in hot curlers, trying to bring order to chaos. I poured my coffee and ate breakfast (a micro- waved sweet roll) while I burrowed through the news. I love Sunday mornings, if I get up early enough to re- ally enjoy my paper. Though I have my limits: I will only read the society section if I think my mother will be in it, and I will not read anything about next sea- son’s fashions. Amina Day’s mom owned a women’s clothing shop she had named Great Day, and I pretty much let her tell me what to buy. Under Mrs. Day’s ~ 107 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
influence I’d begun to weed out my librarian clothes, my solid-color interchangeable blouses and skirts. My wardrobe was a bit more diverse now.
The paper exhausted, I padded up the stairs and washed my glasses in the sink. While they dried, I squinted myopically into my closet. What was suit- able for the girlfriend of the minister? Long sleeves sounded mandatory, but it was just too hot. I scooted hangers along the bar, humming tunelessly to myself. Shouldn’t the girlfriend of the minister be perky but modest? Though perhaps, at nearly thirty, I was a bit old to be perky.
For a dizzying moment I imagined all the clothes I could buy with my inheritance. I had to give myself a little shake to come back to reality and review my wardrobe of the here and now. Here we go! A sleeve- less navy blue shirtwaist with big white flowers printed on it. It had a full skirt and a white collar and belt. Just the thing, with my white purse and sandals. All dressed, with my makeup on, I popped on my glasses and surveyed the result. My hair had calmed down enough to be conventional, and the sandals made my legs look longer. They were hell to walk in, though, and my tolerance time for the high heels would expire right after church.
I walked as quickly as I safely could from my back ~ 108 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
door across the patio, out the gate in the fence around it, to the car under the long roof that sheltered all ten- ants’ cars. I unlocked the driver’s door and flung it open to let the heat blast escape. After a minute I climbed in, and the air conditioner came on one second after the motor. I had worked too hard on my appearance to ar- rive at the Episcopal church with sweat running down my face.
I accepted a bulletin from an usher and seated my- self a carefully calculated distance from the pulpit. The middle-aged couple on the other end of the pew eyed me with open interest and gave me welcoming smiles. I smiled back before becoming immersed in figuring out the hymn and prayer book directions. A loud chord signaled the entrance of the priest, acolyte, lay reader, and choir, and I rose with the rest of the congregation.
Aubrey was just beautiful in his vestments. I drifted into an intoxicating daydream of myself as a minister’s wife. It felt very odd to have kissed the man conducting the service. Then I got too involved in managing the prayer book to think about Aubrey for a while. One thing about the Episcopalians, they can’t go to sleep during the service unless they’re catnap- pers. You have to get up and down too often, and shake people’s hands, and respond, and go up to the ~ 109 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
altar rail for communion. It’s a busy service, not a spectator sport like in some churches. And I believed I had been to every church in Lawrenceton, except maybe one or two of the black ones.
I tried to listen with great attention to Aubrey’s sermon, since I would surely have to make an intelli- gent comment later. To my pleasure, it was an excel- lent sermon, with some solid points about people’s business relationships and how they should conform to religious teachings, too, just as much as personal relationships. And he didn’t use a single sports sim- ile! I kept my eyes carefully downcast when I went up to take communion, and tried to think about God rather than Aubrey when he pressed the wafer into my hand.
As we were folding up our kneelers, I saw one of the
~ Charlaine Harris ~
influence I’d begun to weed out my librarian clothes, my solid-color interchangeable blouses and skirts. My wardrobe was a bit more diverse now.
The paper exhausted, I padded up the stairs and washed my glasses in the sink. While they dried, I squinted myopically into my closet. What was suit- able for the girlfriend of the minister? Long sleeves sounded mandatory, but it was just too hot. I scooted hangers along the bar, humming tunelessly to myself. Shouldn’t the girlfriend of the minister be perky but modest? Though perhaps, at nearly thirty, I was a bit old to be perky.
For a dizzying moment I imagined all the clothes I could buy with my inheritance. I had to give myself a little shake to come back to reality and review my wardrobe of the here and now. Here we go! A sleeve- less navy blue shirtwaist with big white flowers printed on it. It had a full skirt and a white collar and belt. Just the thing, with my white purse and sandals. All dressed, with my makeup on, I popped on my glasses and surveyed the result. My hair had calmed down enough to be conventional, and the sandals made my legs look longer. They were hell to walk in, though, and my tolerance time for the high heels would expire right after church.
I walked as quickly as I safely could from my back ~ 108 ~
~ A Bone to Pick ~
door across the patio, out the gate in the fence around it, to the car under the long roof that sheltered all ten- ants’ cars. I unlocked the driver’s door and flung it open to let the heat blast escape. After a minute I climbed in, and the air conditioner came on one second after the motor. I had worked too hard on my appearance to ar- rive at the Episcopal church with sweat running down my face.
I accepted a bulletin from an usher and seated my- self a carefully calculated distance from the pulpit. The middle-aged couple on the other end of the pew eyed me with open interest and gave me welcoming smiles. I smiled back before becoming immersed in figuring out the hymn and prayer book directions. A loud chord signaled the entrance of the priest, acolyte, lay reader, and choir, and I rose with the rest of the congregation.
Aubrey was just beautiful in his vestments. I drifted into an intoxicating daydream of myself as a minister’s wife. It felt very odd to have kissed the man conducting the service. Then I got too involved in managing the prayer book to think about Aubrey for a while. One thing about the Episcopalians, they can’t go to sleep during the service unless they’re catnap- pers. You have to get up and down too often, and shake people’s hands, and respond, and go up to the ~ 109 ~
~ Charlaine Harris ~
altar rail for communion. It’s a busy service, not a spectator sport like in some churches. And I believed I had been to every church in Lawrenceton, except maybe one or two of the black ones.
I tried to listen with great attention to Aubrey’s sermon, since I would surely have to make an intelli- gent comment later. To my pleasure, it was an excel- lent sermon, with some solid points about people’s business relationships and how they should conform to religious teachings, too, just as much as personal relationships. And he didn’t use a single sports sim- ile! I kept my eyes carefully downcast when I went up to take communion, and tried to think about God rather than Aubrey when he pressed the wafer into my hand.
As we were folding up our kneelers, I saw one of the
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