Ties That Bind by Marie Bostwick Read Free Book Online Page A

opened her big brown eyes, yawned, and sneezed, which, in Clem-speak, means she agrees 100 percent.
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    I made good time. In fact, I arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
    It was tempting to park my car downtown and stroll across the snow-covered Green and the sidewalks, peer into the shop windows of my new community and the faces of the people I had come to serve, but I decided to save that for another time. The bathroom situation was getting urgent. It was a charming little village, though—picturesque, homespun, and frosted white, a picture postcard for Christmas in New England. I was sure I was going to like it here.
    I pulled up to the church, tempted to park in the spot that said “Reserved for Pastor,” but that seemed a little presumptuous, so I found a spot on the street. I pulled on the parking brake and turned off the ignition before climbing out of my red 2001 Jetta convertible, one of the few components of my original life plan that survived more or less intact. Of course, my fantasy car had sleeker lines, fewer miles on the odometer, and a more reliable heater, but I like my car.
    And I like my new church!
    It’s a beauty, a tall and typically New England structure, simple and symmetrical and covered in white clapboard. It stands at the western end of the Green, a solid and constant presence, built to withstand age and the winter blast, inviting without being intimidating, roomy enough to admit all who care to enter, just as it should be.
    I stood on the sidewalk and craned my neck so I could see all the way to the top of the steeple, then closed my eyes to offer a prayer of thanks for my journey, a plea for blessings upon my new congregation, and for strength made perfect in weakness. It was, of necessity, a short prayer. I left Clementine asleep in the backseat while I searched for a bathroom. The church doors were locked, but the parsonage was open.
    No one responded when I carefully opened the door and called hello, thinking Margaret Whatever-Her-Name-Was might have arrived first. It felt strange to enter without being invited, but I was desperate.
    The foyer had wide pine planks on the floor that led to a narrow hallway. The first door I opened was a coat closet, the second a guest bathroom, recently remodeled with white subway tile. After washing and drying my hands, I decided to take a quick tour of my new home.
    It was as pretty inside as it was out. The kitchen was compact but serviceable, with white cabinets, black and white linoleum, and a tiled backsplash that looked original but had new white grout that made it look fresh. The paint throughout the house was pristine and the carpeting smelled new. I would have to keep a close eye on Clementine.
    There was a lovely formal dining room I doubted I’d ever use. The living room was nice too, but the furniture was more casual with big overstuffed chairs and sofas upholstered in cabbage rose chintz. A little fussy for my taste, but pleasant enough. The study was lined with painted wooden shelves filled with Bibles, concordances, commentaries, lexicons, study guides, and various theological works as well as a good selection of novels, biographies, and mysteries. A desk stood near the window, dark wood with claw and ball feet and a faux-leather desk chair, the kind you get at those big office supply stores. It looked comfortable, but at odds with the antiques. Besides that, the only furniture in the study was a floor lamp, a side table, and two brown and burgundy striped club chairs placed at a conversational angle in front of a fireplace. It was a small room but cozy. This would be my refuge of choice on chilly winter evenings.
    I wanted to go upstairs and see the bedrooms, but the woman from the church was due to arrive any minute. Peering out the front window, I saw Clementine’s head visible in the backseat. I ran outside and unlocked the car. “Come on, Clemmie! Hop on out and have a look around. What do you