“Eventually,” Clare said. “Right now, the most important man in my life is the structural engineer. Where did I leave that copy of the estimate the vestry got a few years back?”

“Here.” Lois slid a folder across her desk. “Don’t wait too long on Hugh. Sooner or later, you, like the roof, will start sagging and leaking. You have to nail a man down before then, if you want one.”

“What a charming image. I’ll be sure to think of you when I’m picking out my support bra and Depends.” Clare tucked the folder under her arm and crossed to the door.

“If you were married to Hugh Parteger, you could afford to have them sent over by your personal shopper,” Lois called after her.

In the church, Clare could see the vestry members gathered around what she now thought of as the Crisis Zone, a series of plastic buckets and basins set on the windowsill and spread over the floor. In the pale winter light shafting from the stained-glass window, the vestry members looked like a Vermeer painting, all well-dressed concern and solemn experience. Until she heard Robert Corlew say, “If you had just listened to me when I proposed an affordable way to fix the damn thing, we wouldn’t be looking at this now!”

“Your way, which was, as I recall, to staple tarp and asphalt shingles on our historic roof!” Sterling Sumner shot back.

“Our historic wreck!”

“Hi, everyone,” Clare said. “Have I missed anything important?”

There was a general chorus of greeting, and Corlew and Sumner sank back into their respective stances, glaring at each other. The former was a small-scale developer whose latest project was a drive-through mini-strip mall. The latter taught architecture at Skidmore after having retired from a firm specializing in high-end, unique houses. They were the cobra and the mongoose of her vestry.

“Sorry I’m late. Why don’t we all take a seat and get started?” Clare plopped into the pew across the aisle from the Zone. She waited until all six vestry members had seated themselves near the tarp-covered pews bracketing the water-damaged space and then she said, “Let us pray.

“Heavenly Father, you have blessed us with many riches and given us stewardship over them. A beautiful house of worship, a close-knit community, and a measure of prosperity. You have raised up intelligent, passionately committed people to lead our congregation. You ask in return, Lord, that we use our resources wisely and always remember that what we do here is not to satisfy our own egos, but for the glory of your name. Amen.”

There was an answering mutter of “Amen”s.

“Okay,” she said, “I see everyone has gotten a clear look at the problem.” There was a sound, a kind of collective unwilling groan, from the others. “I know the question of what to do about the roof has been discussed”-she paused, trying to think of a tactful way to put it-“extensively before. Gentlemen and lady”-she nodded at silver-haired Mrs. Marshall, the only woman on the board-“the time to discuss is over. We have to act on this now before the whole aisle roof caves in on us.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Robert Corlew said.

“I think we can all agree that preserving the historic nature of St. Alban’s is a priority,” she continued. Sterling Sumner beamed at her and tightened his English school scarf-a year-round affectation-in a way that suggested a rude gesture to Corlew. Clare soldiered on. “With the extent of the damage we can see, we’re not talking about simply fixing the roof anymore. I’m sure Robert and Sterling have a much better understanding of these things than I do, but it looks as if we’re going to have to replace and repair some of the interior woodwork. Lord only knows what has to be done to the window embrasure in order to make sure the stained-glass panel remains secure. Historical accuracy, in this context, is going to mean high-level finish carpentry, a window-restoration specialist, and hand-cut Vermont slate shingles for the roof.”

“It’s going to be pricey. Very, very pricey.” Terence McKellan patted his expansive belly as if looking for spare change. The vice president for commercial loans at AllBanc, Terry was St. Alban’s financial officer.

“We have a responsibility to the future generations to preserve St. Alban’s heritage,” Mrs. Marshall said.

“We also have a responsibility to safeguard what money we have,” Robert Corlew said. He moved his hand as if he were about to jam it into his improbably thick hair, but stopped himself. Clare, who had been trying for a year to discern whether he wore a rug or not, filed the gesture away in a mental folder marked EVIDENCE FOR TOUPEE.

Norm Madsen’s faded blue eyes looked thoughtfully into the middle distance. “Maybe we could knock up something quick and cheap to fix the immediate problem, and then work on raising money for the fancier roof.”

“Norm, with a leak this extensive, there is no quick and cheap fix,” Terry said.

Clare stood up. “Folks, this is rapidly becoming a replay of every discussion we’ve had about the roof since I came to this parish. I’m calling for a vote.”

“A vote?” several voices echoed.

“A vote, straight up or down. Big, honkingly, expensive, historically correct blowout, or affordable ticky-tack housing stock.”

“You make the alternatives sound so attractive,” Sterling said.

“I vote for expensive and accurate,” Clare said. “Robert Corlew.”

“Affordable. And I know-”

“Just the vote, please. Mrs. Marshall.”

“Historically accurate.”

“Thank you. Terry McKellan.”

He sighed. “I have to go with the cheaper alternative.”

“Sterling Sumner.”

“Historical accuracy at any cost!”

“Thank you, Sterling. Norm Madsen.”

The elderly lawyer’s face sank into thought. Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Finally, “The least expensive alternative. Sorry, Lacey.” He smiled apologetically at Mrs. Marshall.

She leaned over the pew and rested her thin, blue-veined hand over his. “You have to vote your conscience, Norm.”

Clare propped her hands on her hips. “Not too surprisingly, it’s three for and three against. So… it looks like the tiebreaker will be our brand-new junior warden.” Everyone looked toward the sixth vestry member, elected at the congregation’s annual meeting only two Sundays ago.

The man of the moment nodded. “I agree with the legacy thing. I feel like I have a duty to shepherd this church, so that when my little boy is my age, he’ll be able to look around him and be proud of everything we did. So I vote the full slate.” Geoffrey Burns crossed his arms over his camel-hair topcoat and grinned like a lawyer tossing a winning piece of evidence in front of opposing counsel.

“Now, wait just a minute,” Robert Corlew began, pointing a blunt finger at the younger man.

“No.” Clare held up her hand. “Robert, I empathize with your concerns about cost. And heaven knows, as the only contractor among us, you have the best sense of what the bottom line will be. But we can’t keep going round and round on this thing. If the whole board can’t agree to accept the vote and move onward, I’m going to throw the question open to a vote by the congregation.”

Mrs. Marshall pursed her lips. “If we present the congregation a divided face, we’ll have considerably more trouble getting one hundred percent participation when it comes time to raise the money. If they think some of us don’t want the project to go ahead, it will encourage those who feel wishy-washy about it to sit on their wallets.”

“And while we’re talking about fund-raising,” Geoff Burns said, “let’s consider the selling angle.” He held up his hands to make a frame. “Donate generously so that American artisans can handcraft a living legacy for your grandchildren’s children.” He shifted in his pew and made another frame. “Or, donate generously so that Baines Roofing and Plumbing can stop the leak in the roof.”