neighbor kept cows, just close enough to the Fowler house that when night deepened Shiloh could sometimes hear them mooing. For a while, when she was Dougie’s age, she’d thought she had discovered their secret language.
She smiled now at how silly she had been at nine.
Before she’d fallen asleep in Ohio she’d often heard Belle rustling around in the kitchen, getting the coffeepot ready for the next morning. Sometimes Shiloh’s mother had hummed to herself as she worked. That comforting sound had always been followed by the quiet thump of the screen door as Belle went outside to have her final cigarette before bed.
By then Man was already asleep because he rose before dawn and was out the door by six each weekday morning.
Shiloh remembered mornings, too, the sound of the shower down the hall, the quiet way her father moved, and the sounds he made filling the thermos with coffee and milk he heated in the microwave for his long day at the factory. Even when he had a steady income, Man tried to save money. As soon as his children were born he began a college fund, and he added money with every paycheck.
Of course that was all gone now.
She tried to remember more good things, the day-to-day life she had taken for granted. Belle’s hot breakfasts. The purring of their refrigerator filled with good food she could eat anytime she wanted it. Birds nesting outside her bedroom window and the squawking of hungry hatchlings. The smell of newly mown grass.
The day Man had proudly brought home the Ford Explorer that was now their transportation and their home, not a new model by any means but one her father had quickly put in prime working order.
They had been happy, and Shiloh hadn’t even realized it. She wondered if people were only given a brief period of happiness in their lives so that when they were unhappy, they would know all too well what they were missing. Was her happiness all used up?
She turned to her side and whispered the same prayer she said every night before falling asleep.
“Dear God, if You’re listening, please get us out of this mess. I don’t think we did anything to deserve it, but if we did, I’m really sorry.”
She didn’t listen for an answer. She thought about the way spring had smelled coming through her open window, her mobile dancing in the breeze, wild roses coming into bloom.
She fell asleep at last.
ANALIESE RATTLED AND rambled through the church parsonage in Asheville’s historic Kenilworth neighborhood. Ninety years ago the two-story Tudor Revival had been built for a minister with a large family, so even if by modern standards the bathroom and a half were woefully inadequate, the house, which had come with antiques in place, had four bedrooms, a sunroom off an efficient kitchen, and a large living room bordering a parlor that she used as her study. The formal dining room was presided over by a mahogany table and chairs for eight that were kept dust-free by her biweekly cleaning lady, not by constant use.
From the outside the house was a storybook fantasy, with a stucco and half-timbered facade, and a steeply pitched roof with an inset shed dormer and clipped cross gable. Ethan, in full architect mode, had once explained the history and design to her. The wife of the previous minister had been a gardener and, during their years here, intricate beds of perennials and annuals had snaked along the winding sidewalk. After one look at the parsonage Analiese had declined to be in charge of the garden. So four times a year a committee descended on the yard and pruned, plucked and planted, so that now it was filled with easy-care azaleas, rhododendrons and lacy evergreens. A lawn service took care of the mowing and edging, and Analiese planted petunias around the mailbox each spring.
The house was historic and picturesque, but as a single woman who often worked fifty-plus hours a week, she yearned for a compact condo right in the heart of downtown.
Tonight the house seemed larger than ever, each square foot a reminder that she used only a tiny portion every day while families slept in parks and deep in mountain forests.
And in an apartment in the Church of the Covenant parish house.
The grandfather clock in the gabled entryway struck nine o’clock.
“I know. I get it, so stop already.” She and the clock, which had kept an eye on parsonage occupants for more than a century, had regular conversations, and she could afford to be snippy.
In the kitchen she reheated the untouched coffee she’d made half an hour before, and then made her way into her study.
The council president was on speed dial, but she took several long sips and said a quick prayer for patience before she pressed the right button and waited for him to answer.
Garrett Whelan was an attractive man in his late forties. He owned a copy and print business, Presto Printing Press, which he’d franchised in six other cities in North Carolina. His financial acumen was an asset on the board, although he was so concerned with the bottom line that he sometimes forgot the human equation.
Tonight that was not a point in his favor.
From the beginning of his association with the church, Garrett had served the congregation in various ways, beginning as a devoted advisor to the youth fellowship. He’d held that position for three years until his personal life took a downward spiral and his wife departed, taking their two adolescent children and a large chunk of the couple’s resources. Since then he had served in administrative positions until he’d worked his way up to become the president of the council.
Garrett was in the second and final year of his term now, and seasoned in the ways of the congregation. Even though she was concerned about his reaction, Analiese knew he would understand all the ramifications of the problem she was about to dump in his lap.
After he answered and they exchanged pleasantries she launched right in. “Something’s come up that the council needs to know,” she began. She gave a short explanation of the way the situation with the Fowlers had transpired.
He listened, and despite every desire to keep the conversation short, Analiese forced herself to systematically explain what she had done and why. She didn’t want unanswered questions that quickly turned into rumors.
Once she’d finished Garrett gave a low whistle. “You were in a spot, weren’t you?”
She relaxed a bit, glad he understood. “Afraid so. I just couldn’t send them out into the night when we have an empty apartment. It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and they didn’t have a thing to be thankful for.”
“You took them up the side stairwell?”
During the creation of the apartment a committee had dutifully built a covered stairwell along the outside of the building as a private entrance to the third floor. But these days a few of the steps needed repair before they were completely safe.
“I couldn’t risk it, Garrett. Nobody should be using those stairs.”
“If you took them in through the parish house you realize they now have access to everything there?”
“I’m afraid they had it already. The side door wasn’t locked. It sticks and sometimes the lock doesn’t catch.”
“We
