He closed the door with a firm, solid thud, the old-fashioned chivalry of the gesture making me feel younger than I had in decades.
He stood by the fender until I started the engine, his hand resting in his coat pocket.
As I backed out of the space, I looked toward the church entrance.
Clara was standing on the top step of the concrete stairs, her winter coat buttoned to her chin and her purse tucked tight under her arm.
She pointed at me with her glasses, her eyebrows raised high in a silent, urgent warning.
I tapped my horn once and drove out onto the county road, the steering wheel cold in my hands.
Through the rearview mirror, I watched Garrett walk toward a long, black sedan parked near the back of the lot.
The car looked shiny and clean, completely out of place against the gravel dust and the rust-bitten trucks of the parish elders.
A young man in a dark suit stood by the rear door of the sedan, opening it as Garrett approached
