Clare had turned her computer off for the night and was putting her thermos into her tote bag when she heard footsteps in the hall. As far as she knew, she was completely alone—even Oscar was at the Burnses’ house, waiting to be picked up along with Ethan. There was a rap on the door and without waiting, the archdeacon of the Albany Diocese stepped inside.
“Father Aberforth.” Clare glanced pointedly toward the clock. The Venerable Willard Aberforth was her spiritual adviser, and in that capacity he wielded truth like a paint scraper, scorned pretense and self-pity, and had a sense of humor as sharp as a paper’s edge. She was quite fond of the old horror. She was not fond of him showing up unexpectedly five minutes before she was out the door. “What are you doing here?”
Aberforth arched one overgrown eyebrow. “And to think Virginia is said to be the cradle of manners in this country.”
“I’m a New Yorker now. I’m practicing being rude.”
“All the better to fit in, no doubt.”
“I repeat; what are you doing here? If you have some bomb from the bishop to set off, I’d think it could wait till tomorrow. I’m on my way to pick up Ethan.”
“It is about Ethan that I have come.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Clare dropped her tote bag on the desk and turned to Aberforth. “Did Elizabeth come crying to the bishop again? Why doesn’t she just bug the place and have everything transmitted directly to the diocesan offices?”
“I take it your plans to have the boy here went awry?”
“I don’t care what she said, Father, it’s not going to be a problem. I’m just … it’s early days yet. I’m still putting Ethan’s schedule in place.” She turned to him. “I made it for the renewal of vows in Holy Week seven days after he was born. I can handle work and motherhood.”
“My dear Ms. Fergusson. I have no doubt you can handle almost anything.” He gestured to the chairs and she plopped down sullenly. Aberforth followed her, folding his lanky limbs like an old-fashioned locking ruler. “Let me clarify my original statement. You are presently having a problem meeting all your childcare needs. I have a staffing problem. I believe we can help one another.”
“Staffing problem?”
“I am attempting to find an internship for a seminary student.”
“In August? Won’t he have to be back in school within the month?”
Aberforth inclined his head. “He’s attending Union, and, if this should work out, he intends to commute for two days of classes each week.”
“That’s a heck of a commute.” Union Theological Seminary was on the west side of Manhattan. “What’s the catch? Why isn’t he already two months into his internship?”
The archdeacon steepled his fingers. “Mr. Langevoort lives in the diocese of New York, but his family has summered in the Adirondacks for decades. He wanted to intern here, and has, in fact, been at his parents’ camp for much of the summer.” Clare wasn’t fooled by the word “camp.” With an old Dutch name and a family that could escape from the city for months at a time, she’d bet good money it was a rambling compound on its own lake. “The Langevoorts have been good and faithful summer supporters of the diocese of Albany for many, many years,” Aberforth went on. “Since they plan to retire here, soon they will be year-round residents.”
“Giving year-round money. Sounds like a catch for the diocese.”
The archdeacon frowned at her. “The bishop, naturally, wished to help to find a place for their son. This has, however, proved difficult.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s … well, you shall see. His theology as well as his lifestyle is decidedly nonorthodox. His views, which may be described as exceedingly progressive, do not fit well with most of the congregations in our diocese.”
Clare laughed. “He’s a flaming liberal. So you’re giving him to me.”
“One devil knows another, as the saying goes.”
“Sure. Fine. But how is this going to help me with Ethan? Does your Mr. Langevoort do babysitting?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of having another backup in addition to Deacon de Groot. Giving you more flexibility and enabling you to spend more time with the baby, as necessary.”
“If I recall my own internship, I spent a lot more time following the rector around asking questions than I did taking work off his hands.”
“If this were a usual internship of ten to fifteen hours a week, you would be correct. However, Mr. Langevoort intends to have what I understand to be significant surgery near the end of the year; he then plans to take the next semester off.”
“Surgery? Is he ill? Disabled? I mean, that’s not a bar, but—”
“No. His health is fine. He’s only in his thirties; he was with his father’s investment firm before receiving his call. However, if he wishes to complete an internship before he temporarily suspends his march to ordination, he will need to put in twenty to thirty hours a week. Leaving plenty of time to be a much-needed extra pair of hands for you.” Aberforth sat back in his chair. “I know you’re not eager to park your son in some institutionalized day care—”
“There is nothing wrong with using day care—”
He raised one hand. “Spare me your feminist platitudes, Ms. Fergusson. Regardless of its social utility, I don’t see you rushing to enroll the boy in Polly’s Play Palace.”
“You are a horrible snob. You give my mother a run for her money.” Clare twisted her hair and resecured it with a bobby pin. “Is the bishop really okay with this? If I ease up a little?”
“He is. The solution is a neat one, after all; Mr. Langevoort will be finishing with the internship at a time when you may expect your son to be more regular in his habits. You may even be drinking caffeine again, which will certainly put you in a better mood.”
It’s not the caffeine I’m missing. Her hand twitched around an invisible glass. Let it go, let it go. “Why do I have the feeling this internship is more for my benefit than his? You thought this up, didn’t you?”
“I thought to kill two heterodox birds with one stone.” Aberforth gave her a look. “And if you suit, perhaps his parents will start being good and faithful supporters of your parish.”