The Fate of Mercy Alban by Wendy Webb

too loudly. “Welcome! You brought wine! How lovely.”
    Jane took the bottle from him with a nod and disappeared into the kitchen as he walked hesitantly into the foyer, looking up at the stained-glass window and chandelier.
    “Wow,” he said. “This is the first time I’ve been inside this house. It really is quite something.”
    “Home, sweet home.” I grinned, holding my arms wide. “Let’s go into the parlor, shall we? We’ll have drinks there before dinner. An Alban tradition.”
    Amity sidled up to me, then.
    “Reverend Parker, this is my daughter, Amity,” I said, putting an arm around her shoulders and brushing the dust off them at the same time.
    “Amity, what a pretty name.” He smiled at her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    “Nice to meet you.” Amity nodded quickly, then turned to me. “Mom, I thought I’d go upstairs and watch a movie. Is that okay?”
    I wasn’t sure how I felt about Amity going off by herself given all that had just happened. But with the police on their way, with Mr. Jameson and the boys securing the house, and with us downstairs, I guessed she’d be okay. “Just make sure you sit next to the buzzer.” I squinted at her.
    “May I take my dinner up there, too?”
    The reverend grinned. “Oh, you’re not going to be joining us? Are you sure? We’re going to be talking about funeral arrangements! Come on, what teenager wouldn’t love that?”
    Amity giggled—a real, genuine giggle. This man actually amused her. She volleyed back: “Only if you tell me that my math teacher will be there, too, and we can do a few equations between deciding on readings and hymns.”
    He let out a laugh, and I patted my daughter on the back. “Go ahead, then,” I said to her, shooing her up the stairs. “I’ll have Jane bring up your dinner. But listen, keep that buzzer next to you at all times.”
    She and I exchanged a glance, and then she ran up a few steps. Turning back to Reverend Parker, she sang out, “It was nice meeting you!” and was gone.
    “Nice girl,” he said to me as we walked into the parlor, where the fire was now blazing.
    “She has her moments.” I smirked. “You know teenagers.”
    On the sideboard, I saw uncorked bottles of red and white wine and sherry; crystal decanters of scotch, gin, and vodka; tonic water; an ice bucket; and various glasses—the usual bar setup, just as my father and probably his father before him had preferred it. Jane had also lit candles around the room, making it seem welcoming and homey.
    It occurred to me that this was the first time I had entertained here at Alban House as an adult. I’d had birthday parties as a kid, of course, and attended my parents’ various functions and events, but I was never the hostess in the house where generations of Albans had welcomed friends, businesspeople, and even dignitaries. Five U.S. presidents had taken drinks in this room before dinner, most famously Franklin Roosevelt on the eve of this country’s entry into World War II. It was said that he and my grandfather talked about steel and iron ore production.
    I could feel the mantle of that tradition, passed from one generation to the next, now wrapping itself around my shoulders as I walked over to the sideboard and said, for the first time in my life, what I had heard my parents and grandparents say countless times over the years: “What’s your pleasure? If you don’t see it here, just ask. We’ve got it all at Alban House.”
    “Wine would be great,” Matthew Parker said, and the evening had begun.
    I poured both of us some wine and gestured to a pair of leather armchairs by the fire. “Shall we sit, Reverend?” I said, handing him a glass.
    He reached out to take it. “Please, call me Matthew.” He smiled. “Your mother never would. She was uncomfortable with the informality, I think, even though I prefer it.”
    “Matthew it is,” I said, settling into my chair. I looked down and noticed I was wearing my ratty old