Marcia Talley: Through the Darkness

“If you don’t stop right now,” I warned, “your cereal will get cold.”

“I can eat breakfast later,” he said, nibbling on my earlobe.

“But, it’s almost eight. We’ll be late for church.”

Paul ran a finger along my cheek, down my neck, and hooked his finger in the V of my knit top. “Why don’t we go to the eleven o’clock service, Hannah?”

“I just love cold oatmeal,” I said.

The oatmeal was cold, but the microwave fixed that.

And as it turned out, we didn’t miss the coffee hour between services, either. Finding a parking space had been a problem, though, so by the time Paul and I straggled into the fellowship hall at St. Cat’s, we were breathing hard.

Erika Rose was manning the door. “We missed you at eight-thirty,” Erika said in the same disapproving voice she probably used on her children, if she had any, or on the hapless litigants she faced every day in a Baltimore courtroom. Erika thumbed through the name tags in the slotted tray, located ours, and held onto them for a few seconds, as if our tardiness required an explanation before she’d turn them over.

I glanced at Paul and rolled my eyes.

“Running late today,” Paul muttered as he pinned the name tag to his lapel.

“Big party last night,” I added while attaching my name tag to my scarf.

“I figured,” she said. “Sorry I couldn’t make it. Had a deposition that kept me at the office until nearly midnight. Who knew the latex glove business could be so litigious?”

I was trying to remember if Erika Rose had actually been on the guest list, all the while thinking up something witty to say about latex, gloves or otherwise, when Pastor Eva rescued me. “Good to see you both!”

Evangeline Haberman had been rector of St. Catherine of Sienna Episcopal Church on Ridgley Avenue for less than a year, but she had already won the hearts of parishioners by her open and caring manner, not to mention her ability to deliver a cogent, yet motivational ten-minute sermon. “Running late this morning?” She looked at me suspiciously, one dark eyebrow raised.

“’Morning, Eva.” I felt my face flush. Was my hair standing on end? My lipstick smeared? Nothing seemed to get by the Reverend Evangeline Haberman.

Eva winked. “You two must have been partying until the wee hours of the morning. Please thank your daughter for inviting us, by the way. Roger could have boogied on until dawn, I think, but, alas, we had to leave early. I had a sermon to tweak.”

Indeed, Pastor Eva had come to the party wearing a slinky red number as far removed from her usual clerical garb as Times Square is from Paducah, Kentucky. I’d caught glimpses of Roger but hadn’t spoken to him.

“Sorry I missed chatting with Roger,” I said.

“He was perfectly charming, Eva,” Paul said. “I introduced him to Mongolian barbecue and the mayor of Annapolis, in that order. When I last saw him, they had their heads together, discussing bus routes.”

“What’s going on today?” I asked. “We had to park miles away and walk,” I added, hoping that would help explain my less than put-together appearance.

“We have a visiting choir from Atlanta, Georgia. You probably noticed the bus in the parking lot.”

I nodded. The darn thing had been taking up six parking spaces.

“ ‘Ezekiel Saw the Wheel’ proved a little too much for some of the seniors at the early service, but I certainly enjoyed it. Blew the steeple clean off the roof.” Eva laid a hand on my arm. “When the psalmist wrote about making a joyful noise unto the Lord, I doubt he had short-circuiting hearing aids in mind!”

“I’ll look forward to it,” I said, although my taste in church music leaned more toward Bach, Mozart, and William Byrd. A lot more.

Eva grinned. “You know me! Always like to shake things up a bit.” Dark, shoulder-length hair swinging, she turned to grab the upper arm of a kid who rocketed into the fellowship hall, making a beeline for the chocolate covered doughnuts. “Where’s the fire, Michael?”

“Sorry, Pastor Eva.” And he departed for the refreshments table at a more leisurely pace.

“Eva!”

A woman I didn’t recognize came toddling toward us across the parish hall. Her hair was streaked with so many different shades of blond that it was impossible to tell what the original color might have been. It curled under her ears like a badly thatched roof.

Eva greeted the woman warmly, then turned to us. “Hannah, Paul, I’d like you to meet Cassandra Matthews, Roger’s boss at Eastport Yacht Sales.”

“Wonderful party!” Cassandra said. “Thanks for including me.”

Another person I’d missed among all the merrymaking. I was glad Cassandra was feeling singled out for special attention, but in point of fact, Dante and Emily had invited just about anybody associated with the sailing industry in Annapolis, figuring that where there’s sailing, there’s money.

Sailboat: A hole in the water where you throw your money .

That’s what The Sailors’Dictionary tells us, anyway. Its authors, Beard and McKie, also define “crew” as “heavy, stationary objects used on shipboard to hold down charts, anchor cushions in place, and dampen sudden movements of the boom,” which pretty much summarized my sailing expertise.

“It’s a wonderful facility, Hannah,” Cassandra was saying when I tuned back in. “You must be awfully proud of your son-in-law.”

“We are,” Paul said.

“And our daughter, too,” I hastened to add. In just eight short years, Dante had clawed his way up from college dropout to spa owner, an incredible feat. But it wouldn’t have happened without the unflagging support of our daughter, Emily.

“Gotta run,” Eva said. “But take my advice, boys and girls, and hold onto your hats! The service is going to be a doozy. See you in the narthex afterward.”

But after the service, our ears literally ringing with the joyful noise of a rousing gospel rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” Paul and I steered clear of the narthex and headed for the south door, so we could make a quick escape to Paradiso in time to help with the cleanup as we’d promised.

We were too late.

At Paradiso the Dumpster was full, the floors swept, Party Perfect was just departing with the tent, tables, chairs, and luau torches, someone from Cheryl’s Chalets was busily forklifting deluxe Porta-Potties onto a flatbed truck, and half the Paradiso staff was sitting on the veranda, sipping iced tea out of tall glasses.

“Iced tea?” asked Emily.

Paul squeezed my hand. “Your mother and I would love some tea, Emily.”

While the sous-chef-whose name, I learned, was Jimmy George-went to fetch our tea, Dante offered me his chair.

“The calm before the storm,” he said as he held the back of my rocker with one hand while dragging another one over with his left.

“Why?” Paul asked. “It’s Sunday. A day of rest. What’s on tap for today?”

“Magazine interviews.” Emily dumped the contents of a pink packet into her tea and stirred it with a straw. “We’ve been rushing around like maniacs all morning because the photographer from the Washington Post magazine is due at two-”

“And Baltimore Magazine’s sending someone at three-thirty,” Dante cut in.

“And we still don’t have an accountant, Dad.”

Paul raised a hand. “Don’t look at me! If I were a plumber, would you ask me to fix the pipes? Just because I teach math…” His voice trailed off.

“Oh, no.” Emily set her glass down on the table, grinned broadly and leaned forward. “We’ve got a much more interesting job for you, Dad, if you’re willing.”