Not a Sparrow Falls (31 page)

He started in again with the current month. Offering was down, but that was to be expected around the holidays. Besides, the first thing that happened when congregations weren’t happy was that they shut their wallets. He shook his head and flipped through the pages. One more time. The second to the last paper, a yellow carbonized form, caught his eye. He frowned. Someone had been added to the church
health insurance policy. Bridget Collins. Her birth date was listed along with social security number. Who was she?

He flipped open the phone book and dialed the extension for Human Resources. No, the woman assured him. There had been no new hires at the Alexandria church. The only open position was the associate pastor, but it hadn’t been officially posted yet.

Bob hung up and scratched his chin, mildly interested. He looked up another number—Knox’s office. The secretary answered. He remembered her—a young brittle type with suspicious eyes that he’d tried to chat up when he was there. She hadn’t liked him. She’d almost accused him of stirring up trouble and completely clammed up when he tried to ask a few innocent questions.

“This is Henry Fallon from Human Resources,” he lied, picking the first name that came into his head—his maternal grandfather’s. “I’ve got an add-on for the health insurance, and I’m confused.”

“Yes,” she answered, not committing herself to help.

“Um. This Bridget Collins. What’s her capacity? I need to have something to put down. We can’t just add people to the policy.”

“She’s the nanny, and before you start arguing, let me just say that I told Lorna I thought there might be a problem. I’ll give you her number if you have a question.”

“Whose nanny?”

“Reverend MacPherson’s. He hired her to watch his kids.”

“Does she live in? Because if she doesn’t live in, she’s not considered a full-time employee and wouldn’t be eligible for benefits.” Brilliant. And he had hardly been trying.

“I don’t know. Call Lorna—Reverend MacPherson’s sister. Here’s her number.” She reeled off digits Bob didn’t bother to copy. He signed off and sat there for another few minutes, thinking.

He checked the birth date and did a little math. Bridget Collins was twenty-six years old. He wondered what she
looked like. His job would be easier if she was a babe. He copied down the social security number, feeling uninspired. The odds of Alasdair having an affair were slim to none, but, he reminded himself, he didn’t have to prove anything. He just had to get enough to convince MacPherson that it was in his own and his family’s best interest to resign.

He would go back to Alexandria and see what he could find out. Slightly cheered, he picked up the telephone one more time and put in a call to one of the denomination hacks whose son was a lawyer for the Commonwealth Attorney General. He’d lean on him to get the goods on this nanny, though he could probably find out all he wanted himself from the Internet if he looked in the right places. There was almost nothing you couldn’t find out about a person if you had their name and social security number.

Twenty-Five

“Do you think Aunt Lorna will like this?” Samantha asked, holding up the necklace she’d been working on.

“I think she’ll love it,” Bridie said. The visit to the bead shop had been a big success. Everyone would be getting something strung for Christmas. “Don’t forget to tell her what the woman said.”

“That moonstones give a woman an allure of mystery,” Samantha quoted and bent back over her project. “I’m writing it on the card.”

Bridie watched her a moment longer, then climbed onto the bed and opened the book Samantha had left on the pillow. Anna’s face looked back at her from the first page and Bridie was startled at how close she felt to this woman. How real she had become. Her face was familiar, like a dear friend’s. Ah! She’d cut her hair. It suited her, softly framing her face and curling behind her ears. Her face was so pretty, her features so fine and exquisite. She was smiling in this picture, and her eyes were shining. Alasdair stood beside her, a younger, more vivid version of himself. His face had grown even more familiar. Bridie resisted the impulse to trace its lines with her finger. She strained her eyes but couldn’t make out whether there was a stain of ink on his finger even then. She took a deep breath, then began to read.

“Show me Boston,” I told Alasdair. “Turnabout’s fair play.” And to my great surprise, he did.

“Wake up,” he said to me this morning, handing me a steaming cup of tea and a fresh croissant on a tray. He even put a doily on it—stolen from the end table. “Today you’re mine,” he said. I loved the sound of that.

I ate my breakfast, then dressed. He was tapping his foot, waiting.

