“Looks good,” the salesman said. The two men rolled the safe into the closet. “Right about here?” The tall, thin safe took up only a quarter of the closet.

“That’s fine.”

They muscled it off the dolly, and the man tapped in a code and opened the door. “We should fix it to the floor with lug bolts,” he said.

Stone left them to drill from inside the safe, then wrench the lug bolts through the flagstone floor and into the concrete pad.

“There you go,” the salesman said. “Let me set up the lock for a code.” He tapped a long number into the keypad and closed the door. “Here’s how it goes,” he said. “You tap in a six-digit code, then press pound, then tap in the code again. If you make a mistake you’ll get a red light, so you’ll have to start over. If you don’t make a mistake, you’ll get a green light, then just turn the wheel to the left to lock the safe. After that, your code will open it.”

Stone followed the man’s instructions, then locked the safe, then reopened it with his code. He thanked the men, handed them a fifty for a beer on him, and saw them to the door. He came back, opened the safe, stowed the strong case inside it, closed the door, and turned the wheel. “Safe at last,” he said. “Let’s have a drink.” Holly was nowhere to be seen. He heard a whining noise from the kitchen; he went there and found her mincing something in a Cuisinart.

“What’s that?”

“Ginger.”

“What for?”

“I’m going to make you a Southern Baptist.”

“Too late, I’m already an Episcopalian, nominally.”

“A Southern Baptist is also a cocktail—ginger juice, sugar, and rye whiskey.”

“Sounds awful.”

She poured the ingredients into a cocktail shaker, shook it until it was too cold to hold, then filled two martini glasses and handed one to Stone. “Taste it.”

Stone did. “That’s wonderful,” he said.

Holly brought her own glass to a sofa in front of the fireplace, and Stone lit the fire.

“Why are you an Episcopalian?” Holly asked.

“Two reasons. First, my mother was, and she took me to church. My father, in addition to being a communist, was a confirmed atheist.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“The Episcopalian motto—‘Almost everything in moderation.’”

She laughed. “It’s good to have an out, huh?”

“It’s absolutely essential. Do you have a religion?”

“I’m a Southern Baptist.”

“The cocktail or the church?”

“I’m an army brat. Everybody was a Southern Baptist. There are no outs in the faith, you just have to make your own.”

“This is a little on the spicy side,” he said, holding up the golden liquid and inspecting it.

“It’s the fresh ginger.”

“Ah. I’ve never had a drink with ginger in it.”