The artist herself stopped halfway to the next corner. “Hey, what’s your name?” she yelled.

“Clare Fergusson,” Clare said loudly. Might as well come clean. She unzipped her parka so that her collar was clearly visible. “Rector of St. Alban’s Church.”

Debba Clow grinned and pumped her arm. “Hot diggity,” she yelled. “I knew God was on my side!”

Unlike the clinic, the historical society’s ornate brick Italianate building had no visible concessions to the twenty-first century. “I know,” Director Roxanne Lunt said, when Clare asked her about it. “We’re totally out of compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act. We’re trying to get grant money for historically sensitive handicapped access. God help us if we’re forced into installing some monstrosity like they have next door. We’re keeping a low profile and praying we don’t get sued.”

Roxanne Lunt was a sleek, well-fed woman whose streaky ash-blond hair was a testament to her colorist’s art. She had been excited to meet Clare, and ecstatic when Clare had committed to volunteering every Saturday afternoon through Lent. Clare was flattered to the point of embarrassment by Roxanne’s enthusiasm, until Clare had a chance to observe her on their tour of the historic house, and discovered Roxanne was excited about everything. Her high heels tap-tap-tapped through the public rooms with restless energy as she spoke passionately about grant writing, cataloging, preservation, architecture, and interior design. And that was just the parlor, drawing room, and kitchen.

“I’m the only paid staff,” Roxanne said as they climbed the three flights of stairs to the collection storage rooms. “That’s why we so desperately need volunteers such as yourself.”

“Are you full time?” Clare asked, her daydreams of solitary, monastic-like cataloging shredding before the raw energy of Hurricane Roxanne.