Troy went through the carpeted lobby and stepped outside onto the front walkway. It was a blustery day, and his wool Armani suit failed to protect him against the biting air. Shivering, he walked down the flagstone steps and onto an island of dormant grass, taking shelter beside the thick trunk of an immense oak tree. The branches quivered in the breeze, shedding crisp leaves dipped in autumn colors. He would have appreciated the natural beauty of the scene if he hadn’t been distracted with other thoughts.

He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket. The caller had left a voice mail. He listened to the message with growing annoyance.

No respect for boundaries, he thought. I’ll have to address this, but not now.

He deleted the message. Pocketing his phone, he turned back to the church entrance.

That was when he noticed the woman.

She leaned against the wrought-iron railing that encircled the church’s front entrance. She wore all black: one of those big church Derby hats with the wide brims, sunglasses, pants suit, pumps. Gazing out at the parking lot, she smoked a cigarette. From a distance, he couldn’t discern her age, but she had the bearing of confidence, and sexiness, too.

There also seemed to be something . . . familiar about her.

Buttoning his jacket, he walked toward the church. The woman’s face tilted in his direction, and why not? He was six-two, broad-shouldered, good-looking and well-dressed; he’d heard on more than one occasion that he resembled Denzel Washington. He fully expected to catch her eye.

As he mounted the steps, she smiled at him.

Willowy as a tree, she was tall for a woman, perhaps five-nine without her pumps. She had full lips, lined with cherry-red lipstick. From a distance, he’d thought she might be his age, but as he drew closer he realized his estimation was way off. This woman’s face was lined with wrinkles. She was easily old enough to be his mother.

Jarred by the realization, he lost his footing on the last step and nearly fell down.

“Careful there, darling,” she said, in a throaty voice that reminded him of a bluesy lounge singer. “If you hurt yourself, I’d have to go inside and find you a doctor.”

He laughed, self-consciously, and smoothed down the front of his jacket.

“I am a doctor, actually,” he said.

“That so?” She exhaled a wispy column of smoke, and he noticed it was a hand-rolled cigarette; the smoke smelled of a bracing, spicy fragrance, as if she were smoking some odd blend of herbs. “Then you must take issue with my smoking, hmm?”

“To each his own.” He shrugged. “We all have our vices.”

Offering a polite chuckle, she glanced away. Her hat shifted slightly. He noticed thick curls of white hair peeking out from underneath.

Why did she seem so familiar? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the thought wouldn’t go away.