Clearly, I was at fault. The driver causing a rear-end collision is always in the wrong. I snatched my keys from the ignition and stepped from the car, anticipating a tongue-lashing.

      “I’m terribly sorry,” I said to the woman approaching, barely discernible in the mist. “I saw the storm warning in the paper. I should have waited.”
“
      Don’t worry, dear, it was bound to happen. Maybe the weather was a factor, but the traffic didn’t help. In a backup like this, it’s just a matter of time.” Her cheerful voice quickly eased my apprehension. Even as she spoke, the crunch of metal confirmed that two more cars were wedded unceremoniously. She laughed. “Lucky we’re near Pohick.”

      “Pohick?”

      “The church just ahead. I’m on the Altar Guild. We’ll call a wrecker from there.” Belying the silver strands escaping from beneath her pink rain hood, the other driver hurried to her car with agility that bespoke years as a tennis aficionado or a horsewoman.

      Water and anti-freeze gushed from my car onto the road. Helpless, I switched on my flashers and followed obediently.

      As I climbed in beside the lady, she held out her hand. “I almost forgot my manners, dear. I’m Sheila Cameron.”

      Several hundred yards later, she turned off the highway and into a parking lot alongside a quaint place of worship. Gesturing toward a smaller building, she said, “We’ll telephone from the office. Come along.”

      We hurried across a path lined with magnolia trees and up stone steps flanked by ancient boxwood. While I shook water from my raincoat, Sheila, with the familiar authority of a steady customer, rang up a nearby garage and requested prompt service. Then she indicated a comfortable leather chair and offered me a book. “Here’s something to read while you wait. I’ll be in the church setting up the communion silver. Martin will be here in no time.”

      With that, she was gone. I began leafing through the book.

      “That’s the story of Pohick Church. Are you interested in history?”

      I fairly flew from my seat at the sound of a deep male voice from across the room. “Good heavens! I never saw you.”

      As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw the clergyman, his face shaded by a cowl, lounging on a window seat.

      He waved me back into the chair, his warm voice contrasting with the severity of his cassock. “Please stay seated. I’ve been indulging in a short rest.” 

      I eased back into the chair. “To answer your question, I love tradition whether in history, music, or art. I’ve lived here most of my life, but this is my first visit to Pohick Church. The architecture is lovely.”

      “We can thank George Washington for that. He and the other vestry members supervised its construction.”
“They had an eye for classic lines,” I said. “Styles come and go, but colonial architecture is always pleasing.”

      “That explains why nobody has tried to change or modernize this structure.”

      “If only the walls could talk!”

      He chuckled. “They already have. During the Civil War, the Union soldiers stabled their horses here and left mementos of their stay in graffiti.”

      “Really! Is it preserved?”

      “Only in photographs taken before the walls were plastered over. Rumor has it that they also left coins and other souvenirs in the walls or ceiling.”

      “Secret hiding places! I love mysteries. Have you ever poked around here, Reverend…?”

      “Conyers. Henry Conyers. I’m not the rector, just a visitor. And you are…?”

      “Amanda Prescott.”

      “I love mysteries, too, Amanda. Given the opportunity, I’d be tempted to explore those rumors. Several other local accounts of secret rooms and hidden fortunes also intrigue me.”

      “You’d fit right into a detective agency, or the FBI, maybe even the CIA,” I gushed, not considering how such a worldly suggestion would sound to a man of the cloth.

      He swallowed whatever he was about to say. Taking the silence as disapproval, I sought to undo my boner. 
      “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re a misfit in your profession.”

      His sunny laugh held no malice. “No apologies necessary, Amanda. You’re a pretty good detective yourself to read that into me. My profession demands that I keep on top of everything.”

      “I’m sure a clergyman is constantly learning. It must be a challenge to help people deal with today’s problems.”

      “Fortunately, we’re given strength to overcome tragedy.”

      “Even traffic mishaps?” I gestured toward the highway. “My car’s part of that snarl. Thanks to the rain and my inattention, I banged into Mrs. Cameron’s car. Hers survived, but mine succumbed.”

      “I heard her phone the garage. I hope this hasn’t ruined your plans.”

      I sensed that cars were a world apart from Henry Conyer’s domain. His specialty was saving lives instead of Detroit’s disasters. Well built, with shoulders that strained beneath the robe, he conveyed strength of body and character. I liked him instantly and was comforted by his presence.

      “Truthfully, I was trying to escape from my own unhappiness, hoping a fresh environment would put me back on an even keel. In your work, you’ve seen hundreds of people whose lives have turned upside down, but I wasn’t prepared.” Encouraged by his gentle understanding, I began to unburden my heart and my innermost fears.

      Henry listened to the end. After a brief silence, he rose and said, “That was then. This is now. Things will work out better than you can imagine. God never gives us burdens we can’t handle.”

      “I think he overestimates my limit.”

      He beckoned me to the window. “Here’s proof that faith pays off.”

      At the sight of the tow truck’s amber beacon glancing off the wet pavement, I dashed headlong out the door, ignoring Henry, my manners, and the teeming rain.

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