The Color Of Light. Emilie Richards

      She shook her head. “Greg was quite a bit older, a catch and a charmer from head to toe. Unfortunately, as I learned, he was also an unrepentant womanizer, a daredevil and a bully. His favorite pastime, other than one-night stands, was to ride his Harley at high speeds on dangerous roads. In a rare moment of candor—after one of our many fights—he told me that the only time he really felt alive was when he was facing death.”

      “You were very young.”

      She smiled a little, because it was true. “But not an idiot. I was gathering my resources to divorce him when he went over a cliff on his motorcycle. He didn’t live to report the story. As horrible and unministerial as this sounds, dying was the only nice thing he’d done for me since the early months of our marriage. I didn’t have to go through a divorce. I had his life insurance and pension, plus I was able to stay on at the station. Because not only would Greg have fired me, he would have blacklisted me once he got the divorce papers, so I never found another television gig.”

      “A charmer for sure.”

      She pictured her ex, something she rarely did. “Indeed he was.”

      “And he’s the reason you left television?”

      “I left because of Isaiah Colburn.” She paused. “Father Isaiah Colburn, the man I thought I saw today.”

      “You knew him from California?”

      “Two years after Greg died I was considering a better job at another station farther north in Los Angeles. I was sent to report a house fire in a poor Latino neighborhood. It was one of those awful, awful moments, Ethan. Children trapped inside with no way to get out. Grieving, wailing parents. The fire department carried out the bodies, and my job was to try to get people to talk to me about what they were feeling. Hopefully people intimately connected, of course, the more intimately the better. A real coup would have been the parents.”

      He winced. She went on.

      “My strength was empathy, and I wanted to go to them and help somehow, but, of course, I couldn’t. For the first time I realized I would always be at a distance, that I might be first on the scene, reporting what I saw, but I’d never be truly a part of it. That my job, like the police and fire personnel, was to stay on the outside, to remain objective, to move on to the next tragedy. If Greg only felt alive defying the odds, I only seemed to feel alive when I was witnessing and documenting the lives of others. Only at that moment I didn’t feel alive. I felt like a voyeur.”

      “Epiphanies come in all shapes and sizes, huh?”

      She looked away. “Thank God the parents were behind the police line and I couldn’t get near them, or I might have tried. I ask myself that sometimes. Would I have?”

      “No, you wouldn’t,” Ethan said.

      She would never be sure. “Anyway, while I was scurrying around for a story, my heart silently breaking, a car pulled up and a man got out. Thirtyish, dog collar and clerical shirt. Clearly a priest. They let him through to be with the family. Nobody questioned how important he was. I glimpsed the way he greeted them, the long hug of mutual sorrow, the tears, the hands held, the heads bowed. Then their exodus together, him protecting them from people like me who wanted a small piece of their tragedy to increase ratings. I saw the way he shielded them, dealt quickly and succinctly with questions from the police, helped them into the car that would take them to the hospital where the deaths of their children would be confirmed and plans made for burial.”

      “And your life changed.”

      “In an instant. My personal road to Damascus. I saw the future I was pursuing and, beside it, a different path. Not one lived in the spotlight, but one lived in a smaller, more intimate place, where my actions would only be recorded on hearts and souls. I wanted to be where the smallest acts of kindness and comfort make all the difference. I saw myself in clerical garb, my arm around the shoulders of that young mother.” She took a deep breath. “You know the rest.”

      “How did you meet the priest?”

      “Like a good reporter I learned his name. Then a few days later I went to him with the idea of doing a story about priests, pastors, rabbis, anybody called to minister to people during the worst moments of their lives. But Isaiah saw right through me. By the end of our conversation he had wangled the truth. He saw I was questioning my life, and he suggested I begin to listen to the still, small voice inside me that was leading me elsewhere.”

      She picked up her wineglass again, and they sat quietly for a few moments.

      “If the man today was him, why wouldn’t he have stayed to talk?”

      She told him part of the truth. “We stayed in touch when I was in seminary in New York, and for a while after I came here. We might be from different faiths, but so much of what we go through as clergy is exactly the same. Over the years, though, I got busy, and I guess he did, too. I haven’t heard from him in a long time. Maybe he didn’t even recognize me.”

      “Right after you were pushed you were up on the platform, and you were introduced to the crowd by name as the minister of the Church of the Covenant.”

      “So I was.” Gratefully she saw their server approaching with their dinners. Even from a short distance Ethan’s quesadilla smelled luscious. “I guess whoever I saw today was really a stranger,” she said, to close the subject, “but after a long, hard day, maybe the Holy Spirit was trying to help me remember why I do what I do.”

      “Did it work?”

      “We’ll see after I get some food in my stomach.”

      After half a head of lettuce she felt a little better. They chatted casually about their mutual friends, a group of women Ethan’s wife, Charlotte, had known and loved and who, in true Charlotte fashion, she had manipulated so they would remain together after her death.

      Informally the women called themselves the Goddesses Anonymous. The name referred to the Buddhist goddess of mercy, Kuan Yin, who was said to have remained on earth after death to anonymously help those who suffered. None of the women Charlotte had chosen lived up to the goddess title, but they did work together to reach out in different ways to women who needed them. Charlotte’s family home in the mountains above Asheville had been left to them, and now they used the land and vintage log house, which they called the Goddess House, in a variety of ways.

      “I’m probably not giving away a secret,” she said as their server removed their plates and left the check, “but just in case, don’t tell anybody else. Georgia and Lucas have finally set their wedding date. The middle of February.”

      “Here in Asheville?” Ethan waited for her nod. “You’ll do the wedding?”

      “They want me to, and right now they’re planning for the Goddess House.”

      He gave a low whistle, and she smiled. “I know. They might need divine intervention to keep the road clear up Doggett Mountain.”

      She left enough cash for the meal and a tip, glad that Ethan didn’t try to wrest the bill from her grip. Then she stood. “I’ve kept you too long. If you drop me back at the church I’ll pick up my car.”

      He rose. “I imagine it’s a zoo there tonight, as usual.”

      “Tomorrow the whole place is booked solid, but I think this is one of those rare nights when the building’s empty and I don’t have to pop in and see what people are up to.”

      “A bad day ends well after all.”

      She took his hand for just a moment. “You made it end well, friend. Thank you.”

      “You’ve done the same for me more than once.”

      As they’d eaten the temperature had continued to drop, and once she was outside Analiese was sorry she had left her coat in her car. The trip back to the church was short, and Ethan was quiet, too. She guided him to park in the short strip closest to the parish house, which was reserved for staff.

      Her