Read Online The Body in the Gazebo by Katherine Hall Page - Free Book Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
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dark robe billowing behind him. He reminded her of that cartoon character in Li’l Abner with a permanent rain cloud over his head.
She struggled to keep her mind on what was going on in the pulpit. The New Testament lesson. Sherman Munroe was the lector this morning. His ruddy, vulpine face shone with righteous well-being and he licked his lips before starting. She suppressed a shudder. It was like watching some sort of animal stalking its prey. Tom, in contrast, was pale and his face was drawn. He looked as if he needed to lie down.
“The Gospel lesson for today is from John, chapter six, verses four through fifteen.”
Sherman read well. It was the familiar story of the loaves and the fishes. Tom was using this reading as the reference point for his sermon. Late last night he’d given it to her to read—something he rarely did. They had been pretending to watch television—a DVD of the British comedy series The Vicar of Dibley . When he hadn’t laughed even once—it was the Easter Bunny episode—she’d suggested bed. He’d switched off the set and asked if she’d “look over” what he’d written for the morning. She’d poured herself a glass of merlot and made him a steaming mug of cocoa. She knew he’d wanted to make sure there was nothing in the sermon’s references to the miracle—multiplying much from little—that could be misconstrued. Of course there wasn’t and this reassurance seemed to be what he needed to finally fall asleep. She lay wide awake, shaken by what this accusation, not even made directly yet, was already doing to her husband.
The sermon touched upon the question of what it is that sustains us—those material and nonmaterial things that feed our lives. What goes into our individual loaves and fishes, and how we can use our faith to nourish not just ourselves but others—making those five barley loaves fill twelve, and even more, baskets. Tom was an able and often eloquent preacher. There were people in church every Sunday, not members either of First Parish or the denomination, who came solely for the sermons, which was fine with him. That his words could inspire, comfort, provoke thought, or simply interest someone was gratifying. It was one of the things he’d hoped his ministry might accomplish over the years. His own brand of loaves and fishes.
Today, though, Faith feared his words would be minimized by a delivery that was not up to his usual. He had stumbled during the Call to Worship and again when reading the General Thanksgiving. She only hoped he could get through the entire service.
Sherman was done and stepped down, resuming his seat across the aisle from Faith. Front row right. He glanced her way and lifted an eyebrow.
She hated him.
It had been his idea to hire an independent CPA who specialized in nonprofits to do the annual financial review. It had always been done in house prior to this year. She found herself wondering why he had not merely suggested it, but insisted on it. “Good business practice” was his oft-repeated rationale. But a church wasn’t a business! During those discussions, Tom had come home from vestry meetings alternately furious and exhausted. “It’s a total waste of money! What does the man think? That Mr. Brown has a Swiss bank account?” Mr. Brown was the sexton.
Sherman prevailed. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d been such a successful CEO and now here were the results.
Faith directed her gaze to the early spring flowers—jonquils, tulips, and daffodils in pale yellows and ivories—that graced the altar in memory of Ursula’s late husband, who had died at this time years before Faith had come to Aleford. She was sorry neither Ursula nor Pix could see them. Especially Pix, she thought, feeling a bit selfish. A terrible time to be away. Sam Miller, one of Boston’s most esteemed lawyers, would make quick work of this mess. Well, he’d be back in less than a week and surely nothing would happen that fast. She thought
She struggled to keep her mind on what was going on in the pulpit. The New Testament lesson. Sherman Munroe was the lector this morning. His ruddy, vulpine face shone with righteous well-being and he licked his lips before starting. She suppressed a shudder. It was like watching some sort of animal stalking its prey. Tom, in contrast, was pale and his face was drawn. He looked as if he needed to lie down.
“The Gospel lesson for today is from John, chapter six, verses four through fifteen.”
Sherman read well. It was the familiar story of the loaves and the fishes. Tom was using this reading as the reference point for his sermon. Late last night he’d given it to her to read—something he rarely did. They had been pretending to watch television—a DVD of the British comedy series The Vicar of Dibley . When he hadn’t laughed even once—it was the Easter Bunny episode—she’d suggested bed. He’d switched off the set and asked if she’d “look over” what he’d written for the morning. She’d poured herself a glass of merlot and made him a steaming mug of cocoa. She knew he’d wanted to make sure there was nothing in the sermon’s references to the miracle—multiplying much from little—that could be misconstrued. Of course there wasn’t and this reassurance seemed to be what he needed to finally fall asleep. She lay wide awake, shaken by what this accusation, not even made directly yet, was already doing to her husband.
The sermon touched upon the question of what it is that sustains us—those material and nonmaterial things that feed our lives. What goes into our individual loaves and fishes, and how we can use our faith to nourish not just ourselves but others—making those five barley loaves fill twelve, and even more, baskets. Tom was an able and often eloquent preacher. There were people in church every Sunday, not members either of First Parish or the denomination, who came solely for the sermons, which was fine with him. That his words could inspire, comfort, provoke thought, or simply interest someone was gratifying. It was one of the things he’d hoped his ministry might accomplish over the years. His own brand of loaves and fishes.
Today, though, Faith feared his words would be minimized by a delivery that was not up to his usual. He had stumbled during the Call to Worship and again when reading the General Thanksgiving. She only hoped he could get through the entire service.
Sherman was done and stepped down, resuming his seat across the aisle from Faith. Front row right. He glanced her way and lifted an eyebrow.
She hated him.
It had been his idea to hire an independent CPA who specialized in nonprofits to do the annual financial review. It had always been done in house prior to this year. She found herself wondering why he had not merely suggested it, but insisted on it. “Good business practice” was his oft-repeated rationale. But a church wasn’t a business! During those discussions, Tom had come home from vestry meetings alternately furious and exhausted. “It’s a total waste of money! What does the man think? That Mr. Brown has a Swiss bank account?” Mr. Brown was the sexton.
Sherman prevailed. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d been such a successful CEO and now here were the results.
Faith directed her gaze to the early spring flowers—jonquils, tulips, and daffodils in pale yellows and ivories—that graced the altar in memory of Ursula’s late husband, who had died at this time years before Faith had come to Aleford. She was sorry neither Ursula nor Pix could see them. Especially Pix, she thought, feeling a bit selfish. A terrible time to be away. Sam Miller, one of Boston’s most esteemed lawyers, would make quick work of this mess. Well, he’d be back in less than a week and surely nothing would happen that fast. She thought
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