Read The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) for Free Online

milling around St. Germaine and in need of a brief respite.
    There were two miracles that occurred on the fateful Thanksgiving weekend that St. Barnabas burned. First and most importantly, no one was hurt despite the fact that the church had been full of people attending a Thanksgiving pageant. Added to that, there was no other damage to the town of St. Germaine, even though the church sat on the town square in close proximity to many other structures. This was thanks, in large part, to the St. Germaine Volunteer Fire Department. They couldn't save the church—that much was clear to everyone watching—but they could try to contain the fire, and contain it they did with a mix of heroics, teamwork, and many muttered prayers.
    The second miracle was the one that the town still talks about, at least those folks who believe in angels.
    On the morning after the fire, it was discovered that while everyone was occupied with the chaos that was raging on the town square, the altar of St. Barnabas—the holy table that had been part of the fabric of the church since 1842—had been moved from the burning building into the park across the street. When the congregation gathered together in the frosty morning air, intent on having a service of thanksgiving, they found the altar, upright and unscathed amongst the brightly colored leaves, the communion bread and the wine sitting on the marble top.
    The rebuilding took nineteen months and the new building looked almost exactly like the old. The dilapidated old house on the lot behind the church, left to St. Barnabas when the owner died, had been torn down and the lot turned into a garden, a lovely addition that had been landscaped to take advantage of the mature maples, oaks, poplars, and dogwoods that, in summer, formed a canopy across the almost-one-acre lot, and in autumn, afforded as colorful a view behind the church as Sterling Park did in front.
    I entered the church through the side door and heard voices coming from Gaylen Weatherall's office almost immediately. Marilyn, the church secretary, was sitting glumly at her desk, pretending to push some papers around. She nodded toward the adjoining office and I knocked on the door jamb, then entered when Gaylen motioned me in.
    Meg was sitting in one of the fabric-covered wingback chairs facing Gaylen's desk, drinking a cup of coffee, the picture of calm. Bev Greene, the parish administrator, was in the other wingback, close enough to the big desk to drum her fingers across the dark mahogany. There were four folding chairs set up in the office behind the two upholstered ones, but the other three people besides myself—Billy and Elaine Hixon and Carol Sterling—chose not to sit. The air of resignation was palpable.
    "Well," started Gaylen, "I guess we all know why we're here."
    No answer. I glanced at Elaine. She looked as though someone was about to punch her.
    "I've been elected to be the Bishop of the Diocese of Northern California."
    "Aw, crap!" said Billy. "I knew it."
    "I asked them to hold off on the announcement until I informed the parish."
    "Well, the cat's out of the bag now," I said.
    A puzzled look crossed Gaylen's face.
    "Meg sent me a text while I was at the Slab informing me of the meeting," I explained. "I'm afraid that conclusions were jumped to. By now, the word is on the street."
    "Can't you keep your texts to yourself?" asked Bev.
    I raised my hands. "It wasn't my fault. The phone dinged."
    Meg graciously changed the subject. "When do you leave?" she asked Gaylen.
    "This will be my last Sunday," said Gaylen. "I'm not going to drag this out since we've all gone through this before. I'm welcome to start my new position as soon as I want."
    "Oh, that's just great," said Carol. "What are we going to do for a priest? All Saints' Sunday is coming up and Advent is right around the corner."
    "I shall not leave you comfortless," said Gaylen with a smile. "Everything is planned through Christmas. You'll be happy to know we