The Color Of Light. Emilie Richards

parsonage in Asheville’s historic Kenilworth neighborhood. Ninety years ago the two-story Tudor Revival had been built for a minister with a large family, so even if by modern standards the bathroom and a half were woefully inadequate, the house, which had come with antiques in place, had four bedrooms, a sunroom off an efficient kitchen, and a large living room bordering a parlor that she used as her study. The formal dining room was presided over by a mahogany table and chairs for eight that were kept dust-free by her biweekly cleaning lady, not by constant use.

      From the outside the house was a storybook fantasy, with a stucco and half-timbered facade, and a steeply pitched roof with an inset shed dormer and clipped cross gable. Ethan, in full architect mode, had once explained the history and design to her. The wife of the previous minister had been a gardener and, during their years here, intricate beds of perennials and annuals had snaked along the winding sidewalk. After one look at the parsonage Analiese had declined to be in charge of the garden. So four times a year a committee descended on the yard and pruned, plucked and planted, so that now it was filled with easy-care azaleas, rhododendrons and lacy evergreens. A lawn service took care of the mowing and edging, and Analiese planted petunias around the mailbox each spring.

      The house was historic and picturesque, but as a single woman who often worked fifty-plus hours a week, she yearned for a compact condo right in the heart of downtown.

      Tonight the house seemed larger than ever, each square foot a reminder that she used only a tiny portion every day while families slept in parks and deep in mountain forests.

       And in an apartment in the Church of the Covenant parish house.

      The grandfather clock in the gabled entryway struck nine o’clock.

      “I know. I get it, so stop already.” She and the clock, which had kept an eye on parsonage occupants for more than a century, had regular conversations, and she could afford to be snippy.

      In the kitchen she reheated the untouched coffee she’d made half an hour before, and then made her way into her study.

      The council president was on speed dial, but she took several long sips and said a quick prayer for patience before she pressed the right button and waited for him to answer.

      Garrett Whelan was an attractive man in his late forties. He owned a copy and print business, Presto Printing Press, which he’d franchised in six other cities in North Carolina. His financial acumen was an asset on the board, although he was so concerned with the bottom line that he sometimes forgot the human equation.

      Tonight that was not a point in his favor.

      From the beginning of his association with the church, Garrett had served the congregation in various ways, beginning as a devoted advisor to the youth fellowship. He’d held that position for three years until his personal life took a downward spiral and his wife departed, taking their two adolescent children and a large chunk of the couple’s resources. Since then he had served in administrative positions until he’d worked his way up to become the president of the council.

      Garrett was in the second and final year of his term now, and seasoned in the ways of the congregation. Even though she was concerned about his reaction, Analiese knew he would understand all the ramifications of the problem she was about to dump in his lap.

      After he answered and they exchanged pleasantries she launched right in. “Something’s come up that the council needs to know,” she began. She gave a short explanation of the way the situation with the Fowlers had transpired.

      He listened, and despite every desire to keep the conversation short, Analiese forced herself to systematically explain what she had done and why. She didn’t want unanswered questions that quickly turned into rumors.

      Once she’d finished Garrett gave a low whistle. “You were in a spot, weren’t you?”

      She relaxed a bit, glad he understood. “Afraid so. I just couldn’t send them out into the night when we have an empty apartment. It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and they didn’t have a thing to be thankful for.”

      “You took them up the side stairwell?”

      During the creation of the apartment a committee had dutifully built a covered stairwell along the outside of the building as a private entrance to the third floor. But these days a few of the steps needed repair before they were completely safe.

      “I couldn’t risk it, Garrett. Nobody should be using those stairs.”

      “If you took them in through the parish house you realize they now have access to everything there?”

      “I’m afraid they had it already. The side door wasn’t locked. It sticks and sometimes the lock doesn’t catch.”

      “We really need to get every lock on the property fixed and rekeyed.”

      “I wonder why I didn’t think of that.”

      He laughed. Garrett had a nice baritone laugh. Reportedly his wife had left him for a younger man. Analiese had always wondered if thicker hair and six-pack abs had been worth the end of a twenty-year marriage.

      “All the office doors are locked,” she said. “And I can’t imagine them carrying off any of the furniture in the meeting rooms. Where would they put it?”

      “We don’t know anything about these people. Maybe this is a scam.”

      She knew this wouldn’t be the last time she heard that. “That’s always a possibility, but I don’t think so. The mom is genuinely ill, and they didn’t ask for a single thing. They said they were going to spend the night on the lawn and steal away early in the morning. I believed them.”

      “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Do I call the rest of the council?” He hesitated, but she didn’t answer because she knew he was just thinking out loud.

      “I could call the head of the building and grounds committee,” he said. “Joe’s a good guy. He’ll understand. And if they’re gone by tomorrow, maybe nobody else will need to know.”

      “That’ll backfire. If somebody else finds out, the rumor mill will crank into full gear. And we have a seminar tomorrow morning, so people will be in the building.”

      “I suppose.” He hesitated, then asked the question she least wanted to answer. “What’s going to happen to them tomorrow?”

      “There was too much going on to question them about their plans. I don’t know if they intend to stay in Asheville. I think the dad was looking for work today, which is how they ended up waiting at the church. He was probably walking the area on foot making inquiries.”

      “He didn’t find anything?”

      “I doubt he will, not until things have stabilized. He needs a haircut, better clothes.” She added something else she’d noticed when Man had managed a smile. “And dental work, I’m afraid. These people really fell on hard times.”

      “I wish I had something for him at one of my shops, but I don’t.”

      “Even if he finds a job, he’s not going to find one that pays enough for rent. Not even if he puts every cent he makes toward it. They have to get on their feet and save a little for a deposit and cushion, and they’ll need a lucky break.”

      “Ana, are you suggesting we might be their lucky break?”

      She sidestepped. “I don’t know if they want to stay in town, Garrett. They may want to head back north.”

      He was too astute to be fooled. “And if they do stay?”

      “They have two children. From what I can tell they haven’t gone to school for a while. Shiloh, the daughter, seems especially smart. She’s running the family without much help. Dougie, the son, is bright-eyed and energetic. They deserve so much better.”

      “Why is this our problem?”

      “Why isn’t it?”

      This