you?”
And that was it.
Kent and Sara Lamplighter. Matthew and Roseann Porter. Travis and Gina Kendall and their baby. Chris and Abby Scranton and three very bored kids. Mr. Pierce, first name withheld. Dick Biddle. Mrs. Washinski and her grown son, Thad. William and Candy Tatum, the apparent guests of honor. A few others whose names she didn’t pick up, and of course Sandy and Vincent Applegate.
Most of them struck Patty as the sort of people who tend to join and fully partake of church activities—polite and friendly and eager to please, though a bit socially awkward. They all seemed honestly pleased to meet Patty, but most had little to say and most conversations sputtered out after a few exchanges.
Patty was annoyed to recognize but not be able to place a slight, middle-aged man with glasses and a befuddled air. When the information was relayed that Matthew Porter was her mailman, her mind immediately and successfully placed him in blue-gray shorts and iPod headphones stuck in his ears.
Dick Biddle was a shaggy-haired man who broke the conversational pattern with his inability to even pause for breath. He told Patty all about his exciting career in data processing, his recent front brake problems, the ineptitude of the Cleveland Indians and how his home had been tax appraised too high and his frustrating efforts to get a reappraisal.
Patty turned to the Lamplighters when Dick paused for breath and quickly asked them if she hadn’t seen them on her street walking a toy poodle.
Tonka Toy, as it turned out, was being treated for a canine condition ending in isis . The Lamplighters were surprised that Patty had never heard of the ailment. They both had the same silver shade of hair, the same plump, soft figures and protruding eyes. Patty at first had taken them for siblings rather than husband and wife and had made the mistake of asking if there was a blood relationship.
“What would make you think that?” asked the bug-eyed couple.
That’s when Vincent had come to her rescue. He steered her by her elbow into a relative clearing in the corner of the little church’s vestibule.
“I’m sure you weren’t expecting all this,” he said. “You wanted to be alone with your thoughts and it’s like New Year’s Eve in here.”
Patty hoped the tall minister didn’t notice her rueful smile at his overly bright description of the listless affair. “Well, it wasn’t my intention to crash your party.”
“You didn’t.”
He watched her, seemed to be waiting for her to say something. It occurred to her that he was, in some ways, as socially awkward as the others. Just hid it better.
She said, “My boyfriend has stopped in here a few times lately. I don’t think you know him, though. Apparently there wasn’t anyone else around at the time.”
An eyebrow shot up. “Try me. Since I own the only key, I hardly think he sneaked in.”
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to tell him to never mind, to change the subject. She knew how this one would turn out. But she also knew it was too late. “Tim Brentwood,” she said.
She watched his eyes as his brain processed the information. “I’ve met a lot of people lately…” he said, sounding as diplomatic as a politician.
She felt tears welling in her eyes and angrily blinked them away.
“Come here,” he said.
He directed her, with the barest elbow contact, to the darkened chapel beyond the vestibule. His voice sounded soft and hollow from the back of the larger, shadow-filled room. “This is yours whenever you need it.” He laughed, a clear, honest sound. “I’m not trying to steer you away from our little shindig. Just telling you that we’ll leave you alone if you’d prefer. If you need the solitude.”
Patty leaned against the back of the last pew. It felt cool and solid against her, its wood grain oiled and buffed for a century. Although the sorry little party could still be heard beyond the wide, open doorway, the room swallowed
And that was it.
Kent and Sara Lamplighter. Matthew and Roseann Porter. Travis and Gina Kendall and their baby. Chris and Abby Scranton and three very bored kids. Mr. Pierce, first name withheld. Dick Biddle. Mrs. Washinski and her grown son, Thad. William and Candy Tatum, the apparent guests of honor. A few others whose names she didn’t pick up, and of course Sandy and Vincent Applegate.
Most of them struck Patty as the sort of people who tend to join and fully partake of church activities—polite and friendly and eager to please, though a bit socially awkward. They all seemed honestly pleased to meet Patty, but most had little to say and most conversations sputtered out after a few exchanges.
Patty was annoyed to recognize but not be able to place a slight, middle-aged man with glasses and a befuddled air. When the information was relayed that Matthew Porter was her mailman, her mind immediately and successfully placed him in blue-gray shorts and iPod headphones stuck in his ears.
Dick Biddle was a shaggy-haired man who broke the conversational pattern with his inability to even pause for breath. He told Patty all about his exciting career in data processing, his recent front brake problems, the ineptitude of the Cleveland Indians and how his home had been tax appraised too high and his frustrating efforts to get a reappraisal.
Patty turned to the Lamplighters when Dick paused for breath and quickly asked them if she hadn’t seen them on her street walking a toy poodle.
Tonka Toy, as it turned out, was being treated for a canine condition ending in isis . The Lamplighters were surprised that Patty had never heard of the ailment. They both had the same silver shade of hair, the same plump, soft figures and protruding eyes. Patty at first had taken them for siblings rather than husband and wife and had made the mistake of asking if there was a blood relationship.
“What would make you think that?” asked the bug-eyed couple.
That’s when Vincent had come to her rescue. He steered her by her elbow into a relative clearing in the corner of the little church’s vestibule.
“I’m sure you weren’t expecting all this,” he said. “You wanted to be alone with your thoughts and it’s like New Year’s Eve in here.”
Patty hoped the tall minister didn’t notice her rueful smile at his overly bright description of the listless affair. “Well, it wasn’t my intention to crash your party.”
“You didn’t.”
He watched her, seemed to be waiting for her to say something. It occurred to her that he was, in some ways, as socially awkward as the others. Just hid it better.
She said, “My boyfriend has stopped in here a few times lately. I don’t think you know him, though. Apparently there wasn’t anyone else around at the time.”
An eyebrow shot up. “Try me. Since I own the only key, I hardly think he sneaked in.”
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to tell him to never mind, to change the subject. She knew how this one would turn out. But she also knew it was too late. “Tim Brentwood,” she said.
She watched his eyes as his brain processed the information. “I’ve met a lot of people lately…” he said, sounding as diplomatic as a politician.
She felt tears welling in her eyes and angrily blinked them away.
“Come here,” he said.
He directed her, with the barest elbow contact, to the darkened chapel beyond the vestibule. His voice sounded soft and hollow from the back of the larger, shadow-filled room. “This is yours whenever you need it.” He laughed, a clear, honest sound. “I’m not trying to steer you away from our little shindig. Just telling you that we’ll leave you alone if you’d prefer. If you need the solitude.”
Patty leaned against the back of the last pew. It felt cool and solid against her, its wood grain oiled and buffed for a century. Although the sorry little party could still be heard beyond the wide, open doorway, the room swallowed
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