I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Randall this provoked. My sympathy for Vess was fading.

“Robyn’s sane,” I said. “Vess, not so much. If the congregation took a vote on who they most wished would get fed up with Trinity and join some other church—any other church—I’m betting Vess would win, hands down.”

“Just don’t sic him on First Presbyterian,” Randall said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rant at you. I think I’ll make myself scarce before he comes back.”

“And as soon as I send out what I fondly hope is the final schedule, I’m going home to shower and rest,” I said. “So maybe I’ll be able to enjoy some time with Michael and the boys when they get back from Christmas shopping. Don’t forget those portapotties.”

“I won’t.” He stood up, nodded, and strolled out.

I scanned the schedule and made one more change. Not much I could do about today, but tomorrow? Lightfoot had a couple of hours’ worth of rehearsals with his soloists scheduled for Sunday afternoon. I swapped them into the Methodist church, so Mrs. Dahlgren could enjoy his company for a while.

I sent out a group e-mail with the new schedule, sent a copy to the printer, saved the file, and packed up my things. I made sure I had the meds Dad had provided, but decided to wait until I got home to take more of them. Detachment was great for coping with recalcitrant people, but my current alert—if cranky—state seemed better for dealing with snowy driving conditions.

Just as I entered the vestibule, the choir started another song.

“There’s a star in the east on Christmas morn,” sang a soaring soprano soloist.

“Rise up, shepherds, and follow,” answered the choir.

I stepped into the sanctuary and perched on a pew to listen, just for few minutes. The soloist and choir both sounded wonderful to me, but from Mr. Lightfoot’s gestures and facial expressions, I could tell he wasn’t happy.

Just as the soloist was beginning the third verse, my cell phone rang. It wasn’t loud, and I had the ring tone set to a single chime, which was not as intrusive as the loud and intricate tunes so many people seemed to favor, but Lightfoot turned and glared at me as if about to shout “Off with her head.”

I pressed the answer button before the phone rang a second time and ran out into the vestibule to take the call. In fact, for good measure, I ran all the way outside the church.

“Meg, dear?” Mother. “Is this a bad time?”

Chapter 11

I was tempted to lie and say I was busy, before she had a chance to ask whatever she was calling me to ask. But I felt a little superstitious about uttering falsehoods on the steps of a church.