The morning was spent touring bookshops. He bought me a beautiful edition of Blake, and I bought him a volume of Calvin’s Commentaries he’s been wanting. The city is beautiful. All the leaves are turning, and the air is crisp and cool. We ate lunch at a little café near the French Cultural Center and the library. We had onion soup with thick cheesy crust and shared a chocolate crepe for dessert. In the afternoon we saw Old North Church and the site of the Boston Tea Party. We finished at the observatory just as the stars were coming out. It was lovely. A completely lovely day.

“Are you sure she’s talking about Dad?” Samantha asked, stringing another bead. Bridie gave her a look. The next entry was dated November.

Winter has descended on us in earnest. Our little apartment is snug and warm while the freezing rain beats hard little taps on the window. I suppose it’s not all that difficult to heat two rooms and a loo. Ah, well. What it lacks in space, it makes up for in charm.

I have a secret. I’ve told no one yet, but I think I’m pregnant. I can feel the changes in my body, even though I’m just a few days late. I feel very heavy, sort of overripe and queasy. We shall see. Next week should be soon enough to test. I wonder what he will say. I think he will be pleased, but one never knows. We’ve only been married a few months, after all. Perhaps he would rather have waited. I’m afraid to tell him. Why is it the woman always feels as if it’s her situation, and the man merely a spectator rather than a participant?

Another thought dawned. Father. My heart sinks. If I am pregnant, the news will send him raving. Perhaps I won’t tell him until I’m well along or maybe even delivered. Spare myself the continued exhortations to talk to someone. Well, at any rate, I won’t let worries about him spoil my joy. Just because something happened to Mother doesn’t mean it will happen to me. I’m thinking Devon if it’s a boy and Clarice if a girl. Or perhaps Ellen and William. We shall see.

“Clarice.” Samantha made a face. “She must not have seen
Hannibal.
”

“It’s a perfectly fine name,” Bridie said.

“I like your name,” Samantha said. “Mary Bridget.”

Bridie turned toward her sharply. Samantha’s head was bent again over the beads. “How’d you know that?” she asked, keeping her voice calm.

“Your Bible. It was in the guest room, and I saw it when I dusted. How come it says Washburn on the front when your name is Collins?” she asked, still not looking up from her beading.

Bridie’s heart thumped, and she answered recklessly. “I have a secret life.”

“No. Really.” Samantha looked up, interested, innocent, not at all suspicious.

“It was my mama’s.” Bridie felt a jolt inside as the lie left her lips. She had the sudden urge to take it back. To tell the whole truth.

And get thrown into jail just in time for Christmas. Now that would be a fine how-do-you-do.

“It’s a pretty name,” Samantha said, head bent back over the beads. The moment was gone. Bridie focused her attention back on Anna’s book and tried to quiet her guilt.

A lab slip from Brigham and Women’s Hospital decorated the page. An order for a pregnancy test with the word
Yes!!!
written across in red ink and the date. Anna had attached an antique baby cap beside the paper. It was covered with lace and satin ribbons that trailed to the bottom of the page.

I told Alasdair, and he was wonderful. He was surprised at first, but then the happiness spread over his face. I asked if it was too soon for a baby. He shook his head and kissed me. He said it wasn’t our plans that mattered, but God’s—that he had thought we would wait, but obviously we’d been overruled. I feel a great relief and now am even more joyful. I called my father at Alasdair’s insistence, and even he was pleasant about it. He did chat with Alasdair for quite a time afterward, though. I asked what they talked about, and Alasdair was vague. “He just wants me to take good care of you,” he said, kissing my cheek, but I think his eyes were a little troubled. Trust Father to suck the joy out of an occasion from clear across the ocean.

I won’t allow it. If he wants to color his life with gloom, that is his choice, but I will not. This very day I went out and began shopping. I was looking for a crib in secondhand shops but instead found this little cap. I do feel rather ill, and looking at it reminds me of the joy at the end of the road.

I have to go to work this afternoon. Sometimes I regret having taken the job, but I do enjoy visiting with the old people, especially Elizabeth. She was quite overjoyed when I told her the news. She and I have become fast friends. I told her about Alasdair’s family’s visit, and she laughed and laughed. “Oh, honey, don’t take them seriously,” she advised. “They obviously have no class.”

