Endless Chain by Emilie Richards

breeze tickling his skin. He was going to enjoy the evening.
    “I’m impressed,” he told the president of his board of deacons, Gayle Fortman, an attractive single mother of three teenaged boys. “Now if the rain just holds off…”
    “It’s supposed to.” Gayle’s short blond hair stuck out in a hundred directions, and she had a streak of dirt on one cheek. She had been on ladders for hours stringing lights. Two of her sons had helped and were now wheeling clumps of grass to the church compost bin.
    “People will have a good time,” he promised. “Even if we don’t raise a lot of money, this gives everyone a look at what we’ve done to the house. Good feelings will be worth a lot down the line.”
    “Not everyone’s happy with this project.”
    He knew she wasn’t talking about tonight’s fund-raiser. “You’ve been getting calls?”
    “Sam, everything you do pisses off somebody. I need a hotline.”
    Sam supposed three rambunctious boys taught a mother not to beat around the bush.
    “Most of the calls are from perpetual malcontents who weren’t happy we hired you in the first place,” she continued, when he didn’t defend himself. “I suppose they would call if Jesus was the pastor, too.”
    “Probably more often. At least I don’t turn water into wine.”
    She had a deep, satisfying laugh. “A lot of people are coming tonight. The summer’s ending. This is the final social event before Labor Day. For a last-minute, middle-of-the-week celebration, we did good, huh?”
    “It’s a testament to the church’s well-being that when we decided to hold a fund-raiser, there were few dates not booked for something else.”
    “You do keep things moving. I’ll give you that.”
    He took that as a compliment, although it was questionable. “I’ve had four interviews for a new sexton. I’ll be choosing by the end of the week.”
    “Good. Marie Watson called to tell me the women’s bathroom was not clean enough to suit her. Twice.”
    “She’s only been to church twice all summer.”
    “Well, we know where she spent her time when she was here.”
    One of Gayle’s sons called her away, and she lifted a hand in farewell. “I’m going home for a shower, but I’ll be back in half an hour. If the caterer doesn’t show up in fifteen minutes, call me?”
    He watched her go and wished he had four dozen more just like her in the congregation.
    The caterers did arrive, and competently erected grills and serving tables before they began to set out covered bowls of salsas, guacamole and sour cream. The Sunday school superintendent arrived with the largest donkey piñata Sam had ever seen and strung it from an appropriate tree limb far away from where the food would be served.
    He slipped home for a quick shower, too, and changed into a colorful shirt and dark pants.
    He beat Christine to the party by close to an hour. The mariachi band, dressed in full black-and-gold regalia, was playing a lively version of “La Bamba” when she arrived in an off-the-shoulder white dress cinched at the waist with a wide silver belt.
    “The fiesta has begun,” she said, kissing his cheek, then wiping off her lipstick. “And they’re actually in tune.”
    She sounded surprised, and he couldn’t chide her. Considering what the committee was paying the band, he had expected the men to take turns strumming one guitar. Instead, seven members had arrived, complete with elaborate costumes and expensive instruments.
    “They’re great,” Sam said. “You ought to hear them sing ‘Malaguena Salerosa .’” He hummed a few bars.
    “Better them than you.”
    People began to come forward to be introduced to Christine. He did his part, and watched her chat with his parishioners and those of the surrounding churches who were helping with La Casa. He had seen Christine in action a thousand times and knew how much more energy she was capable of expending, if she thought it mattered. She was polite tonight, even friendly, but