The Dearly Beloved by Cara Wall

Author:Cara Wall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2019-08-12T16:00:00+00:00

Nan and James moved into the manse in October. It was small and dark, but after Nan washed the windows and hung peach curtains in all the rooms, it looked cheery. She made sure to get a flat of tubers and bulbs into the ground before the first frost: purple crocus, yellow tulips, white iris, lily of the valley. She also planted two lilac bushes and a bed of peonies, because the man who owned the nursery said they flowered better their first spring if they were planted in the fall. The thought of all those flowers lying dormant, gathering the sleep they needed to bloom, cheered her as the ground hardened and the snow fell.

Life was beginning to feel easy again. She woke at eight, had toast and coffee with James, then walked him to work, which was twenty steps along the stone path that connected their house to the church. Jane Atlas was always ensconced behind her desk before they arrived. It was clear she did not welcome Nan’s presence in the office space. Her Good mornings to James were hearty and efficient; to Nan she nodded coolly. If Nan brought James’s lunch and stayed to talk while he ate it, Jane knocked on the door to remind him how busy his afternoon was going to be.

“I think you’re supposed to stay at home,” James said, shrugging helplessly in the face of Jane’s disapproval.

“That is not something I’m going to do,” Nan said.

Winning the manse had energized her: She had a vision for her role at the church and a plan to make it happen. Jane Atlas might not want another woman around, but Nan had been well trained in ways to convince her.

“I recognize that this is your domain,” Nan said, gesturing to the elevator, the waiting room, and the offices beyond. “But I would like to have a role in the life of this church.”

“Choir?” Jane Atlas asked.

Nan shook her head. She had decided, early on, that she should not sing in Third Presbyterian’s choir. If she processed in in robes, as James did, and sat on the dais behind him, parishioners would be reminded that he was an ordinary man, instead of a man of God. Her mother had agreed. I think you’ll find that you’ll be too busy for it, anyway, she’d written.

But Nan was not busy, and she wanted to be. “Could you at least consider giving me the tasks you cannot stand?”

Jane Atlas stared at Nan for a long moment. Then she opened her desk drawer, pulled out a note card, and wrote down a phone number.

“Let’s see how this goes,” she said dubiously. “Good luck.”

In this way, Nan became very familiar with those parishioners who cared deeply and specifically about which type of polish was used to shine the cross, which brand of cracker should be served on Communion Sundays, whether and how much the sanctuary lights should be dimmed during the sermon, and if the babies being baptized should be required to wear gowns.

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