She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t. Besides, if I gave the whole amount, we might be able to avoid a capital campaign altogether.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Robert Corlew said.

“There are other reasons for running a capital campaign,” Geoff Burns said. “In addition to making repairs and building the endowment, it gives donors an investment in St. Alban’s. They have a stake in its future, a vested interest. It’s the difference between renting an apartment and buying your own house.”

“I happen to agree with Geoff,” Clare said, “but it’s a moot point. I don’t think, in good conscience, we can use the Ketchem Trust money when the clinic is struggling financially.”

“Says who?” Corlew tapped his nose. “They get a fat check from the town every year. Courtesy of us, the taxpayers. Plus, they do that annual fund-raiser. Believe me, you won’t be seeing sick people staggering around in the street.”

Fortunately, Terry McKellan spoke up before Clare had a chance to say something unpriestly. “Besides. Even if the trust is invested in high-yield dividends, it can’t be throwing off more than a few thousand a year.”

Mrs. Marshall nodded. “It’s usually about ten thousand.”

“So eight hundred a month. It must be a welcome addition to the other funding. But it’s not a make-or-break amount.” He turned to Clare. “I know you’d prefer to keep that money going to the clinic. I would, too. But let’s face it, we’re up against the wall. Even if we started the capital campaign tomorrow and every pledging unit at St. Alban’s gave, it would still be months before we actually saw any income. That roof could be down in the aisle by then.”

“There must be some other way.” She pushed back her chair and walked around the perimeter of the meeting room, past Gothic Revival bookcases, past diamond-paned windows, past small, thickly painted oils of biblical landscapes. “Look at all this. Look at what we have. There must be some way to raise fast cash besides taking away medical treatment from the working poor.”