Ghost at Work by Carolyn Hart Page B

be so hurt. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with Raoul except it’s always the same old story.” She pointed at the phone. “Bill calls and he can’t come home for dinner. Tonight he’s at the hospital. Old Mr. Worsham is dying and he’s with the family. I understand. But if it isn’t the hospital, it’s a vestry meeting or the finance committee or a Lions Club dinner or somebody who needs counseling or…” Tears trickled down pale cheeks. “It’s always something for somebody and never for me. I know it’s wonderful he can be rector of such a fine old church—”
    Of course. Bill was the rector of St. Mildred’s. That made everything clear.
    â€œâ€”but he never has a free minute. He spends more time with other people’s kids than he ever does with Bayroo—”
    I had to interrupt. “That’s such an interesting name. What is its origin?”
    â€œOh, that’s funny.” She was laughing and crying at the same time. “Bayroo is Bailey Ruth. After you. She was born on your birthday,and when Grandmother heard she had red hair, she asked me please to name her after you. Bayroo couldn’t say Bailey Ruth when she was little, just the beginnings of both names. She’d say ‘Bai Ru,’ and we started calling her Bayroo.”
    â€œAnd it stuck.” I tried not to sound too proud. No wonder I felt such empathy with Bayroo. And here was her mama, Kitty’s granddaughter, in about the direst straits possible. Obviously, I had my work cut out for me. “Bayroo looks like a happy girl.”
    Kathleen used both hands to wipe her cheeks. She sat up straight. “So why am I such a mess?”
    I was crisp. “Don’t take everything personally.”
    She flared right back. “I didn’t know ‘for better or worse’ meant always taking second place to the church. Bill’s wonderful. He’s good and kind and funny and sweet. That’s why I fell in love with him. But he never takes time for himself and that means he never takes time for me.”
    I looked at her kindly. “Which brings us, I expect, to Daryl and Raoul.” I fervently hoped there had not been a romantic entanglement with Daryl Murdoch. I remembered that Errol Flynn mustache. Surely Kathleen had better taste. As yet, I knew nothing about Raoul, though I had some suspicions.
    Her mobile lips drooped. “I felt up to here”—she chopped the edge of her hand at her throat—“with the ECW and the Altar Guild and Winifred Harris, though I know she’s a nasty exception. Most of them are old dears who are as kind as can be. Sweet Mrs. Douglas keeps bringing me cherry pies. She knows I’m blue and she thinks a cherry pie solves everything. Sadie Marrs brings by the nicest clothes from her shop”—she touched her turtleneck—“in exactly my size and insists they were used in a style show so of course she can’t sell them and they are as good as new and of course they are new and she knows we don’t have a dime and she thinks pretty outfits will get Bill’s attention. Sometimes I think everybody in town knows I’m achurch widow. If I were a golf widow, I could learn to play the game, but what can I do about the church?”
    I understood. The rector of a small church has to do practically everything himself and works from dawn to midnight. His wife is always onstage. As for Mrs. Harris, I knew the type. I’d dealt with a few overbearing ladies in my years at the church. I remembered, with a distinct lack of charity, Jolene Baker, who never thought anyone could iron the linens as well as she and didn’t mind saying so.
    Kathleen looked forlorn. “Bayroo’s busy as can be. That’s what I want for her, but the house is empty now most of the time. She’s in the choir and she plays tennis and soccer and half the time she’s having dinner