Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

“I don’t really think of rectoring as an enormous job. And I’m certainly not alone.”

“Well… I was under the impression you haven’t made a lot of connections with your fellow ministers here in town.”

“Dr. McFeely and Reverend Inman are supportive enough, I guess. It’s just they’re both a good twenty, twenty-five years older than I am, so we don’t have a whole lot in common. We’ve gotten together at a few ecumenical events. They both like talking about their grandchildren. They have these little photo albums.”

“There are younger priests in the area in our own church. That fellow down in Schuylerville, and Philip Ballentine at Christ Church in Ballston Spa. You haven’t gotten the chance to make their acquaintance, have you?”

“I’ve met quite a few people at the diocesan convention. The work here in Millers Kill has kept me pretty close to home the rest of the year.”

“Then that’s something else I can do for you.” Elizabeth sounded pleased. “Free you up to be not just St. Alban’s priest but the diocese of Albany’s priest as well. You must miss the collegiality you knew in the seminary.”

“I guess so.”

“I knew it. There’s a get-together at Father Lee’s house in Saratoga this Friday. Evensong at Bethesda followed by potluck. Why don’t you let me cover for you that afternoon, and you can go.”

“Uh…” The last thing Clare wanted was a social obligation with a bunch of priests she barely knew. Recent events had rubbed her raw; the only thing she wanted to do on Friday night was make soup and curl up in front of a roaring fire in her living room. Alone. Or with one other person, her mind mocked. And if you’re alone, what’s to keep you from calling him and inviting him over? She realized de Groot was watching her. “That would be great,” she said.

“Wonderful.” Elizabeth touched her fingertips together. “I appreciate your willingness to hand over some of the reins to me. I realize you must be used to a pretty independent style of leadership. Anyone who headed up a helicopter crew during Desert Storm has to be more comfortable making important decisions on her own.”

“Not crew,” Clare said. “I’m a-I was a pilot.” Oh, what did it matter if de Groot got the names wrong? All at once, it occurred to her that the new deacon knew a great deal about her. As in, read her personnel file at the diocesan offices. What else might they have let de Groot be privy to, if she was to be Clare’s Virgil, guiding her safe through the circles of disobedience and inappropriate relationships? The evaluations from her teachers at VTS? The psychological profile from her discernment process? And what about this potluck she had been so deftly manipulated into? Was it going to be stocked with a carefully vetted array of line-toeing peers? Maybe a few unmarried men thrown in, for interest?

Would there even have been a potluck if she hadn’t just agreed to go?

No. No, no, no. She wasn’t going to make herself paranoid. This was her diocese, after all, the same people whose monthly newsletter had at least ten typos and who had never managed to get all the box-lunch orders right at the annual convention. Besides, she was one very junior priest. She wasn’t worth that much effort.

Right?

For the rest of the morning, Clare remained taciturn, listening closely to de Groot’s statements-she noticed they were framed as questions, but worded in such a way as to call forth only one reply-before speaking. By the time they got back to St. Alban’s she was tense, jumpy, and more paranoid than she had been since her “capture” and “questioning” during SERE training, back in her army days.

Bless her heart, in the three hours they had been gone, Lois and Mr. Hadley had started the conversion of the copy room into de Groot’s office. The promised desk and chairs were in place, along with a small bookcase and a pair of lamps Clare recognized as white-sale donations. The copier now squatted in front of Lois’s desk, blockading Clare’s favorite spot to park herself when she and Lois conferred. Oh, well. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make. There was, of course, still no computer, but the sexton had drilled a hole through the baseboard and run a phone line in, connecting the new deacon to the wider world.

Clare left Elizabeth expressing her gratitude and hustled down the hall toward the sacristy. Her door, she saw, was still shut. Not that that meant anything. If Russ had left, he would have closed it behind him. She stashed her traveling kit and returned to the office. On the way, she tried her door handle.

It was locked.

“Lois, I’m going to hunker down and try to catch up with the paperwork,” she said, interrupting an exchange of office supplies.

Elizabeth’s eyes brightened. “Anything I can help with? Or should know about?” She shifted a box of envelopes and a rubber-banded bundle of pencils to one hand, indicating her readiness to tackle anything.

“No, no,” Clare waved away her suggestion. “It’s routine stuff I’ve let pile up. The best thing you can do is to get that homily out of the way. And… and…” She needed another task, in case the frighteningly competent deacon turned out to be someone who wrote her sermons in under an hour. “And Lois can give you the stewardship and capital campaign files. You’ll need those to get a clear picture of the parish.”

Lois looked at her oddly. Clare could tell she was wondering why the sudden eagerness to let the new deacon into every aspect of their business.

“You said you worked successfully in both those areas at St. Stephen’s, right? I’d like you to write up any recommendations you have for us to improve our ingathering during the upcoming year. I know the members of the stewardship committee will want to benefit from your experience.”

“Certainly,” Elizabeth said, her face reflecting a calm gratification.

Lois, on the other hand, was a study in skepticism. The stewardship committee had a hard time benefiting from each other’s experience, let alone that of a woman who had been at St. Alban’s for all of two days.

“You’ll see that Elizabeth gets that, won’t you?” Clare asked, hoping her bright tone masked her desperation.

“Mmm.”

Clare chose to take that as agreement. “I’ll leave you to it, then!” She escaped down the hall, fishing her keys out of her pocket as she went.

She unlocked the door quietly. It swung open easily. She stared. The lamp was lit and the computer was on, but her desk chair sat unoccupied. As did the sagging love seat and the two admiral’s chairs in front of the fire. A sharp cut of emotion slashed through her, low. Disappointment.

She pressed her lips together, determined not to feel like an abandoned child, and shut the door.

And would have screamed if Russ hadn’t clamped his hand over her mouth.

Sorry,” Russ whispered. “I didn’t know if it was you. Or if you were alone.” He released her.

“Good God.” She clutched at her breastbone. “You scared the sh-sheep out of me.”

The edges of his mouth curled. “Scared the sheep?”

She shot him a dirty look. “Don’t start with me.”

He held one finger up to his lips. “Unless you’re in the habit of talking to yourself, you’d better keep it down.”

She had a small cache of CDs she kept on the bookcase for office ambience, a sort of Anglican top ten, heavy on Purcell and Elgar. She dropped one of them into the small Bose player her parents had given her for Christmas. She tilted it, directing its speakers toward the door, and switched it on. The rigorously romantic music of Ralph Vaughan Williams filled the air.

“Have you found anything?” She pulled one of the admiral’s chairs toward the desk.