other was of Milada and her father, Rachel guessed. Milada was seated, the man stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, and both wore Victorian-style clothing.
“Garrick,” said Milada, pointing to the man on the right. “He is a—friend.” More than a friend, the way she said the word—but not a lover either, Rachel felt. Pointing to the man on the left, Milada continued, “And Uncle Frank.”
Again, Uncle Frank looked less like an uncle than like a cousin, and bit of a bounder at that. Milada lightly touched the glass and confirmed Rachel’s thoughts: “A man never content with what he has. And without a thought in his head of what to do with it when he gets more.” Her fingers strayed. “And you can see that Zoë was going through one of her gothic phases at the time.”
Zoë was the girl with dark hair. From her complexion, it was obvious that the hair was dyed. Now that Rachel looked more closely, she saw that they all shared the same fair skin and shock of silver-white hair. It was obvious even in the black-and-white photo of Garrick.
“And this is Kamilla.”
Rachel said, “The doctor.”
“Yes. A pediatrician.”
“And your father.”
“My stepfather, Mihaly. Though he’s gone by Michael for some time now.”
So he was her stepfather—and yet all so similar. Rachel set the picture down on the counter. Milada made a point of adjusting it, just a half-inch or so. “Was there something you needed to see me about, Rachel?”
For a moment, Rachel was stymied. Then she said, “The boy, Andy—the boy who got stung by the bees. He’s doing quite well. His mother wanted me to thank you.”
“That is good to hear.”
“In fact, Charlene tells me his allergies don’t bother him at all now.” Suddenly Rachel knew the reason she had come here. “Last Monday, when you found Andy—I know it sounds strange, but I really can’t remember what happened.”
Milada gave her a slightly amused look of measured forbearance. Rachel went on relentlessly. “I—I remember telling Laura to run and get David and Brother Millington, and then I think you started CPR, and then—and then David and Brent came running up and you gave me your cell phone. Yes, that’s right. But in between—”
And that was when Milada put her hand on Rachel’s shoulder, her fingers brushing the back of her neck. Rachel stopped talking. The words simply refused to leave her mouth. She felt ridiculous. Her face grew hot with embarrassment. “It is not important,” Milada said. She walked her to the door, Rachel dumbly letting herself be guided. Milada said again, “It’s not important, Rachel. Go home.”
A minute later, Rachel stood on the sidewalk outside her own house, feeling abashed.
“Rachel?”
The bishop came up behind her. Rachel spun around, startled. She was standing in front of their house. “How—?” she started to say.
“Forget something?”
“I—I was thinking—”
“Where were you?” He sounded curious, not inquisitorial.
“I was—I was at church.”
“I didn’t see you there. When I came down the walk, you were crossing the street.”
“I had to—um, drop something off at Arlene’s . . . ” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
Rachel knew what she said wasn’t true. But it wasn’t a lie. It was simply the most rational explanation she could think of at the time. She’d been at the church. Twenty minutes later, she was here. The in-between had vanished into thin air.
The puzzle kept her quiet as she undressed for bed. David said, “Brent tells me that Andy’s doing quite well.”
“Yes, that’s what Charlene says too. She thinks it might’ve been the bee stings. Her great-aunt claimed that bee stings cured her arthritis.”
“Well,” the bishop said, and he spoke without any trace of irony in his voice, “by next fast Sunday I’m sure she’ll see the hand of God in it.”
“Some of his ways are more mysterious than others.” Rachel closed the closet doors and sat on the bed. “So why does Andy Millington get this little miracle, and—” She stopped herself from saying, and we don’t. “And the Bromleys didn’t?”
David smiled and shook his head.
“What?” she demanded. She playfully threw a pillow at him. “You always do that!”
“Do what?”
“You smile whenever somebody mentions the Bromleys. It was a terrible tragedy!”
“Yes, it was.” He sobered up. “A terrible tragedy. But the whole thing started out so absurdly. I mean, Doug gets LaRita pregnant and then goes on his mission as if—what, nobody was going to find out? I can only imagine what his companion must’ve thought when he got sent home.”
“Maybe she