minutes later she parked the car in the church lot. "I need to get the key from the rectory." Guy followed her to a small, shingled building that was attached by a covered passageway to the church. Its windows were open and Ivy could hear the doorbell ringing inside. Then Father John's voice called from behind another building. "In the back!"
Guy, who was wearing jeans, quickly pulled the cuffs of his sweatshirt down to his wrists. They found the priest in the garden, wearing denim overalls, his hands caked with sandy dirt, his high cheekbones shining with sweat and sun.
Ivy introduced him to Guy. Father John held up both hands apologetically and gave a slight bow. "My day off," he explained.
"You're working awfully hard for that," Ivy observed.
He smiled. "A labor of love."
Inside a white picket fence was a large vegetable garden. A trench, partially dug along the outside of the fence, had bags of peat and humus piled next to it.
"I'm putting in roses," he said, gesturing. "Of course, we have the Rugosa—beach roses—here on the Cape. It's very foolish of me to be digging holes in the sand and bringing in black soil to grow tea roses." He shrugged and smiled. Ivy saw Guy relax a little. "You're here to play," the priest guessed, reaching for the set of keys that hung on his belt. "Would you bring these back as soon as you've opened up?"
Guy went with Ivy as far as the church door, then offered to return the keys.
Fifteen minutes later, when he hadn't come back to the church. Ivy sighed—sudden departures seemed to be Guy's favorite way of saying good bye. Having finished her exercises, she pushed Guy out of her mind and focused on the new music assigned by her teacher. She worked hard, and her tentative fingering became more certain. Ivy never got over the wonder of feeling a song grow under her hands.
An hour later, gathering up her music, she heard the church door open. Guy walked toward her, looking pleased with himself. "I've got a job."
"You do?"
His face gleamed with perspiration and there was a smear of dirt down the front of his sweat-shirt He pointed in the direction of the garden, his hand coated with sandy soil. "I was helping him out—just for something to do. And he asked if I liked that kind of work. He's going to set me up with one of his parishioners who's looking for summer help."
"Great! He didn't care if you had references?"
"I made up a name and cell phone number," Guy replied.
"What?"
"With a little luck, the man won't bother to check."
"It's just that—" Ivy didn't finish her statement. The bruise on Guy's face had faded beneath his tan and was barely noticeable. It was a breezy morning, and it may not have seemed odd to the priest that Guy hadn't removed his sweatshirt or rolled up his sleeves to work.
"You don't trust me," he said. "Will has been filling your head with doubts—"
Ivy felt defensive of Will. "Don't blame him. I'm quite capable of doubting on my own."
Guy's eyes met hers, then he threw back his head and laughed. "You're so honest!" He sat down in a pew, draping his arms across the back of the bench.
"Play something for me. I have a strong feeling I'm not a classy guy and will be easy to impress."
"The song you were humming was from a musical. I have a pile of Broadway songs home in Connecticut." She flipped through the books she had brought, looking for something light and melodic. "A guy I loved once liked musicals."
"You don't love him anymore?" Ivy met Guy's eyes. "No, I still do. I always will."
"He dumped you," Guy guessed.
"He died."
Guy dropped his arms from the back of the church bench. "I'm sorry—I didn't realize. . . . How?" he asked gently.
"He was murdered."
Guy rose to his feet. "Jesus Christ!" Ivy took a deep breath.
"Is that a prayer? You're in the right place." Guy continued to stare at her, and she made herself busy looking for music. "This'll work— Brahms." She began to play.
Guy circled the piano, still staring at her, his hands in
Guy, who was wearing jeans, quickly pulled the cuffs of his sweatshirt down to his wrists. They found the priest in the garden, wearing denim overalls, his hands caked with sandy dirt, his high cheekbones shining with sweat and sun.
Ivy introduced him to Guy. Father John held up both hands apologetically and gave a slight bow. "My day off," he explained.
"You're working awfully hard for that," Ivy observed.
He smiled. "A labor of love."
Inside a white picket fence was a large vegetable garden. A trench, partially dug along the outside of the fence, had bags of peat and humus piled next to it.
"I'm putting in roses," he said, gesturing. "Of course, we have the Rugosa—beach roses—here on the Cape. It's very foolish of me to be digging holes in the sand and bringing in black soil to grow tea roses." He shrugged and smiled. Ivy saw Guy relax a little. "You're here to play," the priest guessed, reaching for the set of keys that hung on his belt. "Would you bring these back as soon as you've opened up?"
Guy went with Ivy as far as the church door, then offered to return the keys.
Fifteen minutes later, when he hadn't come back to the church. Ivy sighed—sudden departures seemed to be Guy's favorite way of saying good bye. Having finished her exercises, she pushed Guy out of her mind and focused on the new music assigned by her teacher. She worked hard, and her tentative fingering became more certain. Ivy never got over the wonder of feeling a song grow under her hands.
An hour later, gathering up her music, she heard the church door open. Guy walked toward her, looking pleased with himself. "I've got a job."
"You do?"
His face gleamed with perspiration and there was a smear of dirt down the front of his sweat-shirt He pointed in the direction of the garden, his hand coated with sandy soil. "I was helping him out—just for something to do. And he asked if I liked that kind of work. He's going to set me up with one of his parishioners who's looking for summer help."
"Great! He didn't care if you had references?"
"I made up a name and cell phone number," Guy replied.
"What?"
"With a little luck, the man won't bother to check."
"It's just that—" Ivy didn't finish her statement. The bruise on Guy's face had faded beneath his tan and was barely noticeable. It was a breezy morning, and it may not have seemed odd to the priest that Guy hadn't removed his sweatshirt or rolled up his sleeves to work.
"You don't trust me," he said. "Will has been filling your head with doubts—"
Ivy felt defensive of Will. "Don't blame him. I'm quite capable of doubting on my own."
Guy's eyes met hers, then he threw back his head and laughed. "You're so honest!" He sat down in a pew, draping his arms across the back of the bench.
"Play something for me. I have a strong feeling I'm not a classy guy and will be easy to impress."
"The song you were humming was from a musical. I have a pile of Broadway songs home in Connecticut." She flipped through the books she had brought, looking for something light and melodic. "A guy I loved once liked musicals."
"You don't love him anymore?" Ivy met Guy's eyes. "No, I still do. I always will."
"He dumped you," Guy guessed.
"He died."
Guy dropped his arms from the back of the church bench. "I'm sorry—I didn't realize. . . . How?" he asked gently.
"He was murdered."
Guy rose to his feet. "Jesus Christ!" Ivy took a deep breath.
"Is that a prayer? You're in the right place." Guy continued to stare at her, and she made herself busy looking for music. "This'll work— Brahms." She began to play.
Guy circled the piano, still staring at her, his hands in
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