In the Bleak Midwinter (43 page)

“That’s very cool, yeah. I’m glad for you.” He glanced around the church. A woman was twining greenery around huge standing candela-bras and an elderly man was wedging votive lights into recesses in the windowsills. “Where’s the Reverend?”

“I heard her muttering something about coffee. I’d check in her office.”

The hallway was dim and quiet. He knocked on her door frame. “Anyone in?”

“Russ! Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. If you’re here for the seven o’clock service, you’re a few hours early.” Clare rose from one of her odd-looking admiral’s chairs, elegant in a tailored black blouse and long skirt. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.” She poured from her thermos into a Virginia Seminary mug. The coffee was hot and sweet and tasted of cinnamon. He dropped his package on the shabby love seat and laid his parka over it before sitting down.

“I meant to call when I saw the notice about Fowler’s funeral in the paper.”

“I didn’t officiate. I asked Clifton Whiting from St. Ann’s in Saratoga. I thought my presence would be more of a hurt than a help.” She looked into her coffee. “I can’t help but think that if I’d been a little more on the ball—”

“You could have stopped Fowler from destroying himself? Someone once told me you can’t take responsibility for everyone around you. Seems like a pretty smart observation.”

She smiled crookedly at him. “I should have had you around to put in a good word for me when the vestry called me on the carpet to explain what had been going on. I don’t know who shocked them more, me or Vaughn Fowler.”

He slipped off his glasses and polished them on his scarf. “If you need me to let them know what a genuine help you were—”

“No, no. They just need time to readjust their worldview. I’m taking advantage of the confusion to push forward my young mothers’ mentoring program. For which, by the way, I have the support of the Burnses, who have forgiven me for narcing on Geoff ’s drunk driving episode.”

“Let me get my glasses back on. Whenever I think about Geoff as a father, I get a headache.”

“It’s given him a sense of humor. He told me they were signing Cody up for infant swim classes.” Her eyes glinted. “At least, I think he was trying to be funny.”

He almost snorted coffee out his nose. He put the mug down. “I’m really here to give you this.” He pulled the wide, foil-wrapped package from beneath his coat. “Happy Holidays.”

“For me? You shouldn’t have!” She tore into the paper eagerly. “Oh, Russ.” She started laughing. “Thank you. They’re just what I needed.” She held up the waterproof, insulated, chain-tread-soled boots. “How did you know?”

He laughed. “Lucky guess?” She turned the boots back and forth, admiring them.

“I love them.” She dropped them into the box. “I’ll wear them tonight after midnight mass.”

“It must get crazy for you on Christmas Eve. Everyone else is having a holiday and you’re working your tail off.”

“Like a cop.”

“Like a cop.”

“It easy for me to lose all sense of what I’m here for and turn into this grumpy, harried martinet, obsessing with getting everything done right and on time. That’s why I’m hiding out in my office.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, no, I’m glad you came. I haven’t seen you since they hustled you off to get your backside dressed at the hospital.” The last light of the sunset was flooding the room, from windows and mirrors. Her hair, caught up in its usual twist, had already come loose, strands the color of gingerbread and fire floating around her face.

“Seems like a long time, yeah.”

“I’ve really missed having you to talk with.” Her words hung in the air.

“Me, too.” There was a long pause. He had a sudden, lung-constricting conviction that coming here had been a mistake, that he had to leave right away, had to climb back into his truck and go home. “I ought to be going.”

“Oh.” She looked at the coffee mug in her hand. “Of course.” She placed it carefully on the desk. “Thank you. Thank you for my favorite present.” They both stood. She reached out and they clasped hands, squeezing hard. She smiled brightly. “Merry Christmas, Russ.”

He pulled her to him without conscious thought and she came, settling against him, their arms wrapped around each other. He held her pressed tightly against his heart. “Merry Christmas,” he said into her hair. It smelled of beeswax and cinnamon.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were very large.

“Clare,” he said.

She swallowed.

“Clare…”

She shook her head. “No.”

He touched her face. She closed her eyes and for a moment, pressed her cheek into his palm. Then she opened her eyes and stepped backwards, breaking his hold. He reached for her. She threw up both hands, a barricade against him. “Leave. Now. Go home to your wife.”

He let his hands drop, heavy and useless. “I wouldn’t—”

“Yes, you would. And God help me, so would I. Go. Please.”

He nodded, turned, walked away, through the dim hall, through the scent of pine and beeswax, through the haunting voice of the soloist, singing. “Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow. In the bleak midwinter, long ago.”

Around the square, the remaining shops were closing, employees chattering down the sidewalks, last-minute shoppers slipping and sliding under the weight of bags and boxes. The fuzzy candy canes and reindeer, the fat lightbulbs, everything the same as it always was, as it always had been. Everything the same. Everything different. Everything.

He climbed into his truck and headed home.