found her way along slippery polished tile floors to the transept, following it to the cozier side chapel that had been added early in the twentieth century by an industrialist friend of the Vanderbilts.
Historically the chapel had been a place for quiet contemplation, but most often these days it was used for children’s worship services. Felt banners made by one of the Sunday School classes hung between two narrow stained-glass windows of contemporary design. Stylistically wrought jewel-tone doves and olive branches vied with off-center renditions of the Star of David, the Taoist yin-yang and multiple Buddhas, both smiling and glum.
The woman sitting in the front row staring at the banners was neither, but then Charlotte Hale was not a woman who often showed emotion. In the ten years of her ministry here, Analiese had learned that the Charlottes in a congregation were the members an alert minister should most fear.
She debated what to do. She couldn’t believe Charlotte had come for Minnie’s memorial service. Beyond that, the service didn’t start for almost an hour, so mourners could attend after work.
Analiese almost turned away, but something told her not to. Maybe it was the way Charlotte was sitting. Maybe it was the stillness in the chapel and the sanctuary beyond, plus the fact that Charlotte had entered this quiet place alone.
She walked through the doorway, making enough noise to alert the other woman. Charlotte was not dressed for a memorial service. She wore a casual lightweight turtleneck with three-quarter sleeves and a skirt of the same mulberry. Her auburn hair was windblown, and she hadn’t bothered with jewelry except tiny gold studs in her earlobes. She looked as if she’d run out for milk and bread and forgotten her way home.
“Charlotte?”
Charlotte turned to look at her. Her expression was blank, her cheeks pale, and she looked exhausted, which was unusual. “Reverend Ana.” She nodded, but she didn’t smile.
“I’m not sure what to do,” Analiese said. “Offer comfort or silence. You look like you might need both.”
“I was just thinking about these banners.”
Analiese didn’t sigh, but that took effort. “I’m afraid our first and second graders aren’t at their artistic peaks,” she said, but not as an apology. “They don’t know it, though. They get such a thrill from seeing their work hung here for a week or two.”
“Then you’re planning to take them down?”
“Only because the other Sunday School classes are making more, and they all want their turn.”
Charlotte turned back to the banners. “I hope all of them are as funny as these. The Star of David on the left has seven points. Did you notice? And that Buddha—” she pointed to a thin stick of a man “—looks like he’s been on the South Beach Diet.”
Analiese was minimally encouraged. “He’s probably historically correct. The fat Buddha is actually based on the folktale of a Chinese monk named P’utai, who was eternally laughing and happy, not to mention well fed.”
“And the children and the rest of us are learning these stories from you in church every Sunday.”
“It’s a very small world, and we’re all neighbors.”
If Charlotte disagreed, at least she had the grace not to say so. “I was glad to find the front door unlocked. When I was a girl…about a million years ago…I used to wish I had a quiet spot like this to come and sit.”
Analiese didn’t know Charlotte’s age. There were a thousand committed members here and many more who simply showed up on holidays. She had long ago given up trying to memorize every biography. She guessed Charlotte was only in her late forties, perhaps early fifties. Most likely well-executed surgery had given back a portion of the perfection age had stolen, so she was an attractive middle-age woman who knew how to make herself even more so. It was odd to hear her refer to herself as old, but today her shoulders drooped and her face looked drawn, as if she was trying to live up to her words.
Analiese made an attempt to crack open the invisible door between them. She dropped down beside her, making sure to leave enough room so Charlotte would feel comfortable. “You needed a place to think?”
“I was on the Council Executive Committee the year we decided to keep the building locked unless there was a service taking place, but I’ve regretted that every time I’ve wished I could slip inside, sit in a pew and stare up at the rose window. We were worried about vandalism.”
“It’s a valid concern.”
“I thought so at the time, yet here I am.” She turned to gaze at Analiese. “Because the door was open. Is there a reason?”
“There’s a memorial service in an hour. Felipe probably propped it open after he cleaned, or he didn’t bother to lock up after the florist delivered the arrangements.”
“I noticed them. Very sweet, like somebody went to an abandoned farmstead and picked everything that was blooming.”
Analiese thought just how fitting the flowers must be, then, and how Minnie’s many friends had planned it that way. “I haven’t seen the arrangements. I was just on my way up front to check and make sure everything’s set up correctly before I robe.”
“I didn’t know about a memorial service. Is it a church member?”
“Not a member, no. But a church as large as ours was needed to hold this one.”
“Somebody important, then.”
Analiese nodded. “Yes, she was important.” She paused, then plunged. “The service is for a woman named Minnie Marlborough.”
Charlotte’s expression didn’t change, but she was suddenly still, because certainly the name was familiar to her. “Minnie Marlborough died?”
“Last week.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been out of town for a while. I didn’t know. Had she been ill for long?”
Analiese couldn’t figure out how to answer that. From the moment she had seen Charlotte’s car, she had known this conversation might be necessary, although she hadn’t been sure Charlotte would remember Minnie. Now she was just as confused about the direction to take as she had been before she murmured her prayer in the parking lot.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” she said after a long pause. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I can tell you the truth, or I can tell you some version that’s easier to hear.”
“I remember the first time I heard you speak in our pulpit—I was overwhelmed by your honesty.” Charlotte paused, but not long enough to allow Analiese to respond. “But I was also fascinated.”
“Were you?”
“At the time you had to know you were destroying your chances of being called as our pastor, but that didn’t stop you from telling the truth, exactly the way you saw it.”
“Here I am, anyway,” Analiese said, “ten years later, and both of us completely baffled about how it happened.”
“I voted against you.”
“I
