
Maureen’s hand went automatically to her mass of uncontrollable black curls and the dangling, wildly colored butterflies hanging from her ears. She sighed. Sophistication was never to be hers.
The pastor held out his hand to Dori, and she placed hers in it. He drew her close, smiled at her, then turned to the congregation. “My friends, I’d like you to meet my wife, Dori MacAllister Trevelyan.”
Dori smiled at the people. The light streaming through the circular window backlit her, making it look as if she had a halo suspended over her head. Maureen wanted to laugh. All in all, a good effect for a pastor’s wife.
“Well, well, look who’s here.”
Maureen knew that whispering voice. She turned to Phil, standing in the aisle, and put a finger to her lips.
He slid into the pew beside her. “My sweet Irish rose.”
She looked at him, startled. Where did that come from?
“I was hoping you’d drop by.” He leaned so close that her hair stirred when he exhaled. “You are irresistibly drawn to my person.”
He said it so seriously that for a minute Maureen didn’t know how to react. She drew back. Then she saw the twinkle in his eye, and she knew he delighted in teasing. She sighed. If she was honest, she liked being teased, at least by him.
Watch it, Galloway. Conflict of interest! He’s a suspect.
“Came to check me out, did you?” Phil asked, his breath warm on her ear. He nodded to the platform. “Or them?”
Flustered, worried that he knew who she was, she did her best to stare him down. It didn’t work, but as he grinned, he moved a church-decent space from her. Her pulse steadied, and she worked at ignoring him for the rest of the service. She concentrated on Paul Trevelyan’s words, noticing in her peripheral vision that Phil also paid attention, taking careful notes on the sermon.
Her instincts told her that both Phil and Paul were just who they seemed to be, pharmacist and pastor, but instincts weren’t proof, especially to Fleishman. She needed hard information, undeniable substantiation of their innocence. Therefore when Phil asked her if she wanted to get something to eat after church, she readily agreed. What better way to begin to prove their innocence?
Finally the service was over, though Dori couldn’t have told anyone what Trev said. She stood and made herself smile at the people who came up to her, kind people, Trev’s people, grinning their pleasure, accepting her at face value. She shook hands and returned hugs. She agreed again and again that Trev was indeed wonderful and that she was most fortunate. Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and a headache blossomed above her right eye.
At least she had a ring on today. Trev had given it to her last night just before they’d retired to their separate rooms. He’d taken her hand in his and slid her mother’s ring back onto her third finger, just as he had six years ago. As he moved the ring over knuckle and flesh, he looked her straight in the eye and said, “With this ring, I thee wed.”
Her heart sputtered, and she put her hand over his mouth. “Trev, don’t.”
“Ah, Dori, whether it’s for six months or sixty years, you are my wife.”
She tried not to let her mix of apprehension and exaltation show, but she knew her serene face wasn’t successful with him.
“Don’t worry” he said. “While I don’t plan to let you go a second time, I won’t ask anything of you that you don’t want to give. Marriage is giving, not demanding.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep tight.”
Dori sat in bed long after Trev went to his office, trying to read the paperback she’d picked up when she’d bought her new clothes, trying to shut her mind off. At least a wall separated them rather than the too-intimate acres of that huge bed at the motel, but somehow that fact hadn’t allowed her to relax. Sleep only came in the early hours of morning.
Now as she tried to smile at Trev�
�s people, her eyes felt gritty and red.
A pastor’s wife. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined that marrying Trev would bring her to this pass.
“Dori,” said a woman with short brown hair liberally sprinkled with gray. “I’m the other woman in Pastor Paul’s life.”
The woman’s smile was so engaging Dori knew right away that she would like her. “How’s that?”
“I’m Nancy Powell, and I’m Pastor’s office administrator.” She gave Dori a hug. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am that he’s found a wonderful, godly woman. I used to worry about him, such an inviting prize for some lucky woman. I knew several who had their eyes on him, and I didn’t approve a one.”
Not even Angie? But Dori didn’t ask.
When almost everyone was gone, Trev walked to her with three older women following him. They looked at Dori with avid interest.
“Dori, I have here three very special women who say that you are an answer to their prayers,” Trev said.
“Oh, my dear,” the oldest of the trio said, her wrinkled cheeks creased in a smile. “We have been so concerned for Pastor Paul.”
“Oh, yes,” said the one with bright spots of rouge like a large pair of polka dots in front of her ears. “It is not good for man to be alone.”
“It’s not good for us to be alone either,” said the third, a somber woman dressed in navy slacks, a navy sweater, and a formidable expression. “Not that we have any choice.”
“Now, Gracie, don’t change the subject,” admonished the polka-dot rouge lady. “We’re talking about Pastor Paul, not us.”
“These are Seaside Chapel’s three Graces, Dori.” Trev grinned at each woman in turn. “We have Grace Fellows, Gracie Wilder, and Grayce Warrington.”
“That’s Grayce with a Y,” said the one with the polka dot rouge.
“What a lovely way to spell the name,” Dori said. “Grayce Warrington? Are you related to Angie?”
“Her grandmother.”