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Miner’s Lane and turned to follow the curve of the harbour down to Mill Pond Road and the church, Parker took his wife’s hand in his and squeezed it, staring straight ahead and saying nothing while Mike discussed in great detail the problems he was having repairing the roof on his tool shed.
    June Leedale returned the squeeze but kept her head turned to the window, blinking fiercely, her other hand at her mouth.
    Compton, Massachusetts, lies at the elbow of Cape Cod, midway between the frantic tourist activity of Hyannis near the mainland and the artistic community of Provincetown on the outer tip of the Cape. The town has always considered itself distinct from other Cape communities, an attitude perceived as snobbishness by its neighbours. There are no shops promoting bargain souvenir T-shirts from roadside signs, and no drive-in fast food franchises are permitted within the town limits. Any gay citizens of Compton are prudent enough to remain in their cedar-lined closets rather than flagrantly parade their alternate lifestyles in public, as they did in “P-Town.”
    At the intersection of Miner’s Lane and Mill Pond Road, Mike Gilroy veered west to follow Mill Pond Road’s winding route into town. Slowing at the entrance to the parking lot of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, he touched the horn button just as a heavy red-faced man stepped from a vintage Mercedes sedan and waved to them in an exaggerated gesture of welcome. Inside the car a middle-aged woman with short dark hair struggled with the door handle, her face screwed into an expression of anger and frustration. She spoke sharply to the man, who erased his smile and hurried around the front of the car to seize the outer door handle.
    â€œOld Blake’s getting shit again,” Mike Gilroy laughed, cruising slowly past the Mercedes to park in the next marked space beyond it.
    Parker Leedale grunted. “Why doesn’t he just get the door fixed?”
    â€œI think he just likes to keep Ellie on edge,” Bunny Gilroy suggested. “Seems like those two people aren’t happy unless they’re snapping at each other.”
    â€œThey call it honesty.” Mike Gilroy switched off the Volvo’s engine and looked around him. “Can you believe it?” he asked, inspecting the parking lot. Only one other car was in sight, a gray Plymouth parked three spaces away. “Looks like we’re the only ones here. Except for Reverend Willoughby.”
    â€œI still don’t know why Blake and Ellie were invited,” June Leedale said absently. “Cora never cared for either of them.”
    Parker Leedale stepped from the car and stretched, raising his arms high above his head. The starched white collar chafed his neck and one of his executive-length dark socks had collapsed around his ankle. He rested his foot on the bumper of the Volvo and pulled his sock up over his calf. Cora would’ve been just as happy if we had arrived in jeans and sweatshirts, linked arm in arm and singing old Pete Seeger songs, he thought.
    â€œJust get the damned thing fixed!” The woman’s voice was sharp and shrill, her command punctuated by the slamming of the Mercedes’s door. “God, you’d think I was asking for the moon.”
    â€œNice to see you in the mood for a funeral, Ellie,” Mike Gilroy called across the hood of the car.
    â€œWell, Jesus, the thing’s been like that for months,” Ellie Stevenson replied in the same harsh voice. Her scowl faded, replaced by a smile that spread broadly beneath her pug nose and dark eyes, features that conflicted with the woman’s severe hair style. Her flowery print dress had puffed short sleeves and a wide flounce.
    â€œWaiting for the part to arrive from Germany.” Her husband Blake stood behind her, his massive hands thrust in the pockets of a camel-hair sports jacket that barely contained his bulk. He scanned the near-empty parking lot.