She felt his fingers squeeze her slightly and convey something extra.
"Trust me?"
She nodded.
"Say it. Say, 'Otis, I trust you.' "
She repeated the words.
"Good. The next time I call, it will be to congratulate you."
He let go of her, went to the front door and opened it. "I hope you get your phone call."
She didn't understand.
"Your husband."
"Oh."
She watched him go.
Gary didn't call that evening, but she wasn't bothered. Her thoughts were all on this amazing conversation, on the way he'd held her, looked into her eyes, spoken to her.
"Trust me?"
She finished the wine, shaking her head at intervals. She was mature, married, sexually experienced, yet she felt like a teenager with a crush on some unattainable man. She could still feel his touch on her arms. Why would he single her out for this job she had no aptitude for unless he fancied her? "I'm
happy to
spend as long as you wish going over the books."
So was it just an excuse to spend time with her? And what did he want—companionship? Or, God forgive her, a relationship?
He'd been married, if the stories were true, and tragically his wife had died. He was young, living alone, probably desperately lonely, sexually frustrated. Priests are not without the same needs and desires as other men. He could easily be telling himself he needed some female company, a friendship, someone to relax with. And more? Surely he couldn't be planning an adulterous affair with her? That would be against the faith he preached.
Fleetingly, sinfully, she cast him in the role of her lover, gripped by such desire for her that he broke his vows or promises, or whatever priests are supposed to live by, and made passionate love to her while Gary was away. It was graphic and easy to picture, this image of him naked as she'd almost seen him once, only this time he was here with her, in this cottage, in her own bed, tender, adoring, passionate and vigorous.
She stood up, hot from her fantasy.
Ridiculous.
She was an adult, a member of the church, a wife. She'd agreed to take on a job for the church, and that was all. He'd recognised her qualities, her calmness under pressure, and seen that she was the right person to manage the accounts. That was reality.
Yet in bed that night she imagined the other thing and heard him saying "Trust me?" so clearly that his head could have been on the pillow beside her.
"Otis," she said. "Otis Joy."
SCANDALS ABOUT THE CLERGY usually break in the Sunday press just before the faithful go to worship. The story headed BISHOP'S LEAP OF SHAME was no exception. The village shop had sold out of the
News of the World
by nine-thirty, and the sense of shock had turned to a quirkish mood of high spirits and even some amusement by the eleven o'clock service. Bishops have always been figures of fun—from a distance. The Reverend Joy had never shirked an issue yet, so how would he deal with the Bend Over Bishop and Madam Swish's telephone service:
He was on form. "Flagellation," he opened his sermon, and the pews creaked with the clenching of buttocks. "We Christians know plenty about it, or should. 'Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one,' St. Paul tells us. 'Thrice was I beaten with rods.' Our Lord himself was scourged."
No one was amused any more.
"Through all the ages, saints, monks, nuns and penitents have punished themselves, or been punished with whips, canes and birches. It was thought to be cleansing, a penance. So how does a penance become a perversion? When it turns you on. If it's about penitence, okay. If you enjoy it, no, no. Then it's masochism."
The shocking word carried up the old stone walls and sounded off the roof. Joy paused, and lowered his voice. "The papers tell us—and we all believe the papers, don't we?—that Marcus, our bishop, indulged in flagellation. How? On the phone, using a credit card. His actions harmed nobody. And afterwards he was found dead. End of story. Pretty depressing stuff. You wouldn't think so, reading the papers—and, in case you're wondering, I saw them too. They play up every salacious detail, as they always do when the clergy are caught out. Yes, we expect our bishops to be of good character. Marcus strayed from the path, if this report is true. Who has not done a foolish, humiliating thing at some time in his life? I don't mind telling you I have. I try to lead the good life, and sometimes I fail. Let's take a moment now to think about our own moments of weakness and shame." He paused.
No one even cleared his throat.
"And now imagine the worst of all scenarios: not just that your sin is trumpeted to the entire nation, but that all the good things you did in your life are downgraded by this act. Now hear the word of the Lord. 'He that is without sin among you, let him cast first a stone.'"
It was a chastened congregation that filed out into the sunshine.
MONDAY'S SCRABBLE evening with George Mitchell had to be put off. The Parochial Church Council met at the rectory to appoint the new treasurer. It was the first full attendance in a long time. After the usual opening prayer, Otis Joy said, "A problem, ladies and gentlemen. Two names have been put forward, one from Geoff Elliott, the other from me. If I vacate the chair, as I wish to in this case, Geoff, your vice-chairman, should take over, but..." He smiled.
