Even Now by Susan S. Kelly

wonderful and most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful,‘” her voice called as they walked away. “Shakespeare,
     right?”
    Chilled, I hadn’t answered, heard only their low laughter rows away, the sound of books tumbling to the floor, then a pregnant
     silence. Had Daintry stumbled, toppling books with her elbow? Or had she been pushed against the shelves in a spontaneous
     passionate embrace? That. That was the last time I’d seen Daintry O’Connor.
    “So you’re a gardener,” she said to me, ignoring Doesy. “Like your mother.”
    “I’m jealous! I feel left out,” Doesy squealed. “You two already know each other!”
    I waited for Daintry to answer, certain of her response. Once upon a time we knew exactly what the other would say, spoke
     in unison more often than not.
Jinx you owe me a Pepsi onetwothreefourfivesixseven.
I’d let Daintry find the words, define and encompass for Doesy our strong, long ties.
    “Hannah and I were just neighbors for a while,” she said, gazing over my new neighbor’s head, and mine. “Like the two of you.”

From Hannah’s quote book:
    Moments big as years. . .
    —John Keats
Chapter 4
    W hat are you doing?”
    My sleep-fuzzed brain was slow to respond to Ceel. “Being woken up by you,” I said into the phone.
    “Jeez. Of all the gin joints in all the world.”
    Breakfast aromas wafted into the room. Then I remembered. The party. Daintry.
    “What are the odds,” I agreed, stretching. “I move to Rural Ridge for the way things used to be, and she appears. Answered
     prayers.”
    “Yeah, and there’s some quote about grief and answered prayers,” Ceel said. “I hardly had a chance to speak to her. What’s
     she like now?”
    “She’s . . .” I curled my toes. “Did you know you were double-billing me with Daintry?”
    “No, but that’s nothing new, is it?”
    I hesitated, caught by a question that, however playful and casual, held a darker, more tangled truth in its answer. Something
     smelled scorched.
    “Coming to church? It’s Peter Whicker’s first service.”
    His face—open, teasing—replaced Daintry’s, a face I’d known much longer.
“Come support me,”
he’d said. “I know.”
    “You do?”
    I sniffed again. Burned batter, from Mark’s waffle iron. The first one off the griddle is never right.
    Ceel hadn’t exaggerated. St. Martin’s–in-the-Mountains was lovely, picturesque. Tiny and stone walled, the church was sequestered
     from the curving road amid tall oaks and poplars. The arched entrance was a single planked door whose handle was a thick iron
     bracelet.
    “A rich family who summered in Rural Ridge built it as their personal chapel,” Ceel whispered as we took a pew. “All the stained-glass
     windows are given in memory of some Chisolm or another.” Scanning the congregation for Daintry, I scarcely heard her.
    The church’s interior was dim, lit only by sconces on the rough rock walls. The wooden pew was glossy, and I was touched to
     see squashed velvet cushions, kneelers of another era, tucked beneath them, though as a child I’d hated those square lumps.
     My Methodist peers didn’t kneel, and I longed to be one of them, to attend their youth fellowship meetings and retreats to
     Lake Junaluska, wherever that was. Sundays after spending the night with a Methodist friend, I admired the orderliness of
     their communion, the miniature cups of grape juice and cubes of white bread passed like cocktails and canapés. First Methodist
     had been so
white,
pristine and uncluttered. I’d even envied their sincere and clean-lined rectory, home of my eighth-grade boyfriend, Alan
     Geer.
    St. Francis, my family’s church, was located on Cullen’s outskirts and populated with strange characters who genuflected or
     crossed themselves at mysterious intervals in the service, elderly women wearing lace doilies on their heads. In contrast
     with First Methodist’s clipped square of churchyard and wide, marble Main