I clapped my hands over my mouth, but the figure paid me no heed. He traveled rapidly across the lawn, rounded the far side of the church, then disappeared from view. Undaunted, I headed toward the church. Surely there would be a telephone in the vestibule.

      The wooden door stood ajar. I stepped inside and groped the nearest wall to locate a light switch. The bare bulb cast a dim light that revealed nothing more than a solitary table holding some pamphlets, a guest book, and several outdated church bulletins. In the sanctuary beyond, rows of primitive benches faced a stone altar. An upright piano was against the wall alongside slat-backed chairs for clergy and choir. A short, curved stairway let to the elevated pulpit. Clearly, the modern world had swept past Broad Run Church. In particular, the telephone company had not invaded its solemnity.

      Dismayed, I was preparing to leave when a door behind the pulpit creaked open. Despite the gloom, I recognized the form entering as the very one I had seen in the churchyard. Obviously a clergyman, he mounted the steps to the pulpit and flipped several pages of the oversized Bible, as if searching for notes left there earlier. He seemed so absorbed in his task that I hesitated to disturb him, but he quickly detected my presence.

      His voice echoed through the emptiness. “Yes? How can I help you?” 

      I could not see his face in the gloom, but that voice was unmistakable. “Why, it’s Henry!”

      “Amanda! This is a nice surprise. Shouldn’t you to be practicing?” He hurried up the aisle as he spoke, the long cloak flapping about his ankles.

      “To answer your question, Henry, I’d love to be practicing, but I have a new client.” I explained my situation as briefly as possible, adding, “But what on earth are you doing here?”

      “I’m filling the pulpit while the regular minister is away.”

      “You seem to gravitate to historic churches. According to the road marker, this is even older than Pohick.”

      He chuckled. “And to think that if we hadn’t met there I would have been denied the pleasure of sending you back to the keyboard. Tell me what you’re working on now.”

      “From Grieg to Gershwin, with a dash of Steve Reich for a contemporary flavor.”

      “You’re not abandoning the French romantics, are you?”

      “Never! But it’s refreshing to move into the 20th Century. Maybe I’ll even discover some new composers to champion.”

      We fell into another of the cozy conversations I adored, unfazed by the evening gloom enveloping us, and chatted about music for perhaps ten minutes when he suddenly pointed toward the rear of the sanctuary. “I believe you car’s ready,” he said.

      “Really? How do you know?”

      “See for yourself.”

      I rushed to the door and found Ali standing in the dark. Henry must have heard him coming.

      “So here you are, Ms. Prescott,” Ali said. “We’re ready to go. Right after you left, a very helpful fellow pulled up and gave me a hand. I would have driven over to pick you up, but you took the keys.”

      “Sorry. I keep my purse and car keys with me by habit.”

      “A good habit to have. It’s so dark here, I’m surprised you found a telephone.”

      “I didn’t.”

      “No? Then what took so long?”

      “I ran into my friend here and we got to talking.” I swiveled around expecting to introduce Henry, but there was not a soul in the sanctuary.

      “Must be a slippery fellow. I don’t see anyone.”

      “That’s odd. He was right behind me. He does move quickly, though.”

      “And so must we.” With that, Ali took my arm and steered me toward the highway.

      Crestmont was nestled comfortably between twin hillocks a few miles off the main road. At the end of a winding driveway, welcoming house lights pricked out. The car headlights forged ahead to warn of sinewy curves that narrowed in the approach to a small creek. Its metal bridge clanked alarmingly as the car bounced across. “They must know when company’s coming,” I said.

      “I’d replace that right away.” Even in the dark, I could tell that Ali was frowning.

      “If you like history and classic architecture, you can’t do better than this,” I pointed out. “Thomas Jefferson designed the windows. They run from floor to ceiling. And if you enjoy sitting by the fire in the wintertime, there are four large chimneys and sixteen fireplaces, eight on each floor.”

      “The only warmth I require is the presence of a lovely lady,” Ali said. “Just as the poet said, ‘a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and…’”

      “Here we are.” I braked, cut the engine, and stepped from the car in one continuous motion to deflect his amorous arm. “Come along. We’re late enough as it is.”

      I had not expected the owner to look like the woman who responded to repeated pressure on the bell. Dressed in riding boots, jodhpurs, and a designer shirt, her platinum hair twisted into a pony tail, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but the aging process may have been deferred by a deft facial surgeon.

      “I’m sorry to be so late,” I said. “We had a flat tire, but took a chance and came anyway.”

      She waved away my concern and beckoned us into the house. “It’s okay. I found the message on my answering machine when I came in from the stable.”

      I frowned. What message? And who sent it? 

      Questions about the mysterious message were unsettling, even as I introduced myself and Ali. “Mr. Ahmed is looking for a place to raise thoroughbreds.”

      “Glad to meet you. I’m Bunny Phelps. Any horseman’s a friend of mine.” She extended her hand to me, all the while appraising Ali. Her smile blocked the bitterness I marked bubbling beneath the surface. 

© 2005 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at