"Babe," a gravelly voice whispered in his ear.

"God, no," Shep grunted.

"God, yes, actually," Robin replied. "You've got a date with a pulpit in an hour."

Shep staggered into the bathroom and showered—Robin ate a bagel heaped with lox and watched—before brushing his teeth and pulling on his cassock.

"The girls went out for breakfast, you'll be happy to hear," Robin said as Shep peered down the hall.

"Whatever."

Robin stared at him bluntly.

"Okay, it's a relief," he revised. "And I'm sorry. About...Claire."

Robin waved the bagel in dismissal; Shep's guilt spiked. Had he paid any attention to his sister's prattling during the preceding weeks, his husband would never have been blindsided with hosting his estranged ex-fiancée—but here they were.

"Hey, it's weird, but unless you still have feelings for her, I don't care," Robin said, brushing Shep's hair back with his non-bagel hand.

"The only feeling I have," said Shep, "is a headache."

When Shep came through the church doors, Henry and Miss Riri were arranging the altar flowers—an explosion of tiger lilies and twiggy sea lavender—and arguing with strained civility.

"Ah, Father Delaney!" Henry called, sounding relieved. "The Rierdens donated these to commemorate the birth of their grandchild, but there must've been a scheduling mix-up, because Elaine Burbank's flowers in memory of her husband also arrived today—"

"Put them out too and we'll thank them both," Shep answered, unable to imagine a greater non-issue. He swept past Miss Riri, ignoring her protestations, and closed himself in the sacristy until the parishioners' arrival.

They began the service with a hymn—How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place—before Shep assumed the pulpit and arranged his face into what he hoped was a welcoming smile. He passed through the opening acclamation and prayer on autopilot, and was about to bequeath the lectern to Mr. Hayward for the first reading when the door hinges creaked with that special emphasis reserved for disturbing reflective, quiet spaces. A gaggle of young women shuffled into the last row of pews, their attempts at discretion observed by the entire congregation, bodies twisted backward on the benches.

Sorry, mouthed Rachel as Shep stared at her, stone-faced. To her left, Claire was regarding the stained glass with benign interest.

"'Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil...'" Mr. Hayward read.

Shep's sermon notes crumpled in his fist. In honor of the Fourth of July, he had selected the anodyne topic of "freedom"—how freedom and subservience are not opposites, but two halves of an essential whole, for in reverence to God one finds freedom from the pains of life, like loss and loneliness; how freedom is a tool to be wielded as an example to others, a privilege to accept humbly; how freedom lies at the heart of Jesus's teachings, and that in freeing humanity from a debt of sin he left us with a responsibility to uphold that freedom in our personal lives and communities, a sentiment echoed by the Founding Fathers—

"Today," Shep said, reclaiming the pulpit once the readings were over and the psalm had been sung, "let's talk about forgiveness. And betrayal."

The placid pewfuls perked up. Shep leaned heavily on the lectern and raked the back of the church with his eyes, his notes stuffed deep in his pocket.

"'No one who practices deceit shall dwell in my house,'" he started. "The Bible is full of censures like this. God is not above casting away those who have lied and disgraced Him. Yes, forgiveness is a cornerstone of our faith—we strive to grant it for the benefit of our own souls, regardless of the recipient's deserving—but God's absolute forgiveness does not deign to grace the unrepentant. In Matthew we are told, 'For the Son of Man is going to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay each person according to what he has done.' Those who have lied, used, and hurt others without begging forgiveness of the Lord, regardless of whether they've been forgiven by their victims, will find no peace in eternity."

Rachel's head gave an imperceptible shake. Shep was gaining momentum.

"So. Let's say you've forgiven someone whose greed or callousness led her to harm you and then abandon you with that hurt. You wish no evil upon her—you may not like her, but forgiveness is merely an absence of ill will, isn't it? It's moving on. God recognizes your goodness of spirit for this act, and your soul is enriched for it. In this transaction, God rewards. But what of the transgressor? If she doesn't repent, she receives no forgiveness from God—unlike us, God doesn't pardon the undeserving, because His pardon is the very sword of truth, the line between salvation and damnation! And if the sinner gives God no chance to forgive her, God receives none of the enrichment that the act of forgiving imparts. Therein lies the crux of it: if you do not ask God for forgiveness, you withhold an offering from the Lord—you steal what is owed to God! If you do not beg God for forgiveness, you mock Him with an empty altar!"

A pall of shock held the congregants in silence. Miss Riri dropped her teeth. Shep slammed his Bible shut—he did not need it—and a few motes of dust ignited in the sunlight about his face. Claire stood up and moved to exit her pew.

"'Because of your hard and impenitent heart you are storing up wrath for yourself on the day of wrath when God's righteous judgment will be revealed,'" he spat.

"Your Evangelical is showing," Claire said, her tone flat. She turned on her heel and marched out of the church.