Sheila Berry had stood in church singing the old hymn, "Great is His Faithfulness." It took her back to her childhood. Her father had been a church organist, in part as a distraction: as a complement to or to contrast his thriving, challenging, oft times brutal corporate business interests and so, due to proximity, and it just stood to reason, that she would pal around with the sons and daughters of the ministers. Her experience confirmed the stereotype, that the greatest hellions were preachers' kids. From pea shooters in the bell tower to lady fingers tied to the tails of old nags. She never would have learned to cuss or smoke or lie if it weren't for the tutelage of children of men of the cloth. She thought back to the games of spin the bottle back behind the Congregational Church.

Attending church meant so many truths to so many people. For Sheila, it was like a speeding ride in a roadster's rumble seat. She smiled. She could put faith in that, in the precarious and rambunctious nature of life that bred a feeling of exhilaration.