His face reddened. “That’s not why I asked.”
She studied him. “Then ask my brother what needs moving. He knows the plan.”
Quentin gave him two chairs and a task that required more attention than strength. Together they made the center aisle straight again. For a while they worked without speaking. Then Quentin said, “You had a phone, right?”
“Yes.”
“The whole time?”
“Yes.”
“And the booking was on it?”
Casey swallowed. “Yes.”
Quentin looked at the rows they had aligned. “I’m not asking you to explain it today. But when you write your report, don’t make it sound like the answer was hard to find.”
“I won’t,” Casey said.
It was not forgiveness. It was something more useful: a clear expectation about the truth.
Near the front, Pastor Quimby had reclaimed her chair and was supervising three generations of relatives with the authority of a person who had earned the right to sit while she gave directions.
“Two rows, eight each side. Keep a little space for the walkers. I want an aisle wide enough that nobody steps on that dress.”
Quentin reached for the guest book. “Pastor, you haven’t stood up yet.”
“I stood up to argue with the woman. It was plenty of exercise.”
Alma brought a small sewing kit from the bus. She knelt beside Bethany and examined the gray smear on the dress. The fabric had picked up sand and a little black dust from the bench, and one pearl at the wrist was hanging by a thread.
“I can fix the pearl,” Alma said. “The stain may have to stay.”
“Leave it,” Bethany replied.
“I could ask Lillian for the spare dress.”
“Mama, I like this dress.”
“It was supposed to be white.”
“It still is. Mostly.”
Alma looked up, ready to scold, then saw her daughter’s expression. Bethany was not pretending the afternoon had been harmless. She was making a decision not to let the damage become the only thing visible in the photographs.
“Your daddy’s roof has stains too,” Alma said at last.
“And he still built it straight.”
Alma pressed the pearl into place with a few quick stitches.
Lorna approached carrying a box of undamaged candles. She stopped a few feet from Bethany, uncertain whether she had the right to come closer.
“I found these by the trash bins,” she said. “I don’t think they belong there.”
Bethany accepted the box. “Thank you.”
“I want to apologize for laughing earlier. And for not saying something before it got worse.”
Bethany did not rush to comfort her. “You had plenty of chances.”
“I know.”
“You’ll have to live with that.”
“I know that too.”
A silence held between them. Then Bethany looked toward the front row. “Mrs. Ingram is putting flowers back. If you want to help, ask her.”
Lorna nodded and went to do it. She had expected to be told she was either forgiven or condemned. Instead she was given a practical choice. The difficulty of that choice felt appropriate.
By five twenty-five the chairs were straight, the flowers were standing, and the photograph of Hiram was back where it belonged. The sun had softened into the gold of late afternoon. The guests formed quiet groups beneath the pavilion, and the honor detail waited near the boathouse with its case unopened.
Bethany stepped to the beginning of the aisle. Rowan took his place under the roof.
Nothing was perfect. Everything important was still there.
Chapter 29: Under Hiram’s Roof
Pastor Quimby began five minutes later than planned, which she announced as a victory over the kind of day that had tried to run by somebody else’s clock.
“Friends,” she said, “before we begin, look up.”
A few guests followed her gaze immediately. Others leaned back in their chairs. Above the center beam, just visible in the light, was the brass plaque with Hiram Tisdale’s name and the year he had finished the roof.
