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mornings.”
    “Well, I guess it’s nice to know I won’t have to spend an eternity in hell by myself. I’d hate to think I’d be stuck down there with the rest of my family.”
    “You don’t have to worry about that, sugar. We’re the good guys. But I’m still not going to church. Every time I’ve tried to go to service it feels like Reverend Thomas is preaching on the sins of the body and lust, and how our duty is to settle down and procreate. And if we don’t, we’re damned to spend an eternity roasting in hellfire. I don’t mind the settling down part, but the procreation part makes me break out in hives. I figure I’ve got some years of fun left before I start all of that. And I can get that same kind of abuse from my mother without having to wake up early and listen to Betty Schumaker butcher How Great Thou Art. Last time I was there she’d set it to rap music so it would be more current for the younger folks in the audience. I thought Reverend Thomas was going to have a heart attack. ”
    “Shut up,” I said, laughing.
    “I’m serious,” he said, a smile quirking his mouth. “That woman has not perfected her beat boxing techniques. I thought her false teeth were going to fly right out.”
    “That’s not what I’m talking about,” I said, slapping him on the arm. “Go back to your mother. She couldn’t possibly be abusing you in any way. That woman would commit murder for you, and she’d beat Reverend Thomas on the head with her handbag the whole time she was pulling you out of the fiery depths of hell.”
    “Maybe,” he said, lips twitching. “But that’s easy for you to say. You haven’t had to listen to her talk about how nice it would be if she had grandkids before she gets too old to enjoy them.”
    “That’s what you get for being an only child.”
    “Which is exactly what I told her. She stopped talking about it once I started signing her up to get information from adoption agencies. Apparently, she doesn’t want to raise another child. She just wants to spoil mine and send them back home with me.”
    “I always thought your mother was a smart woman.”
    Jack grunted and we drove on in companionable silence. St. Paul’s was almost a hundred years old. It was a large, square box of freshly painted white wood with a sharp steeple and a bronze bell that was rung every blessed Sunday morning and could be heard all over town. I’d gotten used to sleeping with my head under my pillow so I wouldn’t be disturbed by the reminder that I could add sloth to my considerable list of other sins.
    We pulled into the recently paved parking lot behind the church, the smell of fresh tar still heavy in the air, and Jack parked in the little graveled driveway beside the rectory. We got out of the car and headed to the front door of Reverend Thomas’s personal lodgings, but I heard the crunch on the gravel behind us and we both turned around to see who was there.
    “Lorna,” I said on a gush of breath. I couldn’t decide if I was more annoyed at Lorna for sneaking up on us, or at myself for startling so easily.
    Lorna Dewberry was a small sprite of a woman in her mid-forties, and she’d been the church secretary for almost twenty years. She held a basket of what looked like herbs hooked over her wrist, and a pair of shears and gardening gloves lay on top of them. If I ever bothered to do yard work, it looked like I spent half my time rolling in the mud, but Lorna looked fresh and spit-polished.
    Her face was smooth with only a few fine lines around pale blue eyes, and she never bothered with makeup of any kind. She’d been overheard telling more than one person that makeup was the Devil’s tool. Her hair was a mousy brown that was always pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and she was allergic to color of any kind. I’d never seen her in a dress that wasn’t brown or navy or black. Sometimes I liked to think she added color to her wardrobe by wearing red lacy underwear or