Black Creek Crossing by John Saul Page A

the steeple. “I can’t prove it,” he said, “but I suspect an engineer spent weeks figuring out exactly where that steeple had to be, and exactly how high, in order for the shadow of their cross to fall across our door. Now of course,” he went on, “it only happens a couple of times a year, you understand, so I suppose it could be only the coincidence they claim it is. But if you ask me, it is just another way for those Protestants to try to stick it to us!”
    “Father!” Myra breathed, shocked by the priest’s words. Her eyes flicked toward Angel, who didn’t seem as shocked by what the priest had said as she was.
    “It’s a joke, my child,” the priest quickly assured her, his smile fading as he saw the look on Myra’s face. “I’m sure they meant no harm at all.” He held out his hand. “I’m Father Michael Mulroney, but everyone calls me Father Mike,” he offered.
    Myra took his hand for only the briefest of moments, introducing herself and Angel as she did so. “We just moved here from Eastbury.”
    Father Mike nodded. “Ah, the very ones Father Raphaello wrote me about,” he said. “It will be wonderful to have you as part of our parish. Not as many of us as there are in Eastbury, I’m afraid.” The mischievous twinkle came back into his eyes. “Maybe we just didn’t get here in time.” He nodded toward the huge stone edifice across the street. “If we’d come in 1632, the way they did, maybe we’d have a building like that too.” Now he sighed heavily. “Not that we could fill it, even if we did. These days . . .” He let his voice trail off, but Myra knew exactly what he meant. The last few years, donations even to the church in Eastbury—where there hadn’t been even a breath of scandal—had dropped so low that she’d been the last person Father Raphaello had been able to pay to take care of the rectory.
    “Well, now you’ve got us, and I have a husband too, so that’s three,” Myra said.
    “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” Father Mike told her. Then his voice and expression took on a note of regret. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to give you the work you had with Father Raphaello. We’re just too—well, I’m sure you know as well as I do what the last few years have been like.” Taking Myra’s arm, he led her up the steps toward the front door of the church, with Angel following. “And where might you be living?”
    “On Black Creek Road,” Myra told him. “It’s a small house, and it needs some work, but I understand it’s one of the oldest houses in town.”
    The priest’s eyes clouded. “The house at the Crossing?” he asked. “Where all those terrible—” He stopped abruptly, then said, “Oh, dear—what am I saying? I—”
    “It’s all right,” Myra said stiffly. “We know what happened in the house.”
    More people were coming up the steps now, and Father Mike began introducing Myra and Angel, then excused himself to go prepare for the mass.
    Just before she followed her mother into the church, Angel looked around for Houdini one more time.
    The cat was sitting across the street, its tail neatly curled around its feet.
    An hour later, as they were leaving the church and saying good-bye, Father Mike took Myra’s hand in both of his. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “And it occurs to me that maybe I can find some work for you. Not in the rectory, but here in the church itself.”
    “But you said—” Myra began.
    “I know what I said,” the priest cut in. “But I’ll find the money someway.” His eyes shifted over to Angel, then returned to Myra. “It’s a good place to be,” he said. “The church can shelter you from many, many things. So I’ll just find the money, and that’s all we’ll say about that.”
    A few minutes later they started the walk home, Father Mike’s words echoing in Myra’s thoughts.
    The church can shelter you from many, many things.
    What had he meant by