Out Of The Deep I Cry (6 page)

Clare thought of the confrontation between the doctor and Debba Clow. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think it’s still a very lively town. You just have to know where to look.”

Clare’s 10:30 counseling session with the Garrettsons was running over. Liz Garrettson’s mother, a source of frequent conflict in the Garrettson home, had deteriorated to the point where she was going to have to be institutionalized or move in with her daughter and son-in-law. Liz and Tim circled around Liz’s anger and his impatience, two people punching at a sandbag filled with guilt. It was exhausting just being in the same room with them, and Clare couldn’t help glancing at her Apache helicopter clock as the minutes ticked past noon. The only thing worse than being late to a vestry meeting was being late to an emergency meeting she had scheduled herself.

Finally ushering them out of her office with a promise to put them in touch with Paul Foubert, the Infirmary’s director, Clare cocked an ear for any sounds of conversation or argument drifting down the hall. Nothing. She opened the meeting-room door and stepped into the underheated splendor of a wood-paneled, Persian-carpeted gallery that appeared to have been assumed bodily from Oxford. No one was there.

“Lois,” she said, sticking her head into the church office, “I’ve lost the vestry.”

The church secretary tilted her head, allowing her razor-cut strawberry blond bob to swing just so, against her jaw. “And this is a bad thing… how?”

“Lois.”

“They’re in the church. Taking a look at the indoor waterworks.”

“Everybody here?”

“Even the newbie. Let’s hope they don’t chew him up and spit him out.”

Clare glanced over at the pink message slips accumulating on a lethally sharp spike. “Anything urgent?”

“Yes. You had a call from Hugh Parteger.” Lois’s British accent was devastatingly accurate. “ ‘Lois, love, tell the vicar to give me a call sometime soon. She can’t spend all her time in prayer and good works. She has to be naughty sometimes.’ ” Lois looked at her significantly.

Clare laughed. “He’s really a very nice guy.” She had met Hugh last year while he was summering in Saratoga. Since he worked for a merchant bank in New York City, they had developed a very long distance relationship, which suited her just fine. She had seen him three or four times since August, and spoke with him every other week or so.

“He’s got money, manners, and he actually calls you. Of course he’s a nice guy,” Lois said. “Are you going to get back to him?” She nudged the phone toward Clare.

“Eventually,” Clare said. “Right now, the most important man in my life is the structural engineer. Where did I leave that copy of the estimate the vestry got a few years back?”

“Here.” Lois slid a folder across her desk. “Don’t wait too long on Hugh. Sooner or later, you, like the roof, will start sagging and leaking. You have to nail a man down before then, if you want one.”

“What a charming image. I’ll be sure to think of you when I’m picking out my support bra and Depends.” Clare tucked the folder under her arm and crossed to the door.

“If you were married to Hugh Parteger, you could afford to have them sent over by your personal shopper,” Lois called after her.

In the church, Clare could see the vestry members gathered around what she now thought of as the Crisis Zone, a series of plastic buckets and basins set on the windowsill and spread over the floor. In the pale winter light shafting from the stained-glass window, the vestry members looked like a Vermeer painting, all well-dressed concern and solemn experience. Until she heard Robert Corlew say, “If you had just listened to me when I proposed an affordable way to fix the damn thing, we wouldn’t be looking at this now!”

“Your way, which was, as I recall, to staple tarp and asphalt shingles on our historic roof!” Sterling Sumner shot back.

“Our historic wreck!”

“Hi, everyone,” Clare said. “Have I missed anything important?”

There was a general chorus of greeting, and Corlew and Sumner sank back into their respective stances, glaring at each other. The former was a small-scale developer whose latest project was a drive-through mini-strip mall. The latter taught architecture at Skidmore after having retired from a firm specializing in high-end, unique houses. They were the cobra and the mongoose of her vestry.

“Sorry I’m late. Why don’t we all take a seat and get started?” Clare plopped into the pew across the aisle from the Zone. She waited until all six vestry members had seated themselves near the tarp-covered pews bracketing the water-damaged space and then she said, “Let us pray.

