despised, along with “connect the dots.” And now that he was on the vestry, things were even worse. Faith speculated about what emergency Sherman had dreamed up. Dissatisfaction with the brand of coffee being used for coffee hour? A reiteration of his ongoing objection to the haphazard way Sherman thought the sexton placed the prayer books and hymnals in the pews?
Faith had been looking forward to telling Tom about her conversation with Ursula and all of Niki’s news. Like Ursula, Niki had recognized that the don’t-tell rule excluded spouses and conceded that Faith would have to let Tom know she was pregnant.
Yet, most of all, Faith was annoyed about the stress this Munroe jerk was causing Tom. She was tempted to call his cell and tell him to come home for dinner. It was bad for him to skip meals. His postpancreatitis care had specifically included this warning. Someone occasionally brought cookies to the vestry meetings, but you couldn’t count on it. And the meeting better not go late. Tom needed his sleep.
Faith was working herself into a very righteous snit when she heard the car pull in. Amy’s cookies were in one oven, giving the house a delicious smell, and Faith had optimistically popped the country ham and potato au gratin made with a Gruyère-laden béchamel sauce in the other. She had broccoli crowns, the stems saved for soup, in a pot ready to steam at the last minute. Ben had set the table—it was his turn—and it looked as if the night would be salvaged.
The moment she saw her husband’s face, she told Amy to go join Ben and read while he worked. Faith would watch the cookies, and dinner might be a while.
She didn’t have to ask what was wrong. The words came rushing from Tom’s mouth like an avalanche, each one pushing the next forward with deadly force.
“The independent audit we authorized has uncovered a shortfall. A large shortfall. Over ten thousand dollars is missing. Missing from the Minister’s Discretionary Fund.”
Faith was having trouble taking it in. She stood for a moment with the casserole she’d removed from the oven in her hands. “The Minister’s Discretionary Fund?”
Tom sat down heavily, still in his coat.
“Yes, the Discretionary Fund.”
Faith knew what it was. She’d just been repeating his words, hoping somehow she had heard him wrong. She hadn’t.
The Minister’s Discretionary Fund. Money that the Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild alone had access to and for which he was solely accountable.
Chapter 3
N ormally Faith liked the Sunday morning service, which was a good thing since she seemed to have been destined to sit through endless numbers of them starting in early childhood. Unlike First Parish, her father’s church didn’t have child care until relatively recently, so her mother had had to tote Faith and Hope with her, settling in the last pew on the right with books, puzzles, and boxes of animal crackers to keep her children occupied and quiet. It must have been nice for Jane Sibley when her daughters were finally old enough for Sunday school and she could enjoy the service without worrying about crumbs on the pew cushions. Faith’s first Sunday after arriving in Aleford as a new bride, she had instinctively zeroed in on the same pew, only to be escorted to the front left by the Senior Warden. “This is where the minister’s wife always sits.”
Today she was glad she couldn’t see the faces behind her, although she imagined any number of eyes were boring holes in her back as she prayed for the hour to go quickly. What had happened at last night’s meeting should be only from the vestry to God’s ear, but more likely it was from the vestry to Aleford’s.
She wanted to get Tom back home. He’d been up and out of the house before she’d had breakfast on the table, grabbing an apple cinnamon muffin she had just taken from the oven and resisting her plea to sit down and eat. She’d watched him striding over to the church, his unfastened
Faith had been looking forward to telling Tom about her conversation with Ursula and all of Niki’s news. Like Ursula, Niki had recognized that the don’t-tell rule excluded spouses and conceded that Faith would have to let Tom know she was pregnant.
Yet, most of all, Faith was annoyed about the stress this Munroe jerk was causing Tom. She was tempted to call his cell and tell him to come home for dinner. It was bad for him to skip meals. His postpancreatitis care had specifically included this warning. Someone occasionally brought cookies to the vestry meetings, but you couldn’t count on it. And the meeting better not go late. Tom needed his sleep.
Faith was working herself into a very righteous snit when she heard the car pull in. Amy’s cookies were in one oven, giving the house a delicious smell, and Faith had optimistically popped the country ham and potato au gratin made with a Gruyère-laden béchamel sauce in the other. She had broccoli crowns, the stems saved for soup, in a pot ready to steam at the last minute. Ben had set the table—it was his turn—and it looked as if the night would be salvaged.
The moment she saw her husband’s face, she told Amy to go join Ben and read while he worked. Faith would watch the cookies, and dinner might be a while.
She didn’t have to ask what was wrong. The words came rushing from Tom’s mouth like an avalanche, each one pushing the next forward with deadly force.
“The independent audit we authorized has uncovered a shortfall. A large shortfall. Over ten thousand dollars is missing. Missing from the Minister’s Discretionary Fund.”
Faith was having trouble taking it in. She stood for a moment with the casserole she’d removed from the oven in her hands. “The Minister’s Discretionary Fund?”
Tom sat down heavily, still in his coat.
“Yes, the Discretionary Fund.”
Faith knew what it was. She’d just been repeating his words, hoping somehow she had heard him wrong. She hadn’t.
The Minister’s Discretionary Fund. Money that the Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild alone had access to and for which he was solely accountable.
Chapter 3
N ormally Faith liked the Sunday morning service, which was a good thing since she seemed to have been destined to sit through endless numbers of them starting in early childhood. Unlike First Parish, her father’s church didn’t have child care until relatively recently, so her mother had had to tote Faith and Hope with her, settling in the last pew on the right with books, puzzles, and boxes of animal crackers to keep her children occupied and quiet. It must have been nice for Jane Sibley when her daughters were finally old enough for Sunday school and she could enjoy the service without worrying about crumbs on the pew cushions. Faith’s first Sunday after arriving in Aleford as a new bride, she had instinctively zeroed in on the same pew, only to be escorted to the front left by the Senior Warden. “This is where the minister’s wife always sits.”
Today she was glad she couldn’t see the faces behind her, although she imagined any number of eyes were boring holes in her back as she prayed for the hour to go quickly. What had happened at last night’s meeting should be only from the vestry to God’s ear, but more likely it was from the vestry to Aleford’s.
She wanted to get Tom back home. He’d been up and out of the house before she’d had breakfast on the table, grabbing an apple cinnamon muffin she had just taken from the oven and resisting her plea to sit down and eat. She’d watched him striding over to the church, his unfastened
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