This particular June morning, though, Drew had reinvented himself and shown up at the later service, all smiles, with his aura of charisma still glowing. He’d looked dapper in a slim-fitting, obviously expensive gray sport coat and slacks. Instead of appearing downtrodden and depressed, the fiftyish former district attorney had been buoyant, chatting with folks, glad-handing about, making sure everyone knew he was as gleeful as a fellow who’d just lost an election by historically wide margins could be. I never did know if he dyed his hair or if his carefully combed blond-brown mane was natural, but he seemed to enjoy pushing his bangs back from his sculptured face, a face that boasted enviably high cheekbones.
In charge of after-church snacks that day, I’d made lemonade and several batche
