Now and Again Read Online Free PDF Page A

union had led to the donation of the land the new church building was sitting on, the one condition being that Tiffany would participate in the design consultations and take charge of a healthy budget for good works. And if Tiffany had progressive ideas about the relationship between buildings and the earth, she also had progressive ideas about intimate relations, which more than made up for any architectural compromises the building committee had to make.
    Before each service, Tiffany arranged a clean surplice on the back of a chair and set out the scented powder that kept the pastor’s feet from sweating. “Sealed with a kiss” was always the last thing she said before he walked out into the swoop-ceilinged nave, and thrusting her tongue in his mouth was always the last thing she did. She did it, they both agreed, in order to free his spirit from his body for the task ahead, and it always worked—if he could resist Tiffany, he could resist anything.
    “Bless you my child,” he always said when she handed him his prayer book and leaned in for the freeing kiss, careful not to stand where people passing by the door to the sacristy could see them.
    “Sealed with a kiss,” she always said, but sometimes instead of kissing him, she just gazed into his eyes as she put his fingers on her breast, right where the nipple poked through the lacy cloth of the undergarments she wore beneath her choir robe. All of that added spice to the weekday humdrum of his job: the marital spats he had to adjudicate, the patient explication of texts to people who wanted to use the Bible to prove this or disprove that, and the more delicate approach he needed when the town scions he depended on for his livelihood sought his support for their favorite political causes.
    It was six minutes to ten on a bright spring morning, but now, instead of Tiffany rushing into the sacristy and apologizing for her tardiness, it was August Winslow who filled the doorway. Winslow, who was not only civilian director of the munitions plant and husband to the Woodford oil fields heiress, but also a senior member of the pastoral council, now came charging in demanding to talk about Maggie Rayburn and how a reporter from the Sentinel wanted to write a story about her. “I called the publisher and put a stop to it,” bellowed Winslow. “There’s no sense giving the woman a megaphone. There’s no sense giving all of my other employees ideas.”
    “I hope you handled the reporter carefully,” said the pastor. “That kind of thing can backfire.”
    “Of course I handled him carefully. It was the publisher’s nephew who apparently had the bright idea for the article, but I have no doubt we can count on the Fitches to do what’s right for the town.”
    “I’ve already had a talk with the Rayburn woman,” said the pastor, who had come to rely on what Tiffany called his pre-game routine and who was sweating because things were sliding off track. According to the sunburst-shaped clock on the wall, there were less than five minutes left, and if the pastor was known for anything, it was for exploding through the curtain at exactly ten o’clock on a crescendo from the organ, just when the stage lighting went from an expectant blue to a pulsating blaze of silver magnificence, and once his lighting manager had surprised him with giant sparklers and another time with a crazy purple fog. His entrance was hardly the most important part of the service, but it pleased him when Tiffany said he got a ten for showmanship on top of his ten for execution.
    Winslow was saying, “She’s a loose cannon. She worries me, to tell the truth.”
    “She’s lost her way, but with a little help and understanding, she’ll be back on track before you know it.”
    Back on track is where the pastor wanted to be. Three minutes to showtime, and his body was still fused to his spirit. His feet weren’t the only thing sweating. Even his tongue felt coated and thick.
    “Excellent,