Ross was on his knees in the aisle sticking prices on a new shipment of camping gear, cursing the labelling gun for not tearing along the perforations when Nigel came through the door.

"Anybody home?"

"Back here, Nigel." He stood up and stretched his back, tossing the gun down on the pile of cartons. "Bloody thing never works properly." He came around the counter and shook Nigel's hand. "So what can Hardware Heaven offer the Jubilee emcee?"

"Please, don't remind me. I'm just waiting for Susan, we're having lunch together, and she's got another load of stuff she wants to saddle me with." He looked around the store, and shot Ross a questioning look.

"Allen's up in the stockroom, and Ti didn't come in today." His expression held a hint of discontent.

"She not well?"

Ross leaned on the counter, lowering his voice, "She and Daryl had a row and she kicked him out."

Nigel's mouth formed a perceptive 'Oh', lifting his eyes to the ceiling in silent question.

"Possibly... in part anyway." Ross shrugged, and told him what Daryl had done.

"The joys of life on the Pathway, eh."

"Yeah, well, I'm in no position to comment on that." His grin was rueful.

The door opened and Susan waltzed in wearing a bright smile over a teal, tank top and grey slacks. "I thought you might be in here. You ready to go. Hi Ross."

"Susan."

Nigel tipped a c'est la vie, chin at Ross and waved his way out of the store after Susan.

"We're going to a little place I know in Twin Maples," Susan said, bouncing into her car and pushing open the passenger door.

"Where's that?" He asked, snapping his seat belt into the lock and slipping on his sunglasses. She cranked the engine and pulled away from the curb, ignoring the horn blast right behind them.

"About ten miles north of town. It's an old, church that's been converted to a bed and breakfast." Nigel shot her a wary glance. "They have quite a nice dining room there, you'll love it, and it's very English. It's called, The Last Supper." He processed the ominous implication in both the name and nature of the business.

"So what's this new material I have to write about?" She tooted her horn and waved to someone on the street, wheeling right onto the road leading north from the town.

"I found the replacement we needed. It's an artist's model, working right here in Ashton Hills. Her name's Galleria Preston. Denise put me on to her."

"What makes her the suitable choice?" He cringed, gripping the overhead handle as she swung past a large truck, towing a boat trailer.

"Apparently she's very well known in the art community... Felicity Proctor uses her all the time."

"Have you ever heard of her?"

"No, but Denise obviously had. She told me that Felicity is having a showing in town and that Galleria was the model for her paintings." Another knee trembling pass of a string of cars. "Felicity wasn't too keen, but I managed to coax her around."

Nigel blanched, pitying the poor woman, well versed in Susan's methods. The landscape changed to rolling hills packed with birch, pine and poplar, back-dropping the islands of marsh and bulrush that bordered the highway. They whizzed past a fruit stand, advertising corn, field tomatoes and pick-your-own raspberries; a few cars stood at odd angles where the drivers had hurriedly pulled off the highway to scout the produce.

"Have you spoken to this... Galleria? That's quite a name, isn't it?"

"Not yet, but she'll be at the logistics meeting on Thursday." Susan pointed off to her left, indicating their destination just ahead. The directional clicked loudly in the car, maybe twice, before she twisted the wheel, shooting them across the roadway and skidding to a grinding halt, cloaked in a cloud of gravel dust. "Here we are." Nigel undid his belt and slowly exited the car, coughing and waving a way the lingering pall.

"I made a reservation for us in the rectory garden. I thought eating outside would be nicer." He followed her up the few wooden steps to the arched entry, and inside. The ornate wooden board, once used to announce the service and the readings, now boasted the daily specials, a list of cutesy, biblical sayings, revamped to reflect the current fare.

Where once, rows of carved wooden pews sat, there was now a scattering of white, linen covered tables, each holding a small wicker basket of bread, and a large jug of water. At the back of the room—the original altar site—was a flaming grill and open kitchen, commanded by a gaunt looking chef in a burlap robe.

 Nigel stepped forward and looked up to where the choir loft used to be; the row of doors, each with a fish shaped plaque inscribed with yet more religious quotes, were the rooms designated for bed and breakfast guests. He gave Susan an 'are you kidding' look, and rolled his eyes.

"Just a bit over the top, wouldn't you say?"

"Wait 'till you see the rectory garden." Her response indicated that she didn't agree.

A young man in a monk's robe and carrying parchment scrolls, approached, welcoming them to The Last Supper. A name tag in old English type, pinned to the robe, identified him as Peter, and he bowed slightly when Susan mentioned the reservation, leading them across the dining area and through the nave, out into the rectory garden.

A vine-covered trellis covered a grassy patch, set with several tables and chairs. Around the tiny setting stood a cluster of large, smooth stones, each hand-painted with a biblical scene. Peter seated them in one corner, handed them each a scroll and announced that their server, Paul, would be along shortly to take their order.

"Do people really go for this sort of thing?" Nigel asked, perusing the menu.

"Oh it's very popular, and they say the food's great."

"You mean you've never eaten here?" He looked askance at a nearby rock depicting Daniel, jerking a thorn out of the paw of a lion that looked like a stuffed carnival toy.

"No. This is my first time." She wriggled excitedly.

They studied the offerings in silence for a minute, and then Nigel tossed his scroll on the table and slouched back. "I don't even know what the devil they're talking about here. What do you suppose, Rack of Angus Dei, is?"

Susan studied her own menu with a puzzled frown, looking up sheepishly, and suggesting they ask the waiter. Paul eventually sailed to their table, hands clasped reverently mid-chest, and intoned the house interpretation of the menu listings. After a few deliberations, they settled on a bottle of Pharos's red wine, and agreed to split the Walk-on-Water, fish basket. Paul retrieved the scrolls and floated away.

"Do you suppose there's a restroom here, I think should cleanse before eating," Nigel grumped, ducking out under the trellis and heading for the nave.

Lunch was finished, and they strolled around the grounds, both avoiding comment on how truly awful the meal had been. A small orchard huddled at the rear of the garden, the tree branches strung with tiny paper cutouts of fish, twisting pathetically in the faint breeze.

"It's the thought that counts," Nigel offered, seeing her discomfort.

"I know. I just wanted it to be a little... special."

"Being with you is special..." He let his remark waste away. They stepped carefully down a slight grade that took them out of sight of all, but the towering church steeple.

"Oh Nigel, do you really mean that?" He shrugged, and blushed. "Do you think we could just sit for a while, it's so peaceful here?" He shrugged again, ambiguously, holding her hand as she sat back on the grass.

Nigel stripped a piece of grass from the hill and chewed it thoughtfully. "How are things going with Victor?" When she didn't answer, he turned to face her, leaning back on one elbow, and finding his nose inches from her own. The oval eyes closed slowly, pink lips pouting with desire, complimenting the warm flush of her cheeks.

"Uhmm, Susan..." The kiss was downy soft, gradually increasing in intensity until he thought they would actually devour one another. The breeze increased. The fluttering of the paper fishes above them sounded like tiny bird wings, and Nigel's last curious thought, as they devolved into a writhing, frantic passion, was, if this indeed was The Last Supper, he intended to gorge himself.