“Yes, Reverend.”

He gestured Betsy through the door to his office. “She was a driving force in this town,” he continued, following her in and closing the door. “She worked to improve the Common, to run the art fair, to aid the schools, to build this new church and repair the chapel, to get better fireworks for our Fourth of July celebration, to raise money for various fund drives.”

Betsy allowed him to seat her in a very comfortable leather chair, one of a pair. His office, while not large, was light and airy. She said, “I went with her to a committee meeting to hold a fund-raiser for a child in need of heart surgery. I didn’t realize she did a lot of this sort of thing.”

“She wouldn’t have thought it a lot, she was always pushing herself to do more. Yet she was very patient with the rest of us, who couldn’t keep up.”

“Sounds like her eulogy should be given by you.”

Rettger gave a little bow from his seat facing her—he hadn’t gone behind his desk. “I’d be honored. I have known her a long while, and her husband even longer. Have you spoken with a funeral director?”

“Yes, Mr. Huber. He’s taking Margot to be cremated right now. When can you find time in your schedule for the funeral?”

Rettger’s white eyebrows lifted. “No visitation?”

“I can’t afford it. I want a no-frills funeral service here, and then burial in the same plot as her husband.”

Rettger appeared to be about to say something, then visibly repressed whatever it had been and said, “Let me show you the two burial services of the Episcopal church. You have some decisions to make.”

It was not unlike selecting a wedding service. There was a framework of ceremony, with options in the hymns and readings. Rettger said, “I want to assure you that there are people in this congregation who are going to insist on having a part in the service. They would be insulted at the notion that you might offer to pay for their efforts.” His mild voice and kind eyes took the sting out of his words.

“All right, that’s fine,” replied Betsy. “Now, I know ‘Amazing Grace’ is a cliché, but we both loved that hymn.” A huge lump suddenly formed in her chest and sought to climb up her throat. But she swallowed it and went on.

Rettger took notes as Betsy made her choices, but had a suggestion of his own for the Old Testament reading, not one of the options. Betsy agreed to it—why not? His intentions seemed at least benign, and surely he knew what he was doing. The funeral was set for Sunday afternoon. “We’ll have to form a committee to let people know,” he said. “It will be my great honor to take care of that for you.”

“Thank you.”

Even forewarned by Reverend Rettger, Betsy was astonished at the turnout. She recognized the mayor and decided the people with him must be others from the city government. Shelly was there, with a contingent of women who might be fellow stitchers, or perhaps some of the part-time crew. The crazy lady—what was her name? Potter, Irene Potter—sat behind Betsy, dressed in a shapeless navy-blue dress, dabbing a handkerchief edged in black crochet lace to her eyes and sighing audibly.