“Heavenly Father, you have blessed us with many riches and given us stewardship over them. A beautiful house of worship, a close-knit community, and a measure of prosperity. You have raised up intelligent, passionately committed people to lead our congregation. You ask in return, Lord, that we use our resources wisely and always remember that what we do here is not to satisfy our own egos, but for the glory of your name. Amen.”

There was an answering mutter of “Amen”s.

“Okay,” she said, “I see everyone has gotten a clear look at the problem.” There was a sound, a kind of collective unwilling groan, from the others. “I know the question of what to do about the roof has been discussed”-she paused, trying to think of a tactful way to put it-“extensively before. Gentlemen and lady”-she nodded at silver-haired Mrs. Marshall, the only woman on the board-“the time to discuss is over. We have to act on this now before the whole aisle roof caves in on us.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Robert Corlew said.

“I think we can all agree that preserving the historic nature of St. Alban’s is a priority,” she continued. Sterling Sumner beamed at her and tightened his English school scarf-a year-round affectation-in a way that suggested a rude gesture to Corlew. Clare soldiered on. “With the extent of the damage we can see, we’re not talking about simply fixing the roof anymore. I’m sure Robert and Sterling have a much better understanding of these things than I do, but it looks as if we’re going to have to replace and repair some of the interior woodwork. Lord only knows what has to be done to the window embrasure in order to make sure the stained-glass panel remains secure. Historical accuracy, in this context, is going to mean high-level finish carpentry, a window-restoration specialist, and hand-cut Vermont slate shingles for the roof.”

“It’s going to be pricey. Very, very pricey.” Terence McKellan patted his expansive belly as if looking for spare change. The vice president for commercial loans at AllBanc, Terry was St. Alban’s financial officer.

“We have a responsibility to the future generations to preserve St. Alban’s heritage,” Mrs. Marshall said.

“We also have a responsibility to safeguard what money we have,” Robert Corlew said. He moved his hand as if he were about to jam it into his improbably thick hair, but stopped himself. Clare, who had been trying for a year to discern whether he wore a rug or not, filed the gesture away in a mental folder marked EVIDENCE FOR TOUPEE.

Norm Madsen’s faded blue eyes looked thoughtfully into the middle distance. “Maybe we could knock up something quick and cheap to fix the immediate problem, and then work on raising money for the fancier roof.”

“Norm, with a leak this extensive, there is no quick and cheap fix,” Terry said.

Clare stood up. “Folks, this is rapidly becoming a replay of every discussion we’ve had about the roof since I came to this parish. I’m calling for a vote.”

“A vote?” several voices echoed.

“A vote, straight up or down. Big, honkingly, expensive, historically correct blowout, or affordable ticky-tack housing stock.”

“You make the alternatives sound so attractive,” Sterling said.

“I vote for expensive and accurate,” Clare said. “Robert Corlew.”

“Affordable. And I know-”

“Just the vote, please. Mrs. Marshall.”

“Historically accurate.”

“Thank you. Terry McKellan.”

He sighed. “I have to go with the cheaper alternative.”

“Sterling Sumner.”

“Historical accuracy at any cost!”

“Thank you, Sterling. Norm Madsen.”

The elderly lawyer’s face sank into thought. Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Finally, “The least expensive alternative. Sorry, Lacey.” He smiled apologetically at Mrs. Marshall.

She leaned over the pew and rested her thin, blue-veined hand over his. “You have to vote your conscience, Norm.”

Clare propped her hands on her hips. “Not too surprisingly, it’s three for and three against. So… it looks like the tiebreaker will be our brand-new junior warden.” Everyone looked toward the sixth vestry member, elected at the congregation’s annual meeting only two Sundays ago.

The man of the moment nodded. “I agree with the legacy thing. I feel like I have a duty to shepherd this church, so that when my little boy is my age, he’ll be able to look around him and be proud of everything we did. So I vote the full slate.” Geoffrey Burns crossed his arms over his camel-hair topcoat and grinned like a lawyer tossing a winning piece of evidence in front of opposing counsel.

