Reverend Baker exhaled and shook his head. “Very funny. But I’m surprised you know the composer. That’s not a Catholic hymn.”

“I have nonsectarian taste in music.” The padre directed his attention to Hannah. “And who do we have here?”

Once again, Jack performed the introductions.

“I’m pleased to meet you, young lady.” Father Murphy gave a mock bow, embellished with a theatrical hand flourish.

At Hannah’s giggle, Jack did a double take. That was a first in their acquaintance—and very encouraging. Maybe she’d transition to her new life here with less difficulty than he’d expected.

“We should be getting home.” Jack pulled out his keys.

“I hope to see you here again next week.” Reverend Baker aimed his comment at both of them.

“But if you get tired of this fine minister’s sometimes long-winded sermons, you’re always welcome at St. Francis.” The priest winked at them.

“Trying to steal my congregants again?” The reverend’s eyebrows rose.

“No. Only your doughnuts. I want to grab a couple before we talk about that idea you had for a new Helping Hands program.” The priest turned to them again. “You’re staying long enough to have a doughnut, aren’t you?”

“Can we?” Hannah touched his jacket, her expression hopeful.

“They’re in the fellowship hall.” Father Murphy waved that direction. “I’ll give you my review of the selection if you want to walk over with me.”

“And he’d be the person to do it. He’s sampled every variety.” The minister expelled an exaggerated breath. “Why don’t you eat your own doughnuts? You always claim they’re better than ours.”

“They are. Ours are homemade. But this isn’t doughnut Sunday at St. Francis. You’ve upped your game here, having doughnuts every week.” Father Murphy grinned at Hannah. “Shall we go have a taste?”

It was hard to resist the priest’s good humor—or his daughter’s hopeful face.

“Sold.” The chores waiting for him at home weren’t going anywhere. “We’ll stay for one doughnut.”

They said their goodbyes to Reverend Baker, and Hannah fell in beside the priest, who entertained her with a humorous story about his church’s first attempt to make homemade doughnuts.

Jack took up the rear, slowing as he passed the doors from the vestibule into the church.

One person remained inside.

Christi.

She was seated in the same spot, head bowed—as if in prayer.

He paused, studying her.

Was it possible she’d really changed?

And if she had, what had caused the transformation?

Could the bad marriage she’d referenced and her shaky finances have been the catalyst?

If so, why had major tribulations led her to God instead of away from him?

And who was the persion she was willing to go into debt for with the loan she’d requested?

So many questions—so few answers.

Which reminded him . . .