A tiny silver-haired and round-faced woman greeted her at the door.
"Welcome! I'm Katherine Rhodes," she said, extending both her hands. Meg
was expecting a flimsy, delicate handshake from the five-foot-nothing spritenot
a firm, steadying, two-handed grip. This was a woman of sturdy resolve,
like Meg's mother. But unlike Ruth Fowler, who had been determinedly
winter Katherine radiated summery warmth. "Are you here for the sacred
journey group?" Katherine asked.
    "Yes," Meg squeaked. She felt her face flush with color. Why was her face
always hot when her hands were always cold?
    "So glad you're here," Katherine said. "Just make your way to the end of the
hallway and turn right. And help yourself to coffee and bagels."
    Meg ducked into a restroom off the hallwa)'J relieved to see she was alone.
Scrutinizing herself in the mirror, she turned this way and that. No use. Each
angle merely gave her new inspiration to find fault. She experimented with
pulling her shoulder length blonde curls away from her face, but that was too
open. The red blotches were still visible on her neck. So she let her hair down
again, opting to shield herself with a veil.
    And what about her skirt and blouse? Too dressy? Katherine and the
others had been casually dressed. What if she discovered she was the only one
in church clothes? She licked her finger and rubbed it feverishly over a small
black spot on her sleeve, becoming increasingly irritated with herself.
    When a woman wearing jeans and a sweatshirt opened the door, Meg
knew she had run out of time to make herself right. There would be no
pleasing her clamoring inner critic today, no quieting Mother's voice inside
her head. Or was it her own voice? She wasn't even sure anymore.
    "I ... urn ... " Meg felt color rushing to her face. If only she had worn a
turtleneck. But it was still too warm for turtlenecks. "My pastor's wife recommended it because it helped her after her mom died. And she thought maybe
it would help me now that my mother's gone." Too much. She'd said too
much. She hadn't planned on revealing herself. Now she was going to cry. She
bit her lip and willed back the tears.
    Mara stopped putting on her bright red lipstick and lo oked up from her
compact mirror. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, offering a tender look of compassion
that threatened Meg's already fragile nervous system.
    "Excuse me," Meg mumbled. She grabbed her purse and slipped quickly
out the exit door, leaving her Bible behind.
    Mara wasn't sure if Meg had left for the restroom, or if she intended to go
home. Poor thing. Meg looked as anxious on the outside as Mara felt on the
inside. Instead of running after her with the Bible, Mara decided it might be
good if Meg had a reason to come back. For Meg's sake.
    No. For her own sake.
    If Meg didn't return, Mara might end up all by herself at the back corner
table, and there was nothing lonelier than being by yourself in a room full of
people. She knew that from experience.
    She broke off a piece of her cinnamon raisin bagel and chewed slowly, surveying her fellow travelers. Most of the thirty pilgrims were women. A few
twentysomething guys with backpacks stood near the front, drinking out of
water bottles and chatting comfortably. Several couples sat close together,
arms draped loosely around one another's shoulders. Mara wondered if the
men had come willingly. And if they actually wanted to be there, did those
women appreciate the blessing they'd been given? Or did they take their spiritual
partnerships for granted?
    Mara tried to squash her feelings of envy, but she couldn't help herself. She
had spent years wishing Tom would show the faintest interest in spiritual
things. Years. But the harder she prayed, the more resistant he seemed to
become. So she walked the road of faith alone. Always alone.
    At that moment Meg returned to the table, looking sheepish. Mara wasn't
t sure if she had come back to pick up her Bible or to sit down. Meg seemed
uncertain too, with one hand hovering over the Bible and one hand touching
the back of the chair.
    "Welcome, everyone! I'm Katherine Rhodes."'
    Meg plunged into her seat, gripping her purse tightly.
    "I'm noticing we've got a few tables without many people/' Katherine said,
scanning the room. "I'm wondering if a couple of you would be willing to
move to that back table in the corner, and maybe another couple to the table
up front here. Let's aim for four or five per table. Then go ahead and take the
next few minutes to introduce yourselves. Maybe say why you're here."
    Mara watched as two women approached their table from the opposite
side of the room. One was tall and sylphlike, elegant in a plum top, black
denim jeans, and gold hoop earrings. She looked like she had stepped off the
front cover of a magazine the sort of magazine whose airbrushed women
taunted Mara with tips for sexually satisfying men, keeping fit, and maintaining
youthful skin. Mara preferred magazines offering real-life glimpses of
celebrities with cellulite.
    She had long ago given up any hope of satisfying Tom or keeping fit. As for
maintaining youthful skin, her cupboards overflowed with anti-aging,
wrinkle-firming, collagen-enhancing, antioxidant-ing products. She was determined
to preserve by rigorous regimen the only physical asset for which
she had ever been commended: Mara had "nice skin:" Though she knew it was
the sort of compliment people often offered to overweight women, Mara did
have a dewy soft complexion that invited speculation about what her skin
care secrets might be. Someone had also once told her that she had "lovely
feet." But in a world obsessed with faces and figures, beautiful feet didn't get
you very far.
    As she observed the covergirl's diamond wedding ring and glossy manicure,
Mara suddenly felt very self-conscious over her nail-bitten stubs. She
closed her left hand into a fist to hide the offending fingers and tried not to
think about all the other pretty and privileged girls who had made her life
miserable. The rich, stuck-up, judgmental-
    Stop it! she commanded herself. You don't even know her. She hasn't spoken
a single word and you're already judging her.
    Why, why, why? Why, after all these years, why did those same buttons
still get pushed?
    She wished the nine-year-old girl who lived inside her menopausal body
would just grow up.
    Trying hard to ignore the olive-skinned beauty, Mara eyed the other newcomer.
She was about Mara's height maybe five-five or five-six but she
was average weight, without any visible curves. Nothing about her attracted
attention: no color, no makeup, and no jewelry, except for a cross necklace.
It required a certain measure of courage not to fuss over a middle-aged face,
and Mara supposed she was either confident in her unremarkable, simple
features or one of those rare women who simply couldn't be bothered to fret
about her appearance.
    She certainly didn't seem to fret about her hair. Her chin length, light
brown hair was damp, hanging limply around her face. Mara decided she
could benefit from a few layers and a blow-dryer and perhaps some overall
color and highlighting to conceal the streaks of gray.
    The woman's wrinkles were prominent, aging her face. She wore the brow
of a deep thinker. Or a worrier. Or maybe both. And her dark eyes were ringed
with weariness. Mara had never seen such dark circles. Beyond the weariness,
however, was a knowing look which would have been unnerving if not combined
with soft gentleness. There was something trustworthy and true in her
eyes that invited confidence, even secrets.
    Or maybe it was Mara's imagination. Maybe it was the cross she wore
that made Mara instinctively trust her. She had never seen a cross like itfashioned from nails and dangling from a black cord. She couldn't help
staring at it.