The Body in the Bouillon by Katherine Hall Page Page B

had grown close to. Her upbringing and continued sojourn in a parish had provided her with strong, difficult-to-define beliefs—Tom referred to her as a combination of pantheism, early Christianity, and anthropotheism, with special emphasis on the “anthro” part—but whatever she was, she thought she should certainly have become used to death by now. She’d been to enough funerals. Yet she wasn’t. No matter what she believed lay ahead, it was still the end of this life.
    â€œFarley never married, but he has a number of nieces and nephews and their children, all of whom were devoted to him, I understand. He spoke to me about his wishes regarding a funeral a year or so ago. He wanted to be cremated and buried in Aleford in the Bowditch plot with a simple graveside service. One of his nieces lives in Beverly Farms, so I’ll probably have to go up there this evening or tomorrow morning to talk with her.”
    â€œNot tonight, Tom. Go in the morning if you can. Let’s have a quiet night here.”
    Tom realized he hadn’t been home for the entire evening all week. He also realized there was a Celtics game on. But that had nothing to do with it.
    â€œGood idea. There’s no rush, since they have been expecting this for years, and I don’t feel as pressed as I
might to comfort the bereaved or whatever it is I do. Besides, it’s been an incredibly busy week.”
    â€œBesides,” Faith added, “there’s a game on. I’ll dig out the chips and you drive to the packy for some brew.”
    Tom laughed. “I won’t watch if there’s something you’d rather do or watch yourself,” he offered nobly.
    â€œNo, darling. After Cyle, you deserve it.” She stood up and pulled Ben to his feet. “I’ll be in the kitchen making soup.”
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    On Sunday Faith sat in church waiting for the lector to find her place and start the lesson. Cyle had lighted the second Advent candle, and that appeared to be the extent to which Tom was willing to allow him to assist in the service. Eventually he’d have to increase his duties—even, God forfend, let him preach—but Tom had told her he didn’t want to traumatize the congregation more than was absolutely necessary. It appeared Cyle was a singer, and Tom had immediately thrust him into the choir. Faith looked over her shoulder to the organ loft. She recognized him immediately from Tom’s description. He stood gazing down on the congregation with the suggestion of a saintly smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. He was quite pretty. Brown, artfully tousled curls. Big, blue eyes and a pink-and-white complexion. A perfect choirboy. She turned back hastily as Mr. Thompson, the organist and choirmaster, shot her a look with “Why me, oh Lord?” written all over it. Cyle must have been making musical suggestions.
    It was a lovely, sunny morning and the church was, as usual in winter, freezing cold. Faith had tried to snare one of the pews with the hot-air registers when she had arrived as a new bride; the usher had gently but firmly steered her to a pew below the pulpit and told her it had always been the minister’s family’s spot—and always would be, Faith had mentally finished for him. It might not be the most comfortable, but it did have a good view. She could keep
an eye on Tom, her fellow parishioners during the hymns, and the altar. Today the Alliance had decorated it with spruce boughs, holly, pinecones, and a few crimson Christmas roses. They were keeping the poinsettias for the grand finale.
    She realized the lesson had started and dutifully turned her attention to Saint Luke: “And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring.” She stopped listening after “perplexity.” These were perplexing times. Forget about the world at