Twenty-Seven
I’M STILL THINKING about my conversation with Clark when Helen arrives at the Rectory for lunch the next day. She’s brought hamburgers and hand-cut fries from my favorite place, along with one of their fantastic chocolate milkshakes.
“I thought you could use a mood elevator after yesterday,” she says, handing the cup filled with creamy deliciousness to me. “Feeling better today?”
I nod as I suck on the straw. The shake is too thick, so I stir it to get it to melt a little bit. “Much, thanks.”
She nods. I watch her as she gets plates and sets the dining table—the kitchen table is still covered with Gladys’ computers. There seems to be a little sagging of the shoulders. Her hair doesn’t look like it’s been washed today. I’m getting no whiff of vanilla.
“Helen,” I ask. “Are
