Angel Falling Softly - By Eugene Woodbury Page 0,10

“LaDawn told me she has a new tenant.”

Everybody turned. Other than to explain Norma’s absence, Rachel hadn’t spoken up till now. A good Relief Society president knew more about what was going on in the ward than anybody else, including the bishop. But Norma was out of town, and so was Mary. And so here she was filling in.

“It’s a single woman. LaDawn didn’t think she was a member. That’s just her impression, though.”

“We’ll have to make sure someone stops by and says hello.”

Brother Clark said to Brother Ellis, “Hey, Troy, hear that? She’s single.”

The bishop said to his wife, “Did Sister Gunderson say how old she was?”

“Mid-twenties.” No need to add attractive.

Troy said, “Okay, okay, you talked me into it.”

Rachel didn’t think Troy Ellis was the best person to head the welcoming committee. The bishop didn’t either. “Hold your horses, Troy. We’ll let the Relief Society handle this one.”

After the prayer everyone but the bishop’s wife filed out. The bishop kicked a jam under the door to let in some fresh air. Rachel said, “You’re going to be through at three, right?”

The bishop barked, “Todd!”

The executive secretary stepped back into the room. He opened his three-ring binder and shook his head. “Nothing three to six. Interviews at six-thirty, seven, seven-thirty.”

“There you go.”

The same routine every Sunday. Odds were fifty-fifty he’d be home on time.

The shower was running when she got home. Laura was up. Good. What else? Make a few calls, make sure Amy Lewis had the Relief Society lesson ready—

The doorbell rang.

She opened the door. Gary Reed and Kyle Matheson stood there in their Sunday best. Kyle was Laura’s age, Gary a year older. Kyle said, “Hi, Sister Forsythe.” Gary handed her a fast offering envelope.

She looked at the envelope. Across the flap she’d written the month before, Pay with tithing. Glen, the ward finance clerk, was supposed to pull all the pay-with-tithing envelopes, but he was still learning the ropes. She said, “How about I keep this, okay? I’ll give it to the bishop.”

“Okay,” said Kyle.

Rachel closed the door and tossed the envelope on the coffee table and went back to the kitchen. She put on an apron and got the roast out of the fridge.

Chapter 10

An open door may tempt a saint

Milada was pretty sure somebody was at the front door. She rolled over and tucked the covers around her shoulders. The clock radio on the nightstand flashed 9:05. In the bloody morning.

The doorbell rang again.

She groaned. It’s Sunday morning! Her visitors were impertinent and impatient. She could ignore them. Probably. Maybe it was some neighborly thing they did here, some city statute about welcoming new residents on Sunday morning. Hell, she didn’t know. This was new territory for her.

She pulled on her yukata, tying the sash as she marched up the stairs. She turned the deadbolt and flung open the door. Sunlight reflecting off the roof of the house across the street nearly blinded her. She squinted and took a step back, raising her hand to shade her eyes.

“What?” she said.

It was more a command than a question. The two boys heading down the steps stopped in their tracks and returned to the porch. The taller one said, “Um, Sister Lindstrom?”

Do I look like a nun? Instead she said, “You must have the wrong address.”

The boy held up a pale blue envelope. “This is 1204, isn’t it?”

She had to think about it for a moment. “Yes.”

“Oh,” the boy said, stymied.

“May I see that?” She plucked the envelope out of the boy’s hand. The label on the envelope read: Ryan & Maryanne Lindstrom, 1204 Larkspur Lane. She said, “I suspect the Lindstroms were the previous occupants.”

The boys shrugged in noncommittal agreement.

The cardstock envelope was sealed at the top with a Velcro flap. Below the address label it said in black block letters, Fast Offerings.

“What, pray tell, is a fast offering?”

The sunlight was beginning to irritate her skin. She hadn’t had time to put on any sunblock. “Why don’t you boys come inside and explain it to me?”

The two exchanged nervous glances. But she had the envelope, and that was the only way they were getting it back.

The foyer opened onto the living room. Milada settled into the overstuffed armchair. She indicated the couch against the opposite wall. The two boys sat side by side with nervous civility. Milada pried open the Velcro flap. Inside was a three-by-five form with a yellow carbonless copy attached. Along the top of the form was printed in bold type: Tithing