short dark hair. “I went to William and Mary, right down the street.

 

And my daughter goes there now.” “Great school,” said Puller. “One of the best,”

agreed Adams. “George is on the rear patio waiting for you.” “George?” said

Puller. “Oh, I’m sorry. You probably just knew him as Father Rooney. His first

name is George.” She opened a French door and led them onto a rear deck made of

stone pavers. There was a large wooden trellis overgrown with ivy that would

give shade from the sun. Several comfortable seating areas were set up here. In

the center of the space perched in a chair around a teak table was the retired

priest. Adams led them over and made introductions.

 

Father Rooney’s hair was snowy white and carefully combed. He was smaller than

Puller remembered, but then Puller was a lot bigger now than he had been then.

The old priest was dressed in slacks, rubber-soled shoes, and a white polo shirt

showing off a bit of paunch. His skin was pale and his eyebrows were bushy. He

had on tinted glasses though the sun was setting.

 

A pitcher of lemonade and glasses were on the table. Puller and Knox sat and

Adams poured out lemonade for them and then returned to the house.

 

Father Rooney took off his glasses and rubbed them on a napkin. “John Puller.”

His voice held an engaging drawl that Puller instantly remembered from all the

homilies. “Yes sir.” Rooney put the glasses back on. “I haven’t heard that name

in a very long time.” “Referring to my father? I’m named after him.” “Oh, I know

you are. And then there was your brother, Robert, or Bobby as folks called him.”