A Fountain Filled With Blood

Clare was reminded of her mother’s response when her brother Brian had said the same thing during his girlfriend’s first visit: You haven’t done it in my house.

“If the Episcopal church is going to put its official stamp of approval on a couple, it wants to be satisfied the pair knows what they’re doing. Priests can refuse to marry a couple who seem unready for the responsibilities of marriage.”

“Really? Does that ever happen?”

Clare shook her head. “Not much. What’s more common is that the priest might schedule more premarital counseling, or direct the couple to other professionals who can deal with the problem areas—a sex therapist, a financial planner, what have you. It’s weird, really, when you think about it. An engaged couple will spend months picking out menus and flowers and clothes, but only three hours sitting down and talking about what happens after they make a lifetime commitment.”

Landry smiled cynically. “Well, it’s hardly a lifetime commitment anymore, is it?”

“It should be,” Clare said. The words made her think about Russ, and she felt a sting. Enough about marriage. She wanted to know more about Bill Ingraham. She shoved her hands into her pockets and encountered her key ring. “Look, Peggy, if you have to wait awhile for your ride, why don’t you come over to the rectory? It’s just next door.”

Landry slid her purse strap over her shoulder, her long, thin fingers caressing the leather. “My nephew is supposed to pick me up. Mal is nothing if not unreliable, but he did say he was getting into the car as soon as he hung up, so I ought to stay here. If he doesn’t find me where he expects, he’s likely to get distracted, and then I won’t see him again until Tuesday morning.”

“Does he live in Millers Kill?”

Landry let out a short laugh. “He doesn’t live anywhere right now. No, that’s not entirely true. He’s staying at my house until either he can get his act together or I lose all patience and throw him out.”

“Did he lose his job? Or is it that he just doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life?”

“I think he knows what he wants to do. He’s just having trouble living a life of wealth and leisure without any visible means of support.”

Clare grinned. “Yes, I’ve heard that can be tricky. Are you sure I can’t get you to—”

“My God, I can’t believe it. He’s broken his land speed record.” Landry gripped Clare’s arm and tugged her through St. Alban’s great double doors. Stepping into the sunshine from the thick stone interior was like being released from an ancient prison, going from dimness into light, from cool to warm, from stillness to life. Clare couldn’t help closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun for a moment before turning to secure the antiquated iron lock. She could hear Landry striding across the lawn toward the parking lot on the opposite side of Elm Street. Clare dropped the keys back into her pocket and trotted toward the lot, where Landry was standing beside a Volvo sedan.

“Don’t worry, I won’t keep you all day,” Landry was saying to the driver. She turned to Clare. “Thanks, Reverend Fergusson. Look, about Diana and Cary’s counseling. I’m throwing a party for them out at my place this Friday. Seven-thirty. Come an hour early and I promise I’ll lock the happy couple in the den with you and let you go at it.” Her gaze flicked over Clare’s outfit. “We’ll be dressing. Oh, let me introduce you to my nephew. Mal, come out of there and say hi.”

The young man who reluctantly got out from behind the steering wheel could have stepped just as reluctantly from the pages of a glossy magazine. He was beautiful, in the full-lipped, thin-bodied, blank-eyed way of models. His shining hair fell in an artless tousle that could only have come from frequent and expensive attention, and his five o’clock shadow was more of a statement of style than a missed shave.

“Malcolm, this is Clare Fergusson. She’ll be officiating at Diana’s wedding. Clare, Malcolm Wintour.”

Upon closer viewing, Clare could see he wasn’t quite as young as she had thought. Telltale lines framed his eyes, which were extremely dilated. It looked as if this exotic hothouse specimen had taken some sort of pepper-upper before breaking that land speed record. “How do you do,” she said, shaking his hand. His grip was stronger than she would have guessed from his fashionably wasted frame. He dropped his gaze and mumbled like a shy adolescent. It sounded like “Pleasameetcha.”

“I’m afraid we have to get going. Come along, Mal, lots of stops to make before I can turn you free.” Malcolm got back behind the wheel and leaned over to unlock the passenger door for his aunt.

Clare bit the inside of her lip in frustration. She had spent all her time talking about weddings and the development, and now Peggy was leaving and she didn’t know a thing more about Bill Ingraham than she had sitting on her front porch. Weddings. The development. The development.