Manderville clan. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“You wanted to talk?”
“About this vacation of yours. A month is a long time.”
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” I say. “Autumn is my favorite season. With the leaves changing and the weather turning cool, our little neighborhood—”
“There’s always Florida.”
“Well, yes.”
I wish we didn’t work for such an affluent church, full of people who go wherever they want on vacation and stay for however long they want. Stacy married a doctor, so I’m sure it makes perfect sense to her that we’d pick up sticks and spend a month on Miami Beach. Sometimes ministering to the wealthy is counterproductive to attaining the peace of Christ that passes all understanding. Even if they do cut your husband loose for a month of paid vacation.
I mean, why are we having trouble raising twenty grand for the Habitat house we’re cosponsoring with our sister church downtown when the parking lot on Sunday mornings is clogged with Mercedes and BMWs and Volvo SUVs, not to mention several Jaguars? (Okay, I can’t help loving the Jaguars. But still.)
“Why do you have that funny look?” Stacy asks. “Did I say something?”
“What? No. Sorry, my mind was wandering. We have people coming over tonight and it was short notice. You remember the Shaws? They used to go to the church . . .”
Her eyes study the ceiling for a memory. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but the place has gotten so huge. I remember when it was just starting out. I think there are more people on staff now than were even attending back in the good old days! Anyway, here’s what I wanted to show you.” She digs in her capacious purse for half a minute only to produce a set of keys attached to a bright yellow floaty. “Here they are. And here you go.” She hands them to me.
“What are these?” I ask, turning the floaty over in my hand.
“You know we have a house in Florida,” she says. “It’s not a mansion or anything, but it’s right on the water. Beautiful stretch of beach. I already e-mailed you all the details. Do you ever check your e-mail, girl? I was starting to wonder.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s to understand? You have a month of vacation coming, and I have an empty vacation house on the beach. I don’t care if you do like it when the leaves turn and it gets cold. When was the last time you had tan lines, Beth? And I’m not talking about on your arms either. You can go down there and soak up the sun and forget all about Lutherville and the church and the fact that we’re not in high school anymore. Let your hair down and have some fun. Surprise that husband of yours.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. “Stacy, this is too kind.”
“It’s not. You’re my best friend, Beth. Of course I want you to have fun.”
I wince a little at hearing her describe me this way. We’re not that close, not really, but her voice sounds sincere. And it’s such a sweet gesture, even if I’m ninety-nine percent sure Rick won’t go for it. If nothing else, he’ll object to taking the VW all the way to Florida with its broken air-conditioning and its crank windows and no power steering.
“I can’t accept this,” I say. “It’s very sweet, but—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer.” She tucks her hands into her armpits so that I can’t hand the keys back. The yawning opening of her purse lies between us. I could toss them right in.
But I don’t.
I mean, why shouldn’t we?
The Jesus fish is my own fault. I’m a Christian, but not that kind of Christian. Not the in-your-face culture warrior. Not the sort to plaster bumper stickers all over my car. I don’t drive like a Christian, after all, and when I’m speeding or cutting somebody off, the last image I want to leave them with is that shiny faux-metal fish. But I shot my mouth off about the stupid fish and hurt the feelings of one of my study group ladies. You know the kind: she forwards e-mails to everyone in the group about liberal conspiracies and tries to sign us all up to march in front of clinics and boycott Hollywood and invest in gold.
But she’s a sweet person who just never got the memo that God wants to save all types of people and not just her type. She can’t imagine a decent, churchgoing