Norman Gregor, the churchwarden who farmed the fields below the village, took over the chair. He invited Elliott to speak first, and a fine case he made for Burton Sands. "This young man is extremely keen to take up the post and there's no question as to his competence, accountancy being his profession. He's a regular attender at services. True, he hasn't been confirmed yet, but he's been attending the rector's confirmation group, and I don't see that anyone could object if we invited him to become our treasurer. A more able and committed candidate would be hard to find."
Gregor said with a twinkle in his eye, "But the rector believes he has found one. Over to you, Rector."
The meeting was treated to a
tour de force
in the art of persuasion. Like a beaten man Joy sighed and spread his hands. "These decisions are tough, aren't they? You've heard the case for Burton. Who could top it? Rachel Jansen isn't an accountant. She's less keen than Burton to take the job. Less confident. I had to sell the idea to her. So what are her qualifications? Like Burton, she's in church every Sunday. She's active in charity work and well known in the village for house-to-house collections and the support she gives to all our social events. A calm, intelligent woman unlikely to ruffle feathers."
"Why isn't she on the PCC already?" someone interrupted.
"Fair point. Rachel is one of those people who don't push themselves forward. She's not pushy. I've discovered in my short career in the church that it's worth making the effort to persuade such people to get involved. The reason we're having this discussion is that none of you wants to be treasurer. We're forced to look outside the PCC. Now that Rachel and I have talked, she'd like to be considered for the post."
"You fancy yourself as a talent-spotter, Rector," commented Peggy Winner, the third churchwarden.
"I just believe she could do the job."
The chairman said with a smile, "Let's have the sub-text, Rector. What's your objection to Mr. Sands?"
"No objection at all. I know Burton well from the confirmation group. You have to admire his persistence. He's a stickler for detail."
"Isn't that what you want in a treasurer?"
"Yes, it's essential."
Peggy said, "It's a question of how it's done, isn't it? Maybe the rector thinks Burton doesn't have the delicate touch a woman has."
"That's unfair," said Elliott.
"The rector didn't say it," the chairman pointed out, "and I don't think he's finished yet."
Joy nodded. "I wouldn't suggest we give the job to Rachel because she's a woman. After all, our last treasurer was a man and he was a model of tact. You only had to watch Stanley being gently diplomatic when some old dear got her sums wrong."
"But we don't want a doormat for treasurer," Elliott couldn't resist pointing out.
"Rachel is no doormat, Geoff," said Joy.
"I wasn't speaking personally."
"Right." He played his trump card. "There's just one thing I would add. Whoever takes on the post automatically becomes a member of this council. I (may be speaking out of turn, but I think we'll find meetings going on rather longer if Burton is here than they do at present. He likes the sound of his voice and he's strong on points of order."
"Oh, Christ," said Gregor and spoke for so many others that the blasphemy passed without comment.
There were looks all round the table. No question: the rector had won the day. There wasn't even a vote. Elliott withdrew his nomination and Rachel was appointed as the new treasurer.
The meeting ended in just under the half-hour. "If Sands had been here, we'd have been discussing it till midnight," Norman Gregor said to Peggy Winner as they lingered outside on the drive.
"What was it about?" she said.
Norman's shaggy eyebrows popped up at the question.
"What's the rector up to?" Peggy said. "What's the hidden agenda here?"
"I'm not with you, Peg."
"Rachel's a sweet woman, but who'd think about her for parish treasurer?"
"The rector did."
"Yes, and we all backed his choice because he's the top banana. I was expecting him to tell us she took a degree in maths or worked in a bank or something. No experience. Nothing. He's got his doubts about Burton Sands. Fine. Pick someone else, but why pick Rachel?"
"Maybe it's for her sake."
"Why?"
"To get her involved more."
Peggy was scornful of that theory. "She's involved. More involved than most of us. She goes round the houses collecting for this and that. She's always in the thick of it when we have a fete or a safari supper or carol-singing. And she's into acting, for heaven's sake. She was in that thing about the women's Turkish bath, Steaming. She doesn't need bringing out."
"What do you think, then?"
A grin spread over Peggy's face. "Not for me to say." But it was transparently clear what she meant.
"She's married," said Norman.
Peggy nodded, still grinning.
"And him a man of God?" said Norman. "You must have it wrong."
"He was hitched before. He knows what it is to be with a woman."
"But not someone else's wife. That's against the Commandments. You want to be careful what you say, Peggy. The Rector's a much respected man here and Rachel's not that sort of woman at all, what I've seen of her."
"He took her off to the hospital in his car the day she broke her arm."
"So he should have, too. It happened on his patch. If you want my opinion, Peggy, you read too many of those Jackie Collins books."
"I didn't say they were up to things ... yet."
"Oh, come on!"
Peggy laughed. "We'll see."
"I hope not," Norman said. "He's a breath of fresh air to this village. I'd hate to see him caught with his pants down." He opened his car and tossed his briefcase inside. "Would you like a lift, or would that be
my
reputation down the plughole?"
