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to arrive at the church a full hour before services were scheduled to begin. She liked having the time to run through the hymns and her prelude on the temperamental pump organ before the congregation began to gather. But on this morning, as soon as she approached the church, she realized that she was not to have that quiet time to herself.
    There was no mistaking the sound of Harrison Starbuck’slaughter as it rolled up the center aisle and out through the open church doors to greet her. His obvious good humor rumbled from the depths of him, like a wave building power before finally exploding onto the beach. In the environment of the church with its high beamed ceiling and echoing acoustics, the sound reverberated, hanging on the morning air.
    Nola stepped into the small vestibule and considered her options. He had not yet spotted her. She could take a walk through the church cemetery until he had vacated the premises, or she could refuse to abandon her normal routine. She chose the latter, squaring her shoulders as she marched into the sanctuary.
    “Ah, here she is now,” Oliver Franks, the choir director, announced.
    Nola walked straight to the pump organ across from the choir loft at the front of the chapel. “Good morning, Oliver. Mr. Starbuck.” She removed her gloves and set them down along with her purse as she slid onto the polished organ bench and positioned her music for the prelude.
    “Harry has agreed to favor the congregation with a solo this morning,” Oliver said. “And not a minute too soon since Minnie has come down with laryngitis and won’t be in church today.” Oliver’s wife, Minnie, often sang a solo while the ushers accepted the offering.
    “I’m so sorry to hear that Minnie is ill,” Nola said and meant it. Minnie Franks was a good neighbor and friend. The two women shared a great deal in common, including their concern over the influence of the actors’ colony on the young people in the village. “Is there anything I can do for her?”
    “Not a thing. She’ll come around,” Oliver assured her. “Now then, Harry here has suggested ‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’ and I completely agree that the hymn was made for a richbaritone like his.” Oliver opened the hymnal and set it on the organ in front of Nola. “Shall we give it a try?”
    During this entire exchange, Harrison Starbuck had said nothing, but Nola was keenly aware that his eyes had never left her face. She adjusted the hymnal and pulled out several of the organ’s stops. Then she raised her hands high over the keys and struck the opening chords. But when Starbuck touched her shoulder, she missed the timing and the organ screeched to a halt. She glanced first at his hand still resting on her shoulder and then up at him.
    The scoundrel was smiling jubilantly. “Perhaps a bit less pomp and circumstance?”
    “It is a hymn of praise,” she reminded him stiffly.
    “Sometimes praise can be whispered as effectively,” he countered.
    “Perhaps you would prefer no accompaniment at all.” She could see Oliver nervously wringing his hands as he observed the exchange.
    “Interesting idea,” Starbuck said as he leaned past her and struck a key, his face close enough that she could see the smoothness of his freshly shaved jaw. He hummed the note, then stood straight and tall and faced the empty pews.
    “Holy. Holy. Holy.” He sang each word as if it stood alone, allowing the sound to build without increasing the volume. And then he paused as the third holy echoed across the rafters. When all was silent, he continued. “Lord God Almighty.” This he held as if sending up a plea for God’s attention.
    Nola could not help it. His fresh interpretation of the old standard was mesmerizing and for that moment she completely forgot who was offering the hymn. Her fingers found the notes and ever so softly, she began to play as he sang, “Early in the morning, our song shall rise to Thee.”
    Starbuck looked back at her and nodded and