karate demonstrations were shared among the quilters who remained.
Sincerely,
Dovey K. Lanning, recording secretary
“SO...” ANNA MAYHEW looked up from one of her tiny, even stitches and wiggled her eyebrows to signal what was to come. “I hear Chris-tine Flet-cher—” she punched all the syllables “—is coming for the fundraiser tonight. What do you suppose she’ll wear to the party?”
“The heck with what she wears,” Dovey Lanning said. “Let’s talk about where she’s going to sleep.”
“There is a child under the quilt frame.” For the life of her, Helen Henry couldn’t figure out why she had to remind the others. At the moment little Rory Brogan was banging the floor at her feet with a picture book of talking bunnies that his mother had given him to read. Kate Brogan was nothing if not an optimist.
“Rory!” Kate, an attractive thirty-something brunette, vacated her chair and dragged her son out from under the frame. “Go outside and play on the slide. Now.”
Rory protested. “I was killing germs. There are a million germs under there!”
“He just learned about germs in preschool camp,” Kate apologized. “Knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
“These were ninja germs!” Rory insisted.
“I believe I saw those very same ninja germs escaping into the play yard,” Anna told him. “And if you don’t stop them there, they might get all the way to the road.”
Rory’s eyes brightened. He had shiny dark hair and eyes that matched. He was a wiry child, one part willfulness, two parts energy, three parts resolve. Today he was wearing a white “gi” and the yellow belt he had earned the previous week in his Tai Kwon Do class.
Helen didn’t like children, of course. But she had to admit that this one had spunk.
The silence thrummed once Rory had left for his search-and-destroy mission, and everyone inhaled it gratefully. In the hour since their short business meeting, there had been precious little silence. The “Beehive” in the walkout basement was cramped. Once it had been the nursery, before the church’s expanding baby population had been moved into a brand-new wing. Several months ago the quilters had commandeered the tiny room for their own use. It was just wide enough for a quilting frame and several comfortable pieces of furniture along the wall, but it was filled with light from windows overlooking a fenced-in play yard and an expansive parking lot. And it was all theirs.
“I could just stay home,” Kate volunteered when they’d all recovered a little. “Until Rory’s in school full-time.”
“Don’t you dare.” Cathy Adams patted Kate’s shoulder. She was a warmhearted grandmotherly woman, a former insurance agent who was now reaping the benefits of an excellent 401K. Cathy was the least accomplished quilter among them, but she was learning fast.
Peony Greenway cleared her throat. Peony’s self-appointed job in the group, and in the church in general, was to smooth out trouble spots. “Rory adds something to the mixture.” She paused for effect. “And by the way, on that ‘other’ subject, I know for a fact Christine will be sleeping at the Inn at Narrow Passage. She has a room reserved through the weekend.”
“You called to check?” Dovey asked.
“Of course not!” Peony realized Dovey was teasing and relaxed her spine a millimeter. “Reverend Kinkade mentioned it, that’s all. He asked if the inn was a good place for Miss Fletcher to stay.”
“So Sam wanted the word to go out that they aren’t sleeping together, in case any of us have narrow little minds,” Cathy said.
Almost nobody but Peony called the Shenandoah Community Church’s present minister Reverend Kinkade. It was hard to imagine their jeans- and T-shirt-clad pastor with a title that formal.
“Narrow minds, Narrow Passage...” Dovey inclined her head toward the door, which was propped open so Rory and his younger sister, Bridget—who was napping in an overstuffed armchair in the corner—could run in and out at will. “Narrowing window of opportunity for gossip.”
In the fenced-in play yard, Rory could be heard screeching. Soon he would be back inside to make a full report.
“Sam and Christine have been engaged for years,” said Anna, ever the amateur psychologist. “To me, this signals major conflicts in their relationship. Why hasn’t he married her?”
Helen thought Anna’s logic was mostly wishful thinking. Sam was a charismatic charmer who attracted females the way the trumpet vine against her barn attracted hummingbirds. At forty-four, Anna was at least ten years too old to be a contender, but she still had a crush on the minister. Sometimes Helen wondered if Sam’s “engagement” was merely a tool to keep young women in the congregation at arm’s length.
“He hasn’t married Christine because she doesn’t like the country, and she doesn’t like us.” Dovey leaned over the quilt, stretched taut on a wooden frame, and squinted at a row of stitches.
Satisfied, she looked up. “Christine Fletcher is a hothouse gardenia, and we’re a wilted bunch of black-eyed Susans. That’s a fact.”
“As if this church isn’t filled with government retirees who have seen most of the world up close and personal.” Cathy fumbled under her chair for the water bottle she always carried and uncapped it for a big swig.
“Maybe so, but those folks came here for the country life and took right to it. Look at you and that husband of yours. Keeping bees, goats...whatever else do you have?”
“Last I heard, Alf was looking for a couple of alpacas.” Cathy capped her water bottle. “Pretty soon I’ll be scared to go out my own door.”
“Was a time not so many years ago in these parts that farming was deadly serious.” Helen looked up from her perfect line of stitches. “And nobody was from anywhere else.”
“Must have been pretty boring,” Cathy said.
Helen humphed, but she supposed not all the changes in Toms Brook, Virginia, were bad ones.
“Back...to...Chris-tine!” Dovey shook her head in disgust. “I swear, this group leaves a subject faster than a hawk swoops off a tree limb.”
Peony glared at her. “What else do you want us to say?”
“Is Sam going to make an honest woman out of Christine or not? And if he ever does, will the two of them be leaving for the big city? Because I don’t think Miss Chris-tine Flet-cher sees herself as a country pastor’s wife.”
“Can you see Miss Christine Fletcher playing the organ or teaching Sunday school?” Anna laughed.
“Well, we need a new sexton,” Dovey said. “There’s dust everywhere. Maybe she scrubs floors?”
Rory chose that moment to streak through the doorway and into the room, skidding to a halt at his mother’s side. The accompanying war whoops woke Bridget, whose whimpers escalated with his shouts.
“Ninjas!” He grabbed Kate’s arm and tugged. “Ninjas! I saw ’em!”
