His clothes hung loose on him, so he ate three eggs with bacon and biscuits. A shaky consensus emerged from the booth that more snow was on the way.
He crossed the Chesapeake on the Bay Bridge. The highways on the eastern shore had not been plowed well. The Jaguar skidded twice, and he slowed down. The car was a year old, and he couldn't remember when the lease expired. His secretary had handled the paperwork. He'd picked the color. He decided to get rid of it as soon as possible and find an old four-wheel drive. The fancy lawyer's car had once seemed so important. Now he had no need for it.
At Easton, he turned onto State Route 33, a road with two inches of loose snow still resting on the blacktop. Nate followed the tracks of other vehicles, and soon passed through sleepy little settlements with harbors filled with sailboats. The shores of the Chesapeake were covered with heavy snow; its waters were deep blue.
St. Michaels had a population of thirteen hundred. Route 33 became Main Street for a few blocks as it ran through the town. There were shops and stores on both sides, old buildings side by side, all well preserved and ready for the postcard.
Nate had heard of St. Michaels all his life. There was a maritime museum, an oyster festival, an active harbor, dozens of quaint little bed-and-breakfasts which attracted city folks for long weekends. He passed the post office and a small church, where the Rector was shoveling snow from the front steps.
The cottage was on Green Street, two blocks off Main, facing north with a view of the harbor. It was Victorian, with twin gables, and a long front porch that wrapped around to the sides. Painted slate blue, with white and yellow trim, the house had snow drifts almost to the front door. The front lawn was small, the driveway under two feet of snow. Nate parked at the curb and fought his way to the porch. He flipped on lights inside as he walked to the rear. In a closet by the back door, he found a plastic shovel.
He spent a wonderful hour cleaning the porch, clearing the drive and sidewalk, working his way back to his car.
Not surprisingly, the house was richly decorated with period pieces, and it was tidy and organized. Josh said a maid came every Wednesday to dust and clean. Mrs. Stafford stayed there for two weeks in the spring and one in the fall. Josh had slept there three nights in the past eighteen months. There were four bedrooms and four baths. Some cottage.
But there was no coffee to be found, and this presented the first emergency of the day. Nate locked the doors and headed for town. The sidewalks were clear and wet from melting snow. According to the thermometer in the window of the barbershop, the temperature was thirty-five degrees. The shops and stores were closed. Nate studied their windows as he ambled along. Ahead, the church bells began.
ACCORDING to the bulletin handed to Nate by the elderly usher, the Rector was Father Phil Lancaster, a short, wiry little man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and curly hair that was red and gray. He could've been thirty-five or fifty. His flock for the eleven o'clock service was old and thin, no doubt hampered by the weather. Mate counted twenty-one people in the small sanctuary, and that included Phil and the organist. There were many gray heads.
It was a handsome church, with a vaulted ceiling, pews and floors of dark wood, four windows of stained glass. When the lone usher took his seat in the back pew, Phil rose in his black robe and welcomed them to Trinity Church, where everyone was at home. His voice was high and nasal, and he needed no microphone. In his prayer he thanked God for snow and winter, for the seasons given as reminders that He was always in control.
They struggled through the hymns and prayers. When Father Phil preached he noticed Nate, the sole visitor, sitting in the next to last row. They exchanged smiles, and for one scary moment Nate was afraid he was about to be introduced to the small crowd.
His sermon was on the subject of enthusiasm, an odd choice given the average age of his congregation. Nate struggled hard to pay attention, but began to drift. His thoughts returned to the little chapel in Corumba, with the front doors open, the windows up, the heat drifting through, the dying Christ suffering on the cross, the young man with the guitar.
Careful not to offend Phil, he managed to keep his eyes fixed on the globe of a dim light on the wall behind and above the pulpit. Given the thickness of the preacher's eyeglasses, he figured his disinterest would go unnoticed.
Sitting in the warm little church, finally safe from the uncertainties of his great adventure, safe from fevers and storms, safe from the dangers of D.C., safe from his addictions, safe from spiritual extinction, Nate realized that for the first time in memory he was at peace. He feared nothing. God was pulling him in some direction. He wasn't certain where, but he wasn't afraid either. Be patient, he told himself.
Then he whispered a prayer. He thanked God for sparing his life, and he prayed for Rachel, because he knew she was praying for him.
The serenity made him smile. When the prayer was over, he opened his eyes and saw that Phil was smiling at him.
After the benediction, they filed past Phil at the front door, each complimenting him on the sermon and mentioning some brief bit of church news. The line moved slowly; it was a ritual. "How's your aunt?" Phil asked one of his flock, then listened carefully as the aunt's latest affliction was described. "How's that hip?" he asked another. "How was Germany?" He clutched their hands and bent forward to hear every word. He knew what was on their minds.
Nate waited patiently at the end of the line. There was no hurry. He had nothing else to do. "Welcome," Father Phil said as he grabbed Nate by the hand and arm. "Welcome to Trinity." He squeezed so tightly Nate wondered if he were the first guest in years.
"I'm Nate O'Riley," he said, then added, "From Washington," as if that would help define him.
"So nice to have you with us this morning," Phil said, his big eyes dancing behind the glasses. Up close, the wrinkles revealed that he was at least fifty. His head had more gray curls than red.
"I'm staying in the Stafford cottage for a few days," Nate said.
"Yes, yes, a lovely home. When did you arrive?"
"This morning."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"Well, then you must join us for lunch."
The aggressive hospitality made Nate laugh. "Well, uh, thanks, but-"
Phil was all smiles too. "No, I insist. My wife makes a lamb stew every time it snows. It's on the stove now. We have so few guests in the wintertime. Please, the parsonage is just behind the church."
Nate was in the hands of a man who'd shared his Sunday table with hundreds. "Really, I was just stopping by, and I-"
"It's our pleasure," Phil said, already tugging at Nate's arm and leading him back toward the pulpit. "What do you do in Washington?"
"I'm a lawyer," Nate said. A complete answer would get complicated.
"What brings you here?"
"It's a long story."
"Oh wonderful! Laura and I love stories. Let's have a long lunch and tell stories. We'll have a grand time." His enthusiasm was irresistible. Poor guy was starved for fresh conversation. Why not? thought Nate. There was no food in the cottage. All stores appeared to be closed.
They passed the pulpit and went through a door leading to the rear of the church. Laura was turning off lights. "This is Mr. O'Riley, from Washington," Phil said loudly to his wife. "He's agreed to join us for lunch."
Laura smiled and shook Nate's hand. She had short gray hair and looked at least ten years older than her husband. If a sudden guest at the table surprised her, it wasn't evident. Nate got the impression it happened all the time. "Please call me Nate," he said.