Through the Darkness Read Online Free PDF

chocolate covered doughnuts. “Where’s the fire, Michael?”
    â€œSorry, Pastor Eva.” And he departed for the refreshments table at a more leisurely pace.
    â€œEva!”
    A woman I didn’t recognize came toddling toward us across the parish hall. Her hair was streaked with so many different shades of blond that it was impossible to tell what the original color might have been. It curled under her ears like a badly thatched roof.
    Eva greeted the woman warmly, then turned to us. “Hannah, Paul, I’d like you to meet Cassandra Matthews, Roger’s boss at Eastport Yacht Sales.”
    â€œWonderful party!” Cassandra said. “Thanks for including me.”
    Another person I’d missed among all the merrymaking. I was glad Cassandra was feeling singled out for special attention, but in point of fact, Dante and Emily had invited just about anybody associated with the sailing industry in Annapolis, figuring that where there’s sailing, there’s money.
    Sailboat: A hole in the water where you throw your money .
    That’s what The Sailors’Dictionary tells us, anyway. Its authors, Beard and McKie, also define “crew” as “heavy, stationary objects used on shipboard to hold down charts, anchor cushions in place, and dampen sudden movements of the boom,” which pretty much summarized my sailing expertise.
    â€œIt’s a wonderful facility, Hannah,” Cassandra was saying when I tuned back in. “You must be awfully proud of your son-in-law.”
    â€œWe are,” Paul said.
    â€œAnd our daughter, too,” I hastened to add. In just eight short years, Dante had clawed his way up from college dropout to spa owner, an incredible feat. But it wouldn’t have happened without the unflagging support of our daughter, Emily.
    â€œGotta run,” Eva said. “But take my advice, boys and girls, and hold onto your hats! The service is going to be a doozy. See you in the narthex afterward.”
    But after the service, our ears literally ringing with the joyful noise of a rousing gospel rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” Paul and I steered clear of the narthex and headed for the south door, so we could make a quick escape to Paradiso in time to help with the cleanup as we’d promised.
    We were too late.
    At Paradiso the Dumpster was full, the floors swept, Party Perfect was just departing with the tent, tables, chairs, and luau torches, someone from Cheryl’s Chalets was busily forklifting deluxe Porta-Potties onto a flatbed truck, and half the Paradiso staff was sitting on the veranda, sipping iced tea out of tall glasses.
    â€œIced tea?” asked Emily.
    Paul squeezed my hand. “Your mother and I would love some tea, Emily.”
    While the sous-chef—whose name, I learned, was Jimmy George—went to fetch our tea, Dante offered me his chair.
    â€œThe calm before the storm,” he said as he held the back of my rocker with one hand while dragging another one over with his left.
    â€œWhy?” Paul asked. “It’s Sunday. A day of rest. What’s on tap for today?”
    â€œMagazine interviews.” Emily dumped the contents of a pink packet into her tea and stirred it with a straw. “We’ve been rushing around like maniacs all morning because the photographer from the Washington Post magazine is due at two—”
    â€œAnd Baltimore Magazine’s sending someone at three-thirty,” Dante cut in.
    â€œAnd we still don’t have an accountant, Dad.”
    Paul raised a hand. “Don’t look at me! If I were a plumber, would you ask me to fix the pipes? Just because I teach math…” His voice trailed off.
    â€œOh, no.” Emily set her glass down on the table, grinned broadly and leaned forward. “We’ve got a much more interesting job for you, Dad, if you’re willing.”
    â€œAs long as it doesn’t involve heavy