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order,” Harry assured him. “We can get one more year out of the leaf blower, and I fixed the zero-turn mower this summer. We’re in good shape except for one small necessity.”
    Neil froze. “Yes?”
    “There’s a small portion of the slate roof right on that northwest corner which gets hit the hardest,” said Harry. “Two of the shingles have dislodged, and with one more hard blow, I’m afraid we will lose a larger section than need be. I climbed up there.”
    “Harry, I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Reverend Jones admonished her.
    “Rev, I’m in charge of buildings and grounds.”
    The good pastor said, “Surely there’s a man who can do some of this.”
    “Are we going to have the Sexism 101 talk?” BoomBoom laughed. “We are supposed to be long past that caveman talk, Rev.”
    “No, but …” The Reverend Jones sighed heavily.
    Looking at the beloved clergyman, Harry compromised. “How about next time I go up on the roof, I take someone with me, possibly someone male who is actually a roofer? I can do it but we need a professional up there.”
    This truly alarmed Neil. “Roofing costs an arm and a leg!”
    Keeping her tone level, Harry replied, “It does. However, if we don’t attend to this right now before the weather turns—and you know how bad the winds get in winter straight through March—we will most certainly lose more slate shingles. The water will run into the beams and travel from there. I doubt it will come through the ceiling, though, unless a huge hole is blown into the roof. We’d need a big tree limb to accomplish that—I think. But that sort of silent water damage will come back to haunt us, years from now when the building’s wood beams rot out. Pay now or pay later, big-time.”
    The members of the vestry board were persuaded, as was the reverend.
    Neil, defeated, asked, “Do you have a ballpark figure?”
    “That’s why I would like to get a professional roofer up there. My personal guess is if we do this now, we can do it for about thirty-five hundred dollars.”
    “Thirty-five hundred! For two shingles?” Neil’s voice cracked.
    “No. I estimate we will need to replace about a two-foot square. True slate shingles are expensive, plus we have to try and match shingles that are over two hundred and forty years old. The labor is expensive, too, but once we have the materials, it’s not an all-day job. Oh, and I expect there will be a gas surcharge if the gas prices go up again.”
    “That’s the truth. Everyone’s doing it.” BoomBoom, her beautiful mane of blonde hair catching the light, nodded. “There’s no way business, small business, can absorb those prices and still make a profit.”
    “How about the post office?” asked Harry, the former postmistress. “I can’t even imagine what a one-cent increase in gasoline does to their budget. Delivery trucks, cars in every state in this nation—it has to be mind-boggling.”
    Wesley Speer shook his head. Also new to the board, he owned a high-end realty firm. They’d felt the downturn but not nearly as badly as Realtors in Las Vegas or other large cities. Wesley believed once the foreclosure mess cleared up, maybe in another two years, the economy might pick up some momentum. He knew he’d never again see the craziness, the flipping of houses and farms, that he saw in, say, 2007, but he was confident sales would rebound. If people can get work, they want to own a home. He’d built a life’s career on that.
    Susan joined the conversation. “Did you read in the paper where our area, Richmond in particular, has the worst postal service in the country?”
    “Your husband’s in the House of Delegates,” Neil teased her. “Make him fix it.”
    “Virginia’s state government can’t fix the federal postal system, but you know Ned would if he could. I swear that man is a glutton for punishment. He actually loves being in the House of Delegates.” Susan threw her hands up in the air.
    “He must be a