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concern as Ethel told her about the argument she’d heard between the Hatfields.
    “That doesn’t sound good at all,” Adelaide said.
    “Trouble in paradise,” Ethel predicted.
    Reverend Underwood entered the room, stopping just inside the door. Adelaide heard Susan’s sharp intake of breath. She also saw the way the minister seemed to go out of his way not to look in the woman’s direction.
    “It’s almost time to open. People are waiting at the front door. I predict this bazaar will be a great success,” the minister said. His voice seemed a little strained to Adelaide, as though he was trying too hard to be upbeat.
    “I’ll be back in a moment.” Adelaide watched as Susan hurried to the door then out into the hallway.
    Ethel cleared her throat. “Well, I hope she makes it back here before the onslaught. We’ll be swamped. This is always the first place they come.”
    Adelaide excused herself. She had to continue her rounds. The next room was where her class, the Faithful Followers, met each Sunday morning. The theme today, however, was art. Charcoal drawings, oil paintings, pastels and various ceramic items as well as sculptures, all created by members with artistic inclinations, covered the tables. Adelaide surveyed the items, thinking that they were quite good, really. In fact, she had her eye on a cheerful pastel drawn by the church organist, Marian Canfield.
    Tending this room were Dora Carmody, who took a break from running the diner each year for this event, and Fran Underwood, the preacher’s wife.
    “Hold that floral pastel for me, will you Dora?” Adelaide said. She pointed to the small drawing of sunflowers on the nearest table.
    Dora picked up the painting, which was in a nice little gold frame. After placing it on the cash table at the back of the room, she joined Adelaide, who was walking around looking at the other merchandise.
    “Honestly, Adelaide, I don’t know what is wrong with Fran today. She’s in another world. I know she’s been crying. No amount of makeup can cover those telltale bloodshot, swollen eyes,” Dora whispered.
    Adelaide glanced across the room at Fran Underwood. She seemed oblivious to their presence. “You’re right. She looks terrible.” It was true. The woman never was a fashion plate, but today the shapeless gray tweed dress made her look completely washed out. Her lackluster hair hung limply around a pale face. She was walking aimlessly around the tables, adjusting items as she went, but Adelaide could tell her mind was somewhere else.
    “You know,” Dora continued, “last night right before choir practice, I saw Susan Hatfield coming out of Reverend Underwood’s study. She had the same look on her face, like she was about to lose it.”
    Adelaide thought about Susan’s strained expression a few minutes ago in the other room. “Maybe she’s in counseling.”
    Dora sniffed. “I think they’d been holding hands. I saw them let go the minute they saw me. Do you suppose that’s part of his counseling technique?” She looked guilelessly at Adelaide.
    “It’s not up to us to speculate,” Adelaide said rather sharply. Then softening her tone, she added, “Times are hard for everyone here right now. I’m sure the Hatfields are feeling the pressure, too.”
    Before Dora could respond, Adelaide left the room, continuing on to the next one. As she entered the Young Christians classroom that also doubled as a meeting room for the Youth Fellowship, she was pleased to see all the beautiful hand-made afghans and quilts. On a separate table at the back of the room a special quilt was on display. The sign on the table read— Silent Auction…Make Your Bid Here .
    Each Wednesday over the past six months, the women from the adult Sunday school classes had met in the church social hall to hand sew the project from scraps of material donated by members of the congregation and others in the community. The results were truly amazing. Adelaide wrote down her bid,