I smiled at that all day. At how positively outraged Mother MacPherson would be to be told her clan has no class. Lorna excepted, of course. She is a dear. Here is the note she sent me after the pudding cake fiasco.

A small piece of white stationery was pasted beside a Victorian-era Valentine, erupting with hearts and lace in shades of pink, green, and white.

I saw this card in an antique shop and thought of you, Anna. Even though it’s not Valentine’s Day, I had to buy it. I enjoyed meeting you so very much. Your home is lovely. I hope you don’t mind that I copied one of your ideas. I found an old wrought-iron chandelier in Mother’s attic. I painted it white, and it now hangs in my dining room with tiny pink candles. I think of you each time I see it and thank God for giving my brother such a wonderful wife and me such a delightful sister-in-law.

Love, Lorna

PS: I’m looking forward to seeing you at Christmas.

“Uh-oh,” Samantha said, “I smell trouble brewing.”

Sure enough.

Alasdair says we must go to Alexandria for Christmas holiday. I went in the bedroom and cried but dried my tears before I reemerged. I know I am being silly and immature. I told Elizabeth, and she just said I should show them what class looks like. I suppose.

Alasdair says his father has a matter to discuss with him. I hope it’s not that there is some ghastly family name that must be passed down. Suppose instead of Devon or Clarice they insist on Imogene or Orbit? Borrowing trouble. I have dropped my writing class. I have no energy to spare once I go to work.

Bridie looked over. Samantha was smiling. She’d stopped her beadwork and was listening intently. Pages and pages followed of baby matters. A summary of her doctor visit. Different lists of names. More paint chips for a corner of the bedroom she intended to make over into a nursery. More names. Descriptions of sewing projects she had planned: blankets and little outfits. Bridie couldn’t help but contrast that to the box of unopened baby gifts in the attic. There was probably a perfectly good explanation for that. She flipped the page, and it was Christmas then, as well as now.

It’s a bit of a letdown spending the holiday here. We arrived this afternoon, Christmas Eve. There is no tree. Few decorations. The parsonage is big and cold. They don’t seem to understand the principles of central heating. And they say Europeans are bad.

The main event of the day seems to be the Christmas Eve service, which was nice, though too long for my taste. I was fighting to stay awake. The family decided not to exchange gifts this year, my father-in-law informed me. “Each member of the family will donate to the mission fund on Christmas Eve in honor of the others,” he explained. I just nodded, and Alasdair produced our envelope. Already prepared and not a word to me about it. I brought gifts in my valise, but I think I’ll keep quiet. Except I will give Lorna hers. She is a dear person. I hope she likes the antique combs. They’ll look quite pretty in her hair, I think.

The next entry was dated December 25.

It wasn’t as bad as I feared.

It was worse.

The dinner was all right except for their constant carping about who would sit where and nagging poor Lorna because she made sweet potato soufflé instead of some carrot dish that Winifred had to throw together at the last minute without the right type of currants. It seems that the menu has been carved in stone since before the Battle of Hastings. Roast lamb, scrubbed new potatoes, the above mentioned carrot casserole that was really quite inedible, and for dessert plum trifle, which Mother MacPherson says is a recipe that has been passed down in their family for seven generations. It tasted dry enough to have been baked seven generations ago.

Shame on me.

Samantha giggled. “Some things never change.”

“Is that really what you eat at Christmas?” Bridie asked.

Samantha nodded. “Every year.”

Bridie felt her stubborn streak emerge. “It sounds like it’s time for a change.”

Samantha’s eyes lit. “Cool. What’ll we have?”

“We could do a turkey.”

“Steak,” Samantha countered.

“Steak’s too expensive.”

“How about fried chicken?”

Bridie nodded. “Sure. Chicken’s cheap. Everybody likes
it. Even Cam and Bonnie. All right. Fried chicken it is. What else?”

“Mashed potatoes and gravy.”

“I’ll make homemade rolls.”

“Jell-O. Red and green.”