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You know exactly what I’m up against. Winter setting in and a homeowner breathing fire … Architects! Yeesch. And there’s more rocks in this ground than I got in my head for takin’ on this friggin’ job in the first place.” He walked off before Stark had time to respond.
    It was dark by the time Milton Hoffmeyer pulled into his own narrow lane. His hands clutched and reclutched the steering wheel as he stared unhappily at his home. White shingles, a freshly swept porch, light streaming from the ground floor windows, the curtains hung just so. Milton’s wife was far more fastidious than he; and he knew when he walked in the door he’d smell the familiar aroma of Sunday night supper: a soup with dumplings she’d made by hand and an apple crisp with fruit picked from their own trees. The apples would be the strongest scent, winey and redolent of autumn. The linoleum floor would be immaculate, the tea towels beside the sink pressed and clean, the countertop spotless as though no one had been chopping or peeling or slicing.
    Another spasm of misery attacked him. Although he hadn’t expressed the opinion as vociferously as John Stark, he was just as upset about the changes being worked on the Quigley house. Why does “progress” need to barge in here? Milton thought. And why now — just as I’m thinking of retiring? How come we let big spenders from Boston or Newcastle buy up our land and change it? All they do is make us feel small, make us feel old and useless .
    â€œIs that you, hon?” he heard as the kitchen door swung open. “Whatever are you doing skulking out there in the car? Come in before you take cold.” Backlit, his wife appeared featureless, but her shortish hair fluffed around her face like a fuzzy white halo, and her entire persona seemed to emanate good.
    Hoffmeyer dragged himself from the car.
    â€œThat vestry,” his wife sighed goodnaturedly. “It’ll be the death of you.”
    â€œIt’s not the vestry this time, May—”
    â€œNot one of your regular rows with John?” She stood aside to let her husband pass through the door. His long back was bent and dispirited. “I swear, I don’t know why you two like bickering so much. You’d think you would have had enough of it by now. Enough of it several decades ago. Maybe enough of it when you were young—”
    â€œIt’s not a disagreement with Stark this time, May. It’s all that mess up at Quigley’s—”
    â€œUh-oh … That sounds like John talking—”
    â€œI hate to admit it, May, but I think he’s right …” Hoffmeyer shook his bearlike head.
    â€œNothing you can do, Milton. Besides, that church has been around a mighty long time—”
    â€œJohn’s concerned about structural damage. He went up to the site—”
    â€œOh dear, I hope he doesn’t get himself into mischief. You know how bullheaded he can be.” She closed the kitchen door behind them, and returned to her place at the stove. “What do they say? If it ain’t broke …” May stirred her soup, adding a pinch of salt, a pinch of thyme, a generous pat of yellow butter. The problematic issue of the senior warden disappeared in a cloud of scented steam. “We had a call from young Milt while you were gone. He sounded real happy, real upbeat. He said his campaign’s going great guns. The latest polls said he was holding his lead.” She smiled as she worked, all troubles banished. “Just think of that … a grandson who’s almost in public office. Public office! I still can’t believe it … Milton Hoffmeyer the Third, United States Congressman. Don’t those words have the grandest ring. He said he’d see us on Election Day … Now, you go and wash up. Supper’s almost ready.”

CHAPTER 4
    By five past seven Sunday evening the regular customers at