"Thank you. One is — one is plenty."
"You're so thin, dear. Have a cinnamon too." She presses a second muffin into my other hand. "Frank!" she calls. "Frank, come and meet Sloane. She's the woman who drove into Dawson's Sanctuary!"
I feel heat rise in my face all the way to my hairline. Several people in nearby clusters fall silent and then deliberately resume their conversations at slightly higher volumes. I stare down at my shoes.
A man appears at my right. "Hello, young lady. I'm Frank Hurley, Dennis's brother."
Frank Hurley doesn't have the teeth.
"Hello," I say. "It's nice to meet you."
"Frank does the books for the church," Ruthie says. "Frank, Sloane's been reading her Genesis."
"Oh, I heard about that." Frank smiles. "Well, that's a fine place to start."
I bite my lip and wince. "Yes. I — yes."
"You let me know if you have any questions," he says.
"Frank's a Bible scholar," Ruthie tells me while she hands me a coffee. "He runs the Wednesday study group. You'd be very welcome, dear."
Pastor Wendell comes over, pats me on the arm, and tells me how glad he is that I came and that the door is always open.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asks.
"Very much."
"See?" Ruthie says. "I told you. I told you it would be lovely. Cream?"
I shake my head and stand there with my muffins and my coffee and a frozen smile, and I have the distinct sense that I've stepped out of my own life and into someone else's. Not that long ago I was dating Tyler Ashworth and worrying about whether to summer in Mykonos or the Hamptons. Now I'm in a Baptist church in Duster, having just been introduced to the congregation as the drunk who drove into Dawson's Sanctuary, and I can't stop thinking about the woman who runs it. Nothing about my life is currently real. None of it.
30
MAGGIE
"Ican't believe," I say, "that you actually went to church."
Sloane is standing in the henhouse doorway in shorts and a T-shirt. No hot pants today. Thank God.
"It wasn't like I had a choice. Ruthie came to the motel unannounced. She even picked out my outfit."
I've been laughing since Sloane arrived and told me about her Sunday. I've not laughed this hard in weeks and remind myself that the chickens don't like noise.
"Seriously, though. How was it?"
"Long. And uncomfortable," she says with a self-deprecating smile. "A church full of people who all know who I am. And they all think I've turned to God to atone for my sins."
Sloane's deadpan delivery is making it worse and I lose it again.
"I have a serious request," she says. "Can I swap one of my weekdays for a Sunday? So I have a reason to not be available?"
"Oh, Sloane. I would if I could, but we have enough volunteers on the weekends already. The weekdays are when I need help." I shake my head. "But what I will do is let youpretend to be working here on Sunday mornings. You can make yourself coffee, sit on the porch and read your Bible," I tease.
"Will you please stop mentioning the Bible? I'm traumatized." She laughs too. "But really? Can I come and hang out here?"
"Anytime."
"Thank you. That's the kindest thing anyone has done for me in weeks."
