“Shit.” She closed the book firmly, stood up and shook back her smooth black hair.
“Bring on the cowboys.”
The church of St. John the Evangelist was tasteful as all Episcopal churches are, built of slaty fieldstone that looked as though it had been imported from Connecticut. It stood on a side street a deliberate distance from the Catholic and tourist plaza, surrounded by conifers. Nick sat in his truck, savoring a morning nip and checking out the celebrants. Oddly assorted groups stood by cars and on the steps, huddled in conversations. There were leathery ranchers and post-counterculture yuppies and tweedy people with silver hair who looked as though they, like the stones, hailed from Connecticut. He lit a cigar and looked for a familiar face. Who would be here?
What the hell, action
