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“Terrible thing down to the church. They know anything yet?”
    â€œNot that they’ve shared with me, no.”
    He stepped closer, moving side to side.
    â€œIs it true what I heard—­the gal was naked when you found her?”
    â€œNo.” Luke watched the numbers whirl. “Not true.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNope, sorry.”
    Billy moved a step and a half closer, trying not to seem eager, but his eyes belied his interest, as if he were entitled. “Hearing a lot of rumors, anyway.”
    â€œOh, I’m sure.” Luke smiled. He pulled the nozzle out and inserted it in the pump, walking tenderly from having banged his knee earlier. “Probably best not to pay a lot of attention to that sort of thing, Bill.”
    â€œNo. Wouldn’t mention it, ’cept when you hear one that you know ain’t true—­ can’t be true—­when it’s about someone you know couldn’t be involved . . .”
    Luke realized from the way Billy’s eyes had narrowed that he was talking about him. He smiled again and decided to let it go. “Anyway, take care, Bill.”
    On the little “strip mall” along east Main Street, he stopped at Palmer’s Florist, where a reedy, silver-­haired man he didn’t recognize was selling a bouquet of tulips to a young blond woman.
    â€œPastor Luke?” the man said, once he completed the transaction. “That you?”
    Luke lifted his eyebrows.
    â€œGeorge,” he said.
    â€œOh.” Luke realized, shaking hands, that this must be the owner, George Palmer. Like a lot of ­people in Tidewater County, George was only there occasionally during off-­season.
    â€œSorry, didn’t recognize you,” Luke said. “I’m used to always seeing attractive young women working here.”
    George Palmer smiled and looked down, as if embarrassed. “Had to return for some family business. Hoping I’d find warmer weather. What happened, anyway?”
    â€œWish I could say.”
    â€œWe’re hearing all kinds of stories.”
    Â­â€œPeople do like to tell stories, don’t they?”
    â€œYes, they do.”
    Luke bought two roses and continued his drive east. One of the roses he would leave at Tidewater Hospice with Millicent Blanchard, a church member who was living out her last days there. The other he’d take home to Charlotte.
    Visiting the hospice always grounded Luke and seemed to comfort the patients. Today it also took his mind off of what had happened at the church—­and what the ­people of Tidewater County imagined he knew about it. He stopped to visit with each of the patients briefly before going to Millicent’s corner room. At least she wouldn’t ask him what had happened.
    â€œHow are you today, Millie?” he said. He lifted the blinds to let sunlight in. “You look good. Here, I brought you a rose.”
    He held the flower out and Millie took it, although her watery gray eyes didn’t seem at first to register what it was or who he was. Then she finally looked up at Luke and smiled broadly, like a child.
    â€œSo, you’re feeling comfortable? Good. Yes, I know, gorgeous day, isn’t it? Just look at those clouds. Aren’t they beautiful? You know what they say: there’s a lot more going on in the sky than there ever is on television. I’m glad you agree. We’ve always seen eye-­to-­eye on things like that, haven’t we?”
    Luke had to provide both sides of the conversation now with Millie, an oysterman’s widow in her late sixties who had collapsed in her backyard five months ago, a few nights after sitting with Luke at an all-­you-­can-­eat church crab feast, bragging on her great-­grandkids. At first doctors thought she’d suffered a stroke, but it turned out to be a rare, degenerative brain disease. Millie wasn’t expected to last more than a ­couple