DOMINION Bentley Little (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📖

his flock continued to dwindle, as the number of people coming to the already poorly attended fellowship fell to single digits and as the spaces between people in the pews on Sunday became bigger, he’d had to admit that there was something seriously wrong.

He’d spent the last five days trying to nail down the problem, trying to determine what was happening. He’d gone over his notes for the past two months, looking for anything offensive he might have said in one of his sermons, something that might have driven people away, but he had found nothing. He’d even called some of the longtime parishioners who’d quit attending Sunday services and asked them if anything was the matter, if there was some reason why they had stopped coming to worship. To a person, they said everything was fine and promised to show up on Sunday.

None of them were before him now.

And six other churchgoers were missing.

Pastor Robens folded his hands and smiled at the people who had shown up as the organist finished playing. His smile was false, a mask. He did not feel happy today, he did not feel at peace.

He was worried.

The last notes of the hymn faded.

Pastor Robens bowed his head. “Let us pray.”

Polly Thrall gobbled the wafer and enthusiastically gulped the wine.

Father Ibarra smiled at her, gave his blessing, and moved to the next person, Bill Bench. He looked over Bill’s head at the empty pews, then down at the double row of kneeling men and women. Overall attendance was down, but participation in communion was up.

Way up.

He should have been happy about that. But he wasn’t. There was something about the eagerness with which his parishioners drank their small sip of wine which seemed to him sacrilegious, almost defiantly so. They were performing the most holy of rituals, enthusiastically going through all of the proper motions, but there seemed something wrong about it, something blasphemous, and he found their enthusiasm both unhealthy and unchristian. They appeared to be more interested in the wine than the ritual, though that did not make any sense to him.

Bill ate the proffered wafer, greedily swallowed the wine.

Father Ibarra smiled, gave his blessing, and moved on.

He didn’t like the way things were going.

He didn’t like it at all.

23

The restaurant was nothing like he’d expected. From its name, and from its stately, rustic, vaguely European exterior, Dion had imagined the Foxfire Inn to be a tastefully elegant eating establishment, a dark dining room filled with Victorian table settings, expensive chandeliers, and dimly heard classical music. Inside it was dark, all right, but file booths were covered with red and rather shabby naugahyde, and the plain walls were decorated with sportsmen’s memorabilia: moose heads, antlers, guns. Through the open doorway which led into the smoky bar, he could see neon beer signs and could hear the hyperactive jabbering of a sports announcer from a too-loud TV.

Things were not turning out the way he’d planned.

But Penelope was taking it all in stride. In his mind he had mapped out every moment of the evening, had practiced each intended topic of conversation, and so far nothing was occurring in the way he’d foreseen.

The perfect romantic evening he’d envisioned was turning out to be a series of barely avoided misadventures.

But it didn’t seem to matter. Penelope had merely laughed when he’d left his wallet at the Shell station and had to turn back for it. She’d politely ignored the fact that when he’d come to the door to say hello to her mothers, his zipper had been down. She’d registered no disappointment when she saw the inferior interior of the “nice” restaurant he’d promised to take her to and for which she had worn her best dress.

The logistics of the evening had turned out to be a nightmare, but Penelope had turned out to be better than he had dared dream.

The food, to be fair, was not bad, and they ate slowly, talking. He told her of his life, she told him of hers. Their rapport was immediate and instinctually trusting, and even though this was only their first date, Dion shared with her thoughts and feelings that he had never shared with anyone else, that he thought he would never share with anyone else. He felt he could tell her anything, and that both scared him and made him feel exhilarated.

Two hours flew by.

After they’d finished eating, the busboy cleared everything but their water glasses, and their waitress returned. “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.

Dion looked questioningly at Penelope, but she shook her head. “I guess not,” he said.

“I’ll be back in a minute with your check.”

Dion nodded and smiled, but as he looked at Penelope across the table, he realized that he didn’t know how much money to leave for a tip. The dinner had gone surprisingly well, much better than he had expected or had reason to hope, but he had another chance to blow it right here. If he left a tip that was too small, she would think him cheap and miserly.

On the other hand, if he left a tip that was too large, she would think him foolish, since she already knew he wasn’t rich. But how much was too little in this instance? How much was too much?

“I’ll get the tip,” Penelope said.

He stared at her. It was as if she had read his mind. But he shook his head anyway. “No,” he said.

“You paid for the meal. It’s the least I can do.” She opened her purse, took out three one dollar bills, and placed them on the table.

Three dollars.

Relaxing now, he picked up the bills and handed them back. “No,” he said firmly. “I’ll get it.”

She smiled. “Macho guy.” But she put away the money.

They had paid the bill and were halfway to the door when Dion heard a woman’s voice call out, “Young man!” He looked toward the source and saw, off to his left, an elderly woman seated