much of the sound.
“You’re not what I expected,” she told Vincent in an embarrassing burst of candor.
He smiled. “I got my clerical diploma in a cereal box, basically. I’ll be the first to admit that. My degree’s in social work and that’s my day job.” He stopped, seemed to consider how to proceed. “Over time I began to see that even the most well-funded, best-intentioned social programs don’t hold all of the answers.”
He brought the high-ceilinged room into the discussion with a wave. “I didn’t think you could actually buy a church, but I suppose if it’s in bad enough condition, it’s gone into foreclosure and you’ve got enough money…” Again he stopped, considered, shrugged. “My wife’s a corporate lawyer and a damn fine one, so we have the money. We’re not affiliated with any organized religion, but we’re not the next Branch Davidian sect either. There’s no spiked Kool-Aid. No weird sexual practices—at least not that I’m aware of.”
Patty laughed. “Well, what do you do?”
“When we’re not slugging down white wine by the jug, we actually pray some, sing some and talk out our problems. These days, it’s the economy, as well as the old standbys–money, sex, work/life balance, child-raising.”
It felt to Patty as though the young, unaffiliated pastor had seen through each of her suspicions and confronted them head-on. Now he seemed like nothing more than the neighborly, well-scrubbed family man that would have been her first impression if she hadn’t first known he headed the little church.
“Well, it’s been very nice to meet you,” she said. Or at least got most of it out before noticing his attention was elsewhere.
His face had changed. His lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes focused beyond her. She followed his gaze back to the vestibule, where Vincent’s wife, Sandy, was talking with—or, rather, listening to—the ever-talkative Dick Biddle.
Patty felt instant empathy for the minister’s trapped wife. She could almost see Sandy’s eyes glazing over while the hunched young man with the wispy moustache sucked her into his boring little world.
Vincent’s eyes seemed to dart from Sandy to Dick, Dick to Sandy. Without his disarming smile, which was definitely missing now, his features took on a harsher, more looming look, his eyes going hard, his mouth firm.
Patty scraped her feet noisily over the wood floor. Vincent twitched at the sound, peering at her as if she’d startled him awake. “Sorry,” he said, and his smile was instantly back in place, his eyes warm and liquid again. “I must have… what were you asking?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m just wondering…is this it? Your whole congregation?” Thinking, You’re sure you haven’t run into a young man named Tim Brentwood?
“Just about,” he said. His face changed again, only this time it was a further softening of his features rather than the cold, hard metamorphosis of moments ago. “You might have read about one of our people,” he said gingerly. “The media never mentioned her by name, thank the Lord, but she’s one of ours. She claimed to have been raped not far from here.”
Claimed?
Patty said, “So they haven’t found the guy?”
Vincent’s eyes flicked past her again. Patty could no longer hear Dick Biddle’s steady drone. The general background chatter had definitely thinned out, the crowd evidently running low on small talk. She suspected they’d soon be making their excuses for breaking away.
When Vincent turned back to her he said, “I haven’t followed the latest developments. I’ve talked to the police once, but I’m sorry to say that I haven’t had much contact with the poor woman. I call, but she rarely picks up her phone. And she has no voice mail.” He paused. “Now that I think of it, I haven’t laid eyes on her since the incident.”
Chapter Sixteen
The blonde showed up well after midnight.
He’d had a few customers
“You’re not what I expected,” she told Vincent in an embarrassing burst of candor.
He smiled. “I got my clerical diploma in a cereal box, basically. I’ll be the first to admit that. My degree’s in social work and that’s my day job.” He stopped, seemed to consider how to proceed. “Over time I began to see that even the most well-funded, best-intentioned social programs don’t hold all of the answers.”
He brought the high-ceilinged room into the discussion with a wave. “I didn’t think you could actually buy a church, but I suppose if it’s in bad enough condition, it’s gone into foreclosure and you’ve got enough money…” Again he stopped, considered, shrugged. “My wife’s a corporate lawyer and a damn fine one, so we have the money. We’re not affiliated with any organized religion, but we’re not the next Branch Davidian sect either. There’s no spiked Kool-Aid. No weird sexual practices—at least not that I’m aware of.”
Patty laughed. “Well, what do you do?”
“When we’re not slugging down white wine by the jug, we actually pray some, sing some and talk out our problems. These days, it’s the economy, as well as the old standbys–money, sex, work/life balance, child-raising.”
It felt to Patty as though the young, unaffiliated pastor had seen through each of her suspicions and confronted them head-on. Now he seemed like nothing more than the neighborly, well-scrubbed family man that would have been her first impression if she hadn’t first known he headed the little church.
“Well, it’s been very nice to meet you,” she said. Or at least got most of it out before noticing his attention was elsewhere.
His face had changed. His lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes focused beyond her. She followed his gaze back to the vestibule, where Vincent’s wife, Sandy, was talking with—or, rather, listening to—the ever-talkative Dick Biddle.
Patty felt instant empathy for the minister’s trapped wife. She could almost see Sandy’s eyes glazing over while the hunched young man with the wispy moustache sucked her into his boring little world.
Vincent’s eyes seemed to dart from Sandy to Dick, Dick to Sandy. Without his disarming smile, which was definitely missing now, his features took on a harsher, more looming look, his eyes going hard, his mouth firm.
Patty scraped her feet noisily over the wood floor. Vincent twitched at the sound, peering at her as if she’d startled him awake. “Sorry,” he said, and his smile was instantly back in place, his eyes warm and liquid again. “I must have… what were you asking?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m just wondering…is this it? Your whole congregation?” Thinking, You’re sure you haven’t run into a young man named Tim Brentwood?
“Just about,” he said. His face changed again, only this time it was a further softening of his features rather than the cold, hard metamorphosis of moments ago. “You might have read about one of our people,” he said gingerly. “The media never mentioned her by name, thank the Lord, but she’s one of ours. She claimed to have been raped not far from here.”
Claimed?
Patty said, “So they haven’t found the guy?”
Vincent’s eyes flicked past her again. Patty could no longer hear Dick Biddle’s steady drone. The general background chatter had definitely thinned out, the crowd evidently running low on small talk. She suspected they’d soon be making their excuses for breaking away.
When Vincent turned back to her he said, “I haven’t followed the latest developments. I’ve talked to the police once, but I’m sorry to say that I haven’t had much contact with the poor woman. I call, but she rarely picks up her phone. And she has no voice mail.” He paused. “Now that I think of it, I haven’t laid eyes on her since the incident.”
Chapter Sixteen
The blonde showed up well after midnight.
He’d had a few customers
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