“Now, wait just a minute,” Robert Corlew began, pointing a blunt finger at the younger man.

“No.” Clare held up her hand. “Robert, I empathize with your concerns about cost. And heaven knows, as the only contractor among us, you have the best sense of what the bottom line will be. But we can’t keep going round and round on this thing. If the whole board can’t agree to accept the vote and move onward, I’m going to throw the question open to a vote by the congregation.”

Mrs. Marshall pursed her lips. “If we present the congregation a divided face, we’ll have considerably more trouble getting one hundred percent participation when it comes time to raise the money. If they think some of us don’t want the project to go ahead, it will encourage those who feel wishy-washy about it to sit on their wallets.”

“And while we’re talking about fund-raising,” Geoff Burns said, “let’s consider the selling angle.” He held up his hands to make a frame. “Donate generously so that American artisans can handcraft a living legacy for your grandchildren’s children.” He shifted in his pew and made another frame. “Or, donate generously so that Baines Roofing and Plumbing can stop the leak in the roof.”

“He’s got a point, Rob,” Terry said. “Everybody loves giving money for a new gym. Nobody wants to pay for a boiler.”

“Maybe we could have donors’ names etched into the slate,” Norm Madsen mused.

“Hey, I like that,” Geoff agreed.

Clare was watching Corlew’s face during the conversation. He looked flushed and clammy, as if he might either explode or have a coronary episode any moment. She laid her hand on his arm. “Robert,” she said, her voice pitched low, “we need you on this.” She dropped into the pew next to him. The others were caught up in the excitement of brainstorming suggestions for spurring on donations. “This isn’t a zero-sum game, where you lose and Sterling wins. We all want the same outcome.” Corlew looked up to where the water had stained the elegantly lapped pine. “Nobody else brings your kind of experience to this. You’re the person we’ll need to help vet the bids and the specialists. You’re the one who can tell us if their costs are fair, or if they’re padding the bills. And most important”-she leaned forward so he couldn’t avoid looking her straight in the eye-“you’re a man whose opinions and leadership are well respected in our community.”

He grunted. “I’m not doing this in order to put Sterling’s nose out of joint.” He spoke in the same low tones as she had. “I really don’t think we’re in any position to take on new debt. Or to hit up the congregation for extra money when we ought to be focusing on getting more people into the pews.”

“I know.” She didn’t argue or try to refute him. She just waited.

His broad shoulders sagged a little. “Okay. I’m in.”

She squeezed his arm hard. “Good.”

He squared himself up again. “But I’m going to be keeping an eye on every nail, every two-by-four, every bucket of caulk.”

She grinned. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.” She rose. “Come on, everybody, let’s adjourn to the meeting room. If we’re going to talk money, we may as well make ourselves more comfortable.”

While they decamped to the meeting room, and people helped themselves to Lois’s bad coffee and they settled around the massive black oak table, she congratulated herself on decisively taking the field. The glow lasted right up until Terry McKellan told her there weren’t going to be any loans to actually get the work done.

“What?” she said, looking at the copy of their financial statement he had sent sailing across the table. “We have to get loans. That’s the way you do it, right?” She stopped. She sounded more like a high school girl running a student council meeting than a Leader of Men. And women. She tried for a more decisive tone. “That is, my experience has been”-watching her mother run a capital campaign for their home parish near Norfolk and a single workshop on fund-raising at Virginia Episcopal Seminary, but they didn’t have to know all the details, did they?-“that necessary improvements on the physical plant are started by loans from the diocese or the bank, and the capital campaign is designed to supplement them and pay them off.”

“That’s a good way to do it,” McKellan agreed.

“So what’s the catch?”

McKellan’s luxurious brown mustache quirked up at each end. “You have looked at the financial statements over the past year, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have.”

“Did you notice the outstanding loan from the diocese? We took it out three years ago to pay for the organ restoration and the parking lot repairs.”

“Sure. But we’ve been making regular payments on it.”

His eyes flicked toward the others seated around the table. “And you noticed the monthly mortgage payment we’re making?”