OTIS PHONED Rachel with the news. As he'd expected, she was still uncomfortable with the idea. He told her the decision had been so clear it hadn't even been put to the vote. She was ideally suited to be treasurer, he insisted, and it was nice that the PCC had shown such confidence.
He said he wasn't able to, visit her that evening to congratulate her personally as he had one more pastoral call to make.
Disappointed, she didn't want to appeat selfish, wanting a share of his time when he was so committed to his work in the parish. She knew from things she heard at work that he spent hours comforting the sick, the bereaved and the lonely.
"How about some time Wednesday evening?" he suggested, and her spirit soared. "I can't manage tomorrow. It's my free day and I won't be around."
"Somewhere nice?" she asked on impulse, knowing it was none of her business, but giving him the chance, if he wished, to take her into his confidence. Instantly she knew she sounded like a chattering schoolgirl angling for a date.
"Not specially," he said. "Is Wednesday possible? It isn't just about congratulating you. We should start to look at the books."
"Wednesday is fine ... Otis."
"Excellent."
They fixed a time of seven-thirty.
Immediately she put the phone down it rang again.
"So, big spender, when are you off to the Bahamas?"
Cynthia, being waggish.
"With the church money, you mean?" said Rachel. "No chance. I'll be lucky if I get to Weymouth with the Sunday school."
"Congratulations anyway, darling. I just heard. How refreshing to have a woman write the cheques. 1 was rooting for you, of course. We didn't want that tepid little teabag taking over. He thought he was home and dry, no contest, him being a chartered accountant." Hoots of laughter came down the phone. "He won't have the faintest notion how it happened. How did it happen?"
"I've no idea, Cyn. I wasn't there."
"And no one's told you? Hasn't the rector been on yet to give you the news?"
"Yes. A few minutes ago."
"I should think so, too. Is he coming round to share a bottle of bubbly with you?"
"No, Cynthia," she said, not liking the drift of this. "There isn't any cause for celebration. It's just a job I was asked to take on."
"Yes, but he put you up for it. He should stand you a drink, at the very least. You'll see him later, I expect?"
Questions, questions, questions.
"No. He's busy."
"Tomorrow? Oh. Forgot. That's his day off. He'll be away before breakfast and back about midnight. Where
does
he go every Tuesday?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Cyn, who else was up for treasurer?"
"Didn't anyone tell you? Sourpuss. The one who never smiles. He would have been a real damper on the parish council."
"Yes, but who? Did you say he's an accountant?"
Cynthia laughed. "A
chartered
accountant, my dear. He goes off every day in his pinstripe suit to Warminster clutching his little briefcase with his tuna sandwiches inside."
Now she knew who Cynthia meant. "Burton Sands. And they chose me? I don't understand it."
"Otis wanted you, that's obvious. He'd rather deal with you than a pain in the arse like Burton, and who wouldn't? Good thing you're happily married, ducky, or tongues might wag."
"For pity's sake, Cynthia."
"How is Gary? Has he phoned you from America?"
Cynthia didn't let up.
"Not yet. It's difficult with the time difference and everything. I'm sure he's having a good time."
"Not too good, I hope."
When she came off the phone, Rachel shook her head and sighed, but less over Cynthia than the remarkable decision of the PCC.
She made herself tea, trying to understand how Otis could have swung the decision her way. He could charm the birds off the trees, she knew, but she couldn't imagine how he persuaded anyone she would make a better treasurer than Burton Sands. Yet it had been so obvious, he'd said, that it hadn't even been put to the vote.
Wednesday evening, then. What would she put on? The suits she wore to church each Sunday simply would not do. In her own home she ought to strike a less formal note, not the sweater and jeans she was wearing right now, but something that set a relaxed mood, for him, as well as herself. A dress, she decided, and nothing too tartish. She had a dark green frock she had bought in Kensington last time she had been to London, with sweet little fabric-covered buttons to the neck and a full skirt. Gary had liked it. No—she thought the minute Gary sprang to mind—I won't wear that old thing. I'll go to Bath tomorrow and look round the shops. Treat myself to something really special.
A drop-dead dress, as they say in America. Well, a stunner, at least.
Then there was the food. He wouldn't expect a full meal at that stage of the evening, but she had to offer something. Sweet or savoury? A warm dish would be best. She was brilliant at individual souffles that always rose and spilled over the top, but they needed whisking, and it might be difficult dashing between the Magimix and the account books. The food ought to be ready-cooked and warmed up with the minimum of fuss. Quiche, or pizza. Quiche, she thought, for the rector. Better still, some of those extra-special cocktail snacks from the delicatessen in Bath. She'd get them at the same time as she got the dress. And if she served cocktail snacks, she had to have a bottle of wine.