Her small second-floor room had all the basics, plus unstained wallpaper and a clean rug that reached to all four walls. She threw her suitcase on the wide bed, not bothering to unpack first. “God is great, God is good,” she muttered as she shucked off habit and veil, rosary and crucifix, shoes, stockings, chemise and drawers. At least nuns didn’t wear corsets, praise the Lord and pass the butter. She’d have a real bath later, in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, but for now the pitcher and basin on the washstand would be heavenly.
She shook her hair down, letting it fall over her shoulders, because it didn’t matter if it got wet—she’d just stuff it all up again in the headpiece when she got dressed for dinner. She pressed the cool, dripping towel to her face and neck, letting water run over her shoulders and down her breasts in rivulets. “Yes, Lord. Glory be and hallelujah.” She caught her eye in the mirror over the washstand. “No offense,” she muttered superstitiously, then smiled. How could God take offense at that face? An angel, Henry called her. They’ll turn their pockets inside out for that face.
A dull scraping noise outside in the hall made her pause, thoughtfully rubbing the wet wash cloth under one arm. The sound was coming closer, starting and stopping, scraping and tapping. Outside the door now. While she was trying to remember if she’d locked it, the handle turned and the door swung wide open.
“Mr. Cordoba!” She yelped it, but somehow managed not to scream.
“Oh, I say—I do beg your pardon. Is that you, Sister?” Urbane, unperturbed, he stood in the doorway, gently sweeping a three-foot arc of air in front of him with his cane. “I could’ve sworn I counted the doors correctly. The clerk said the third on the right, I thought, but perhaps I missed one. I wonder—would you mind helping me?”
She felt like Eve immediately after the Fall, huddled in a frantic crouch, one forearm and one spread palm inadequately covering the vital places. “I, um, I’m not quite dressed.”
Finally he began to look embarrassed. Instead of leaving, though he turned around and closed the gaping door with his foot—his arms were burdened with two bulky suitcases as well as his cane. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said again with his wonderful English accent. “This must be frightfully awkward for you.”
She made an ambiguous whimpering noise.
“But of course, you must know—there’s no need for you to be embarrassed.” He said this with such wistfulness, such sad, terrible bravery, that Sister Augustine’s heart twisted.
And she saw his point. Feeling extremely foolish, she let her hands fall and stood up straight. “You’re quite right,” she agreed, trying to sound brisk. “I wasn’t thinking.” She stopped just short of apologizing for being insensitive.
He couldn’t see her, she knew that—but it was a disconcerting feeling all the same, standing buck naked in front of a strange man. For once she felt glad of his opaque glasses, because looking into his eyes right now, blind or not, would’ve unnerved her completely. She took a few mincing steps toward the bed. “Excuse me …”
“Oh. Beg pardon.” He backed out of the way, and she passed within a foot of him, as goose bumps erupted everywhere.
“Didn’t they call a porter for you?” she said over her shoulder, rooting around in her clothes for her dressing gown.
“I told them I could manage on my own. Sometimes …” He trailed off ruefully.
Where the hell was her damn robe? “Sometimes?” she prompted, giving up and emptying everything out on the bed.
“Sometimes I’m afraid I let my pride get in the way of my good judgment,” he confessed with quiet dignity.
She made a half turn toward him as she struggled into her pink chenille dressing gown. “Humility is a virtue,” she said primly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say so, but I’ve always thought it one of the lesser ones.”
He had a very rakish smile for a scholar. “It’s kind of you to say so, Sister. Especially under the circumstances.”
She yanked the belt tight at her waist and faced him. “Here, let me take one of those.” He gave her his smaller bag, which he’d wedged under his right arm. “What room did the clerk say?”
“Fourteen.” They moved out into the hall. She started to take his elbow, but he said, “This way is a little easier for me,” shrugging off her hand and instead taking hold of her upper arm in a firm clasp.
“Oh, I see.” They negotiated the narrow hall without incident, he moving along smoothly half a step behind her. “Here we are. Fourteen’s two up from mine; you miscounted, that’s all.”
“I must apologize again.”
“Not at all. Have you got the key? Here, let me help—”
“You’re very kind, but I prefer to do it myself.”
The slight edge to his voice made her stand back and watch in helpless sympathy while he set his suitcase on the floor, hooked his cane over his left arm, fumbled the room key out of his pocket and into the lock, and finally got the door open.
His room was identical to hers, she saw at a glance. “I’m putting your bag on this chair, is that all right?” He nodded, but didn’t move from the doorway. She suspected he was waiting for her to leave, so he could grope his way around without a witness.
She went to him, took his hand, and squeezed it around her elbow again. “From here, the bed is straight ahead and one”—she gave his arm a gentle tug to get him going—”two, three, four—four and a half steps away. This is a little bedside table.” She pressed his palm down on the wooden top. “There’s an oil lamp right … here. Although”—she felt her face getting warm—”I guess you probably won’t be needing it. Then, if you turn around in a half-circle and walk along the side of the bed—one, two, three, four, five, stop—this is the bureau.”
They walked off the steps to the window, the wardrobe, and the wash stand, and then she suggested they go out into the hall and locate the bathroom.
“I’ll find that on my own, thanks.”
“I don’t mind, really, and while we’re—”
“Sister,” he said in his cello voice. “You’re very kind; you’re an angel of mercy. But I’m