“I was hoping last year’s weather was a fluke.” She ate a spoonful of chili and watched Russ as he deftly prevented a glob of ketchup from landing on his uniform sleeve. They were always in uniform during their Wednesday lunches, black clericals and brown cop gear. They always met on their lunch hours, so that they couldn’t linger. They always met at the diner, smack-dab in the middle of busy South Street, and sat, whenever possible, at one of the window booths, where God and everybody could see. As she had told Dr. Anne, everything innocent and aboveboard.

Except where it counted. In her conscience. In her thoughts. In her heart.

She realized she had been looking at Russ a little too long. She dropped her eyes and dug into her chili.

“So, what’s with the dirt on your forehead?” he asked.

“It’s not dirt. It’s penitential ashes.” She looked up to see him grinning. “Which you knew very well.”

“And folks say we heathens are unwashed.” He swiped another of her onion rings. “Should you be calling attention to yourself like that? I mean, doesn’t the Bible say something about praying and fasting in secret, and not wearing the sack-cloth and ashes on the street corner?”

“ ‘And your father who sees you in secret, shall reward you in secret.’ My goodness, I’m impressed. Have you been watching those TV preachers again?”

He laughed. “Not hardly. I was a faithful, if unwilling, attendee at the Cossayuharie Methodist Church until I got too big for my mom to forcibly drag me there. I guess some of what I heard stuck.” He picked up the diner’s dessert menu, which was larger than the meal menu and fully illustrated with saliva-provoking photos. “What are you giving up for Lent? Chocolate? Beer?”

“I’m not giving up food,” she said. “The whole giving-up-something-to-eat thing is a relic from times when we didn’t have a thousand food choices in every local supermarket. When you have an abundance-a superfluity-of something, giving up a little bit of it isn’t meaningful.”