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with the esteemed founder of this church—’’
    Edith quickly stepped forward. “Cleta, we’d love to find a place for this in our home. Winslow might not enjoy looking at himself every day, but I would. I think it’s a wonderful likeness.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” Cleta spoke in a flat and final tone. “But the church member who donated funds for the portrait specifically stipulated that it had to hang in the vestibule. We wanted to honor him for ten years of service, so that’s the way it has to be.”
    â€œBut no one else—’’ Winslow sputtered.
    â€œNo one else has lasted ten years,” Cleta finished. “You’re it.”
    Edith sighed heavily. The money had probably come from Olympia de Cuvier, and that lady was used to getting her way. But Olympia didn’t know how stubborn Winslow could be . . . or how insecure.
    â€œI’m afraid,” he told Cleta, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, “that such a painting will appear . . . too ostentatious and vain. Please. Make an appeal to the donor for me. It can hang in the vestibule after I’m gone.”
    â€œNow what would be the sense in that?” Cleta’s face fell, she waved her hand as if she could dismiss the matter with a simple gesture. “Now, you two had better get down to the fellowship hall and cut that cake. Georgie Graham is going to drive everybody nuts until you get there!”
    Realizing that she’d overestimated her husband’s enthusiasm for the gift, Edith slipped her arm through Winslow’s and led him toward the stairs.

    When the last paper cup had been tossed away and the last crumb sent home with the Grahams, Cleta gave the basement a final look, then climbed the stairs and found her husband in the graveled parking lot. Floyd sat behind the wheel of their canopied golf cart, the Sunday sports section in his hand.
    â€œI’m ready to go,” she said, sliding onto the seat beside him. “If you can tear yourself away from the paper, that is.”
    The newsprint rustled in response, and after a long moment Floyd lowered the paper and folded it away. “Can’t blame a man for trying to keep up with things,” he said, tossing the sports section onto the backseat. “Paper just came in on the ferry.”
    Cleta folded her arms as the golf cart lurched to life. “I don’t mind you reading the paper. But on a day as important as today, I’d think you’d want to talk about the preacher.”
    Floyd lifted a brow as he pressed on the accelerator. “Whaddya want me to say?”
    Cleta shrugged. “Maybe that we did a good job? That the pastor liked his gift?”
    â€œI don’t know that he liked it much.” Floyd rubbed the stubble of his beard as he steered the cart down Ferry Road, then took a sharp turn into the alley behind their home, the Baskahegan Bed and Breakfast. “Seems to me he was a little put off by it.”
    â€œHow,” Cleta asked, her stare drilling into her husband, “can a man be put off by the sight of his own face? His wife provided the photo we gave the artist. And it’s not like Winslow Wickam is unattractive. It’d be one thing if he were as ugly as a gargoyle, maybe you wouldn’t want that hanging in your church, but the pastor is a fine little fellow, dignified and clean and honest-looking—“
    â€œAll the same, if he had his druthers, I think he’d druther have a book or something.” Floyd pulled the cart into the shade and turned the key. “You asked my opinion, so there it is.”
    â€œWell.” Cleta fell silent, then shifted her gaze back to her husband. “He won’t be put off by what we have planned for the end of the month. Reverend Rex Hartwell is coming from Portland with big news. I’m praying that some things will be changing around here.”
    Floyd gave her an uncertain look.