Tough Cookie

Marla munched salad and considered. “I do feel sorry for Rorry Bullock, I suppose. You know, when you work in Killdeer, you can’t afford to have decent housing. It’s like Aspen that way. The rich folks have driven the cost of housing out of sight—I hear some workers have to live in tipis in the woods all winter. Can you imagine that? Rorry lives in a trailer park, but it’s not much more secure than a tipi. St. Luke’s is raising money to help her buy a new car. Can you believe somebody borrowed her car without even asking? Banged it into something and then just left it parked by her trailer! What a drag!”

“That’s terrible!” I exclaimed, and thought of my own accident. “When did it happen?”

Marla shrugged. “Not sure when. Recently, though. I’m glad the church is going to help her buy another one.”

Tom said, “How’d you hear all this?”

“She’s on the prayer list, but the money request isn’t confidential,” Marla replied as she licked the last of her salad dressing from her fork. “Thank goodness! I’m so tired of keeping secrets!”

I couldn’t help laughing; neither could Tom. Arch grinned, too, perhaps remembering how Rorry had showered him with hugs when he was little. He announced to us all that he was going to do another physics experiment. He shyly added that he was sorry he’d left his stuff in the hall. Then, to my astonishment, he opened his bag of ribbon candy to share with everyone.

CHAPTER 13

The next morning, I stood in my beautiful-but-drainless kitchen and admired the heaping platters of library reception cookies and muffins. Even when things aren’t going very well, I consoled myself, it’s best to bake. I fixed myself an espresso and filled small vases with cheery sprigs of holly and ivy for the library tables. Tom came in, kissed me, then whipped together a golden German pancake that puffed so hugely even Arch smiled. By seven-thirty, I had everything packed into the Rover and we were ready to roll.

As the Rover chugged behind Tom’s Chrysler, snow-flakes swirled down from an ominous charcoal sky. Despite the fact that we were heading for the much-complained-about early Sunday service at St. Luke’s, Arch seemed less sullen than usual. That might mean Lettie was coming to the service. Then again, maybe it was the pancake.

Marla waved to us from a pew near the front. As we slid in next to her, I shot her a look of surprise. She usually did not get up to attend this service. Maybe her prayer-chain duties demanded she haul herself out of bed at dawn so as not to miss any rumors. Marla hated to think people were having crises without her knowledge.

I focused on the liturgy. At least, I tried to. An unidentified worry gnawed at me. I’d always told the Sunday schoolers to hand their problems over to the Almighty. Now I tried to take my own advice.

When we reached the beginning of the intercessory prayers, one of the ushers handed the priest a note. This practice of passing forward written prayers had been presented as a way to bring us together. It smacked a bit of TV-evangelist-land, but never mind. The priest solemnly intoned that we needed to pray for a former parishioner who was struggling with a pregnancy. This far-flung member of our parish family, he added, had also had her car stolen and vandalized.

“You see,” Marla leaned over to whisper. “I told you.”

Rorry. Questions about her behavior were what bothered me. And now this. When, I wondered, when was her car stolen and smashed? I would call her as soon as I finished at the library, and make that formal offer to bring casseroles to freeze until her baby arrived. Maybe she’d open up and tell me why she was in such a snarly mood at the fund-raiser in honor of her dead husband. Maybe she’d also share what had happened to her vehicle, so close to the time when mine had been struck.

The service ended. I hugged Arch. Tom kissed my cheek. Arch had spent Saturday snowboarding and visiting his father at the Furman County Jail, only to come home to a wrecked science project. So this afternoon, he was starting over on the project and memorizing the lines from Spenser he was supposed to recite in English class this week. Tom would take him home, before going down to the department for a few hours. He wanted to check up on the information I’d given him. Marla asked what type of goodies I would be serving at the library. I told her they were delicious, guaranteed to please, and plentiful. What more could a caterer give? She said she’d be first in line. I took off.