“I hadn’t heard, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” She handed Christy three boxes. “I want to make it very clear these don’t prevent STDs,” she said. “You should have your partner use a condom each and every time to protect yourself.”
Christy grimaced. “There won’t be very many times,” she said. “My boyfriend’s in the marines. He’s going off to California for advanced training.”
Laura Rayfield wouldn’t have dreamed of talking about Christy McAlistair’s sex life, but she had no qualms passing along the information about Quinn Tracey when she met several nurses at the Main Street yarn shop for their weekly stitch and bitch session. They, in turn, told her that one of their colleagues was in the market to sell her house.
“She’s spitting mad about it, evidently,” Laura said to Roxanne Lunt at lunch the next day. “The husband’s taken a new job with the state police in Middletown. Alta Brewer, who’s the senior charge nurse and who hears everything, said it was very last minute. He had to do it. No one at the police department will talk to him, evidently.”
Roxanne’s passion was preservation, but selling houses paid her bills. “Have they signed with a Realtor yet?”
“I don’t think so. You should call them. Until they sell the house, he’s got one godawful commute.”
Roxanne fished her Palm Pilot out of her purse. “What’s the name?”
“Rachel Durkee. Mark and Rachel Durkee.”
Roxanne was delighted with the house. It was, she told the Durkees, in “move-in shape,” and the only fix-up she recommended was a new coat of paint in the kitchen. She was thinking about possible buyers when she got a visit at the historical society from St. Alban’s new deacon, who had broadened the reach of the church’s fundraising.
“I know you’re the mover and shaker behind the historical society, Ms. Lunt.” Elizabeth de Groot shook Roxanne’s hand warmly before taking a seat. “I feel that your organization is a natural to help us in our efforts to maintain one of Millers Kill’s most architecturally significant buildings.” She spread several photos of the church from the 1800s on Roxanne’s desk.
“I think most of these are originally from our collection.” The director smiled. “I think we might be able to make a grant.” The niceties observed, Roxanne leaned forward. “Now let me ask you, you’re commuting from the Schuylerville area, is that right?”
“Yes. Although after the terrible tragedy on Route 57, I have to admit I’m a nervous commuter.”
“Have you thought about relocating up here? I can guarantee you your equity will go a long, long way in Millers Kill. And I’ve just listed the sweetest little Greek revival farmhouse.”
“Well,” the deacon said, “I do have reason to believe I may be needed at St. Alban’s even more in the future than I am right now. I suppose it’s something to consider.”
Roxanne raised her eyebrows.
“At the suggestion of our bishop,” Elizabeth dropped her voice, “Reverend Fergusson is enlisting—or is it enrolling?—well, never mind. She’s joining the Army National Guard.”
No one from Millers Kill was around when Clare signed the papers in Latham. It took them a while to figure out exactly what she was doing there. Eventually the recruiting station’s major came back from lunch and she was handed over to him.
He looked over her service record. “Not to discourage you, Reverend, because God knows, we need qualified combat support pilots, but how come you aren’t querying the chaplaincy corps?”
She sat stiffly, her back not touching the chair. Funny how the body language came right back. “I’ve spoken to my bishop about this. He . . . agrees that the diocese and the army would be best served by my keeping a hand in my former profession. As it were.”
The major steepled his fingers. “Keeping a hand in? You do realize there’s a strong likelihood of the 142nd being called up at some point. Even if we don’t see action overseas, we have a history of responding to natural disasters. Is your, uh, church prepared to deal with your absence?”
“Yes, sir.”
He slid the papers across the table toward her. “Okay, then.”
She signed. The major stood. Clare stood. She raised her right hand. She pledged to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, domestic and foreign.
The major saluted. She saluted. He smiled at her and shook her hand. “Welcome to the 142nd Aviation Battalion, Captain Fergusson.”
Julia Spencer-Fleming, All Mortal Flesh
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