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kept expecting the windshield to shatter with every gust of wind. In his room he unpacked and looked over the weekend agenda. A reception that night, followed by an open discussion about youth—“Cyberspace to Sunday School—Is There a Bridge?” He almost wept. He couldn’t face it, after that drive. Not right away. So he turned off his cell phone. Just for a little while. Ruth would be fine. She had said she would be fine. Then he lay down on the bed for a nap. Just half an hour or so. That was all he needed.
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    A crescent of light is edging round the top button of Kelly’s sweater. “It’s not about leaving her alone,” Simon tells it. “Or the cell phone. Or the nap. Is it?”
    No, the sweater seems to agree. It isn’t.
    They are all red herrings. They do not constitute his original sin.
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    â€œSo what are your plans, as rector of All Saints?”
    Do my time and get out .
    The facts, as he had explained them in his mind to his dead wife while he was packing, were these. Yes, he was moving up from associate to rector. Finally. But it was only happening because yet another priest had burned out, leaving an opening that had to be filled quickly. Yes, he would have his own parish. Finally. But it would be creaky old All Saints which was tiny and getting tinier by the Sunday. He doubted the bishop actually thought he was going to revive the place with his innovative ideas and commanding presence. More likely, it was a relatively painless way of getting rid of them both. Five or so years of ministering to a dwindling congregation would serve to end his career. And his retirement would make it easy for the diocese to turn a cool eye on All Saints, with its empty pews and emptier collection plates.
    But that wasn’t the right answer for the newsletter.
    â€œMy plans, Kelly, are first to touch base with each of the Sunday morning regulars. Ask them why they come, what they want and need from All Saints, how much of it they’re actually getting, and how we can work together to build on that.”
    Not exactly inspiring , he thought, watching her write. But doable . The touching base business wouldn’t take long. According to the records, Sunday numbers had rarely topped one hundred in the last five years and tended more often to hover around seventy-five.
    There were no children at All Saints, and only a handful of teenagers. The biggest group were the old guard, the ones who had been baptised in the font some eighty years ago, confirmed on the chancel steps, married at the altar, then had followed their spouses’ coffins out through the nave. They showed up every Sunday without fail to complain if the candles weren’t lit or if the word people was substituted in the liturgy for the word men . Little changes terrified them. They were so close to the big one.
    The only incoming were the so-called seekers. Late thirties and up. Just as terrified as the old guard, but for different reasons. They had stepped through the door of a church, some of them for the first time in their lives, because something had happened—a death, a divorce, a diagnosis, a downsizing. All of a sudden they were on their own, with no context, no frame of reference, no way to make it all mean something. Most of them disappeared after a few Sundays, as mysteriously as they had come. A few stayed on. The way Kelly had.
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    â€œI lied to her,” he says to the sweater. “That’s it, isn’t it? I should have told her the truth when I had the chance. But I didn’t.”
    You can tell her the truth now. It’s still dark. There’s still time.
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    He woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the hotel-room door. He was still fully clothed, lying on top of the spread. He got up, confused by the light coming through the window. Stumbled to the door and opened it. It was the maid. Wondering if he was going to go down to breakfast, if she could come in