Beale slowly took a step back from the woman. “This isn’t over,” he said. Then he turned and escorted Ben to the proper door.

Against all odds, the wedding was beautiful. Even Ben was moved by the formal yet warm Episcopal ceremony. Father Beale gave a lovely homily about the meaning of the marriage covenant and the service concluded with a full Communion, although Ben did not participate. Cynical as he might be about the “blessed sacrament of marriage,” as Ben watched his longtime office manager stroll off with his librarian sweetheart, he couldn’t help but feel a certain tugging at his tear ducts.

The reception was held in the parish hall, which was decked out with streamers and wall hangings following a fuchsia and lime green color scheme. Undoubtedly Christina’s design, Ben mused. Still, it was a pleasant contrast to Ben’s last visit to the parish hall, when he’d been handling Father Beale’s trial.

Ben skipped the reception line and scored a piece of the groom’s cake-chocolate, not white, thank goodness-and a cup of some pink, ginger ale-based punch.

At a table in the corner, Ben spotted the two teenage girls he had met during the trial. What were their names? Judy and… Maura, that was it. They appeared to be industriously cutting the bride’s cake and pouring punch.

One of them, the quiet pudgier one-Maura-nudged her friend. “It’s him,” she said breathlessly.

The other, Judy, looked up. Her eyes immediately brightened. “Mr. Kincaid!”

“Call me Ben.” He watched as they poured a liter of Seven-Up into the punch bowl. “Did Christina put you up to this by any chance?”

“Is she the redhead?”

Ben nodded.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Ben!” A slim, middle-aged woman dressed in a print dress and sensible shoes approached. “Just the man I need.”

“Andrea. Good to see you.” Andrea was Father Beale’s wife and had been for more than ten years. During the time Ben was working on the ecclesiastical trial, they had gotten to know each other well.

“You too. Got any turpentine?”

Ben patted his suit pockets. “Darn it, I guess I left my turpentine at home. Also my thinner, my shellac, and my WD- 40.”

Andrea grinned. “I’ve got glue all over me.”

On closer inspection, Ben saw that her hands did appear to be covered with glue and Scotch tape and bits of colored construction paper. “You helped with the decorations, I surmise.”

“No, but I cleaned up after those who did. A priest’s wife’s work is never done.” She wandered off toward the nearest rest room. Ben found an empty seat and concentrated on finishing his cake.

“Isn’t this the most romantic thing you’ve seen in your entire life?”

Christina had found the folding chair beside him. She was still wearing her pink maid-of-honor dress. Ben had heard that love is blind, and judging by most of the bridesmaid dresses he had seen, it was true.

Ben shrugged. “I’ve been to weddings before.”

“Yes, but these are our friends,” Christina enthused. “We watched the whole courtship. You were with Jones for their first face-to-face date.”

Actually, Ben had been Jones for their first face-to-face date, but the less he was reminded of that, the better. “Nice turnout, anyway.” He gave her a quick glance. “By the way, I don’t think I mentioned it before, but… you look lovely.”

Christina’s eyes brightened. “Really? You think so?”

“I do.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m wearing this bridesmaid getup.”

“For you, it is somewhat… conservative.”

“Boring, you mean. But of course, you like boring. Compared to my usual wardrobe, this outfit is pretty uninteresting.”

“Compared to your usual wardrobe, nudity would be pretty uninteresting.”

A small balding man with thick black spectacles slid into the chair on Ben’s other side. “Can you believe what a mess they’ve made of this place?” he muttered.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Ben replied.

“All this grotesque pink and puke rubbish. A revolting display. Who’s responsible for this catastrophe?”

“That would be me,” Christina said, smiling.

The man’s chin dropped. “Oh.” He winced. “Open mouth, insert foot.” He tentatively held out his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m Alvin Greene. Head of the Altar Guild. And church bookkeeper.”

“Ah,” Christina said, taking his hand.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I just transferred over from St. John’s to fill the staff opening. I don’t really know many people.”

“You must be responsible for cleaning this place up after we’re all gone.”

“I’m afraid that’s true.”

“In that case, you’re forgiven. I might be grumpy about this decorating job if I had to take it down.”

“Still…” The man seemed to be having trouble removing his eyes from Christina’s face. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“Tell you what,” Christina said. “I’m not doing anything tonight. How about if I hang around and help clean up?”

Greene’s eyes widened. “Would you really? Oh, that would be-I mean, not that you should-but if you would-that would be-I mean-that would be-”

Ben frowned. It appeared Christina had another admirer, and not just for her dress, either. Which shouldn’t bother him…

“Oh, Bruce, wait. I want you to meet someone.”

Ben recognized the voice-unfortunately-before he spotted her face. Ernestine, the grande dame of St. Benedict’s. She was being squired by a middle-aged man with a soft face who Ben remembered from the ladies’ changing room.

“Bruce, this is Ben Kincaid.” She lifted her brows knowingly. “He’s the lawyer, you know.”

The man extended his hand. “Hello. I’m Ernestine’s nephew.”

“Pleased to meet you. Are you-”

“Bruce, do be a dear and fetch me a piece of wedding cake,” Ernestine said, interrupting. “Not too large a piece, please. Must watch my figure, you know. All right? There’s a good boy.”

“Yes, Aunt Ernestine.” Bruce obediently fluttered away.

“Ben, I am so pleased that I’ve been seeing you in the choir every Sunday,” Ernestine said. “It gives me great satisfaction to see you there in the loft, singing your heart out. You have a lovely tenor voice.”

Ben wondered how she could possibly distinguish his voice from the eight other lovely tenor voices, but a compliment was a compliment. “You’re very kind.”

“I’m so pleased that you took what Ruth and I told you to heart. I know that after all that… unpleasantness, you must’ve wondered whether you would really be welcome here at the church. I wanted to make it clear to you, on behalf of all of St. Benedict’s, that you are.”

Ben wondered if all of St. Benedict’s knew Ernestine spoke on their behalf. Presumably, when you were the church’s leading benefactor, you could get away with that sort of thing.

“Here’s your cake, Aunt Ernestine.”

Ernestine looked askance at the plate he proffered. Crinkles formed around the corners of her mouth. “Bruce, dear boy, I didn’t mean the groom’s cake. I couldn’t possibly eat chocolate. I need the white cake.”

Bruce appeared to be used to this sort of thing. “Yes, Aunt Ernestine.”

“And please find a piece a bit larger than that. I’m not diabetic, for heaven’s sake.”

“Yes, Aunt Ernestine.” Bruce disappeared again.

“He’s a dear boy,” Ernestine said, with a small sigh. “But not much up here,” she added, tapping the side of her skull. “I don’t know what he’d be like today if he hadn’t had me to take care of him.”

Probably a lot happier, Ben suspected, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

“Oh, Ruth! Ruth!” Ernestine waggled her fingers at her elderly friend. “I was just about to discuss our problems here at the church with Ben.”

“Oh, my,” Ruth replied. “These last few weeks at St. Benedict’s, ever since the trial, have been such a strain. Many families have left us, you know. And the ones that have remained have been very disappointed.”