“I don’t understand. Please. Tell me this isn’t real.” “He just died a few minutes ago. When I got here, he’d been shot. Shot in the chest,” Tom Schulz added in the distant, flat tone he used when discussing his work. “I’ve called in a team. Look, I have to go. You know the drill. I need to go stay by the body.” “But, how …? Are we going to get married? I mean, today?” “Oh, Goldy.” Despair thickened his voice. “Probably not. The team will be here for hours.” He paused. “Want to try to do a civil... ceremony tonight?” “Do I—” I did not. Not a hurry-up ritual. Like it or not, I was an Episcopalian, what they call a cradle Episcopalian, the Anglican equivalent of the American Kennel Club. If I was going to get married again, then it was going to be in front of God, the church, and everybody, and the wedding was going to be performed by an Episcopal priest. Oh, Lord. My hands were suddenly clammy. Father Olson. I ripped the hat off my head. A knot formed in my chest.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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