All Mortal Flesh by Julia Spencer-Fleming Page A

her hand—a quick peek proved that no, there wasn’t any more grease on it now than there had been fifteen minutes ago—and shook. “This is our church secretary, Lois Fleming.”
    “I hope this doesn’t come as a total surprise to you, Ms. Fergusson. Please tell me the diocese let you know I was going to be assigned to St. Alban’s.”
    “Oh, no, no,” Clare said. “I mean—yes, they did let me know. In person. I just haven’t had my coffee yet.” She made a noise that was meant to convey self-deprecating amusement but wound up sounding like she was clearing her throat. “Why don’t we go into my office? We can chat there. Lois, will you hold my calls?”
    She ushered Deacon de Groot down the hallway and into her office. The room had the usual accoutrements one would expect of a rector: a bookshelf filling one wall, a large and graceful quarter-sawn oak desk, two chairs flanking a fireplace, and a sofa not far away, complete with boxes of tissues close at hand for people in counseling.
    However, there were some unique touches as well. The two chairs were salvage from a WWII-era destroyer’s admiral’s quarters. The wall behind the desk was hung with framed aviation sectional maps. Interspersed among books on theology and pastoral care were mementos such as a photo of a much younger Clare and her crew in Kuwait, an Apache helicopter clock whose rotors ticked away the minutes, and a flight helmet.
    “My goodness,” the new deacon said. “This is positively bristling with martial energy. I take it you were a pilot? In the army?”
    Clare unscrewed the Thermos of coffee she always brought to work. “Yes.” She breathed in the steam as she poured herself a mug. She waggled her clean Virginia Episcopal Seminary mug toward the other woman. “Would you care for some? It’s dark-roasted Sumatran. I grind it myself.”
    De Groot smiled apologetically. “I’m not a coffee drinker. Do you have any tea?”
    Clare gritted her teeth. God save her from tea drinkers. Always with the water not hot enough and the soggy little bags dripping. “Let me get Lois on that for you,” she said. She picked up the phone and buzzed the secretary. “Lois, will you make a pot of tea for Deacon de Groot?” She hung up quickly enough to avoid Lois’s answer.
    “So, what were we talking about? The room. Yeah, when I first got here, I just wanted lots of my favorite things around me. But I’ve come to realize the novelty value helps to break the ice when people meet with me.” Clare gestured toward the chairs. “Like now.”
    De Groot took a seat, her pleasant little smile unchanging as she eyed Clare’s DEATH FROM THE SKY! mug. “I realize this must have come as a shock, Ms. Fergusson. Going off for a week’s retreat and getting home to a new deacon.”
    “Please, call me Clare. And are you Beth? Liz?”
    “Elizabeth.”
    “Elizabeth.” Of course. “I can’t lie, it was a surprise. I didn’t hear from Willard Aberforth until yesterday afternoon.” She propped an enthusiastic look on her face. “But I’m looking forward to working with you,” she lied.
    “Oh, thank goodness. I feel just the same way. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about all the energy and innovation you’re bringing to this parish.”
    I just bet you have
. “Since you know more about St. Alban’s than I do about you, maybe you can tell me how you see your role here. You’ll be helping me out with services and… ?”
    De Groot beamed. “Oh, there’s so much more that a deacon can do besides assist during services! This is a good example of how I believe I can be most of service to you. I want you to think of me as a repository of knowledge. Church culture, church tradition, church law—I’m here to give you the information you need to do the best possible job you can.”
    Clare set her mug down so the winged rattlesnake would be visible to her new deacon. “I
do
have a master’s in divinity,” she pointed out.
    “And I have a