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Jacks and Betty Craig for turkey here the day after, and ... You look all in, what’s up?”
    She sighed again. “I’ve started a new book, and it has a crushing deadline.”
    All or nothing at all. That’s what he liked about this new life.

    They walked to the Porter place—cum—town museum, holding hands. A Canadian cold front had moved in, inspiring them to wrap like mummies.
    “I went to see Miss Pattie this morning,” she announced, her breath sending puffs of steam into the frigid air.
    “You did?”
    “I gave Evie two hours off.”
    “God knows when Evie’s had two hours off. You’re a saint.”
    “I’m no such thing. We played Scrabble.”
    “Scrabble? With Miss Pattie?” Evie Adams’s mother hadn’t been in her right mind for a decade, causing Evie to call the church office with some frequency, in tears of frustration.
    “She spelled one word—‘go’—and declared herself the winner. Then we had an imaginary lunch and she showed me her imaginary doll.”
    “Knowing you, you can describe that doll in detail.”
    She laughed. “Dimples. Blue eyes—one won’t shut. It had lost its socks and shoes, and I think its toes were once chewed by a puppy. I told Evie I’d come again.”
    He stopped and put his arms around her. “I’ve always wanted a deacon. You’re hired.” He kissed her on both cheeks and then on the mouth.
    “Dearest ... everyone will talk.”
    “It’s time I gave them something to talk about,” he said, meaning it.

    “I’ll be et for a tater if it ain’t th‘ preacher! Rose, come and look, he’s got ’is missus with ‘im.”
    They stood at the back door of the museum that led to the apartment the town had remodeled for Miss Rose and Uncle Billy Watson.
    The old man’s schizophrenic wife of nearly fifty years peered around the door. The rector thought she looked fiercer than ever.
    “What do they want?” she demanded, staring directly at the shivering couple on the steps.
    Uncle Billy appeared bewildered.
    “You invited us for banana pudding!” said Cynthia. “Yesterday, when I saw you on the street.”
    “I did?” Miss Rose put her hands on her hips and gave them a withering look. “Well, I don’t have any banana pudding!”
    “Oh, law,” said Uncle Billy, “did you go an‘ forget you invited th’ preacher and ‘is missus?”
    “I certainly did not forget. It’s too close to Thanksgiving to make banana pudding. I would never have had such an idea.”
    Uncle Billy looked anguished. “You ‘uns come on in, anyway, and set where it’s warm. I’ve got somethin’ for you, Preacher, hit’s nearly burnt a hole in m‘ pocket.”
    “That’s all right, Uncle Billy, we’ll come another time.” Talk about a life-saving turn of events.
    “Nossir, I need t‘ give you this. It’s somethin’ that belongs to th‘ Lord, don’t you know.”
    They trooped in as Miss Rose eyed them with suspicion.
    The rector observed that she was still dressing out of her long-dead brother’s military wardrobe. Under a worn housecoat whose belt dragged the floor, she was wearing Army pants and a World War II field jacket. He was almost comforted by the sight of her unlaced saddle oxfords, which were her all-time favorite footwear.
    “I cain’t set down, cain’t lay down, an‘ cain’t hardly stand up,” said Uncle Billy, who was leaning on a cane. “Ol’ arthur’s got me, don’t you know.”
    They hovered timidly by the kitchen table while Miss Rose stood at the stove and gave them a thorough looking-over.
    “Preacher, could you step in here a minute?” Uncle Billy opened the door to the unheated part of the house, admitting a blast of arctic air, and led the way. As the door closed behind them, the rector looked back at his wife, who was trying to appear brave.
    “I put it over yonder,” said Uncle Billy, turning on a light in a room stacked with old newspapers. “I’ve kep‘ it hid from Rose—she wouldn’t take t’ me doin‘ this, don’t you