Angel Falling Softly (5 page)

“Brent, you still need the Scout fundraiser totals, right?” Brent Millington was the Young Men president. “Catch Glen after church before we start tithing so he can print it out for you. And make sure he deposited the fundraiser checks against the Young Men account. He’s still learning the ropes.” He paused, shuffled his papers, and said, “All right, anything else?”

“Fast offerings,” said Bill Garner, the second counselor.

“Right.” Back to Brent: “Can you cover half the routes before church?”

“I’ll round ’em up.”

Brother Ellis, the elders quorum president, said, “I heard someone moved into the Lindstroms’ place.”

Brother Garner said, “Sister Gunderson’s been trying to rent it out for a couple of weeks now.”

The bishop’s wife said, “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.

M
ilada 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 and Other Offerings. She read down the columns: Tithing, Fast Offering, Missionary, Humanitarian.

“The two of you are collecting religious contributions?”

The taller boy gulped and reddened. Milada realized without looking that the collar of her
yukata
had relaxed when she sat down, revealing most of her left breast. She suppressed a smile, tightened the sash, crossed her legs, and smoothed the
yukata
over her thighs.

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy squeaked.

“Explain to me what a fast offering is again?”

The shorter one piped up. “You’re supposed to skip two meals and donate the money you would have spent.”

“I am?” Milada was beginning to enjoy herself. “Two complete meals? Not just meat? Or fish instead? So this is a Mormon practice? And what are these contributions used for?”

“For poor people.”

Milada smiled again. These kids wouldn’t know a poor person if one smacked them up the sides of their blond little heads. But good intentions did count for something in the breach of actual experience. “A noble thought,” she acknowledged. She went into the kitchen and retrieved her checkbook. “I gather I keep the yellow copy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused from the living room.

“And to whom do I make out the check?”

There was a flurry of deliberations. The shorter one spoke up: “Cottonwood Estates Second Ward.”

Milada slipped the check into the envelope. When she returned to the living room, the boys bounced to their feet. She handed the taller one the envelope and said good-bye.

They escaped as might a pair of mice freed from the clutches of a hungry cat. Milada returned to the kitchen and pinned the yellow copy to the message board next to the telephone. A trophy of sorts. She shook her head in wonderment and almost giggled. Some things were worth getting up early for.

A
sentence the bishop’s wife hadn’t heard in church before: “She didn’t have a
thing
on under it!”

She slowed her stride. She didn’t stop and turn, having learned long ago that paying close attention to what a teenager was saying was the worse way to find out what he
was
saying.

“Get out!” That was Brian Shore.

“I’m telling you, I was sitting five feet away from her!” That was Gary Reed.

“What were you doing five feet away from her?”

Yes, Gary, what were you doing?

“Hey, she invited us in. And she gave us a contribution. She’s gotta be a movie star or something. Like that
Touched by an Angel
chick. She had a funny accent and this unbelievable hair. I mean, it was so white it was almost
silver.
”

Were platinum blondes so rare these days? In the church foyer, the boys walked past her and pushed through the doors into the bright sunlight.
Ah!
Rachel said to herself. LaDawn’s new tenant. Glen hadn’t sorted
any
of the fast offering envelopes. So they must have stopped at the Lindstroms’ place too.

Rachel walked home with Laura. At times like this, without Jennifer by her side, she ached to hold her daughter’s hand, but Laura was long past the hand-holding stage. Instead Rachel whispered to her, “You look very pretty in that dress.”

“Mom!” Laura protested. But her mother saw how her daughter beamed when she turned away.

The house smelled of roast beef. Rachel turned the swamp cooler on low. She changed into a blue paisley housedress and set to work on dinner. Her husband walked in the door at a quarter to three. Small miracles did happen. She called out, “We’ll be ready to eat in ten minutes. Laura, come down and set the table!”

David hung his suit coat on the banister post. He got the plates out of the cupboard and handed them to his daughter. “So, Laura, what did you learn in Sunday school today?”

“Some
babe
moved into the Lindstroms’ place.” She said it in such a way to indicate that the source of the information was a jerk. “Gary said they were collecting fast offerings and this half-naked lady answered the door.” She added quickly, “That’s what
Gary
said.”

“That’s right.” The bishop went to the banister and got his cell phone from the pocket of his suit coat. “Glen mentioned a contribution from a new member. Ah, yes. From Milada Daranyi, 1204 Larkspur Lane. Must be LaDawn’s new tenant.”

“Milada Daranyi,” Rachel echoed. “What an interesting name.”

Laura said, “Like I’m sure she’s a member.”

“Still, we should say hello,” Rachel said. “No one’s been assigned to the welcoming committee yet.”

“I assigned you, as I recall.” David glanced at his watch. “We’re going to the hospital after dinner to see Jennifer. Do you want to come with, Laura?”

Laura gave him a pained look. “She’s always the same, Dad. She just lies there.”

“Okay, Laura. You don’t have to.”

Laura sat down at the table and announced, “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

Her mother returned to the stove. She said over her shoulder, “Why don’t we stop and see Sister—Miss—Daranyi on the way back from the hospital?”

David thought that was a good idea.

A
s happy as Milada was with her Ozzie and Harriet accommodations, it occurred to her that the Mormons might take some getting used to. Early on in the project, Jane had prepared a fact sheet on the state’s demographics and overall fiscal health. It alone convinced Milada that they should consider acquisitions of several high-tech firms she’d been following on the NASDAQ small cap index.

What Jane hadn’t mentioned was that Salt Lake City proper was approximately fifty percent Mormon. Cottonwood Estates, Milada was beginning to suspect, boasted a higher-than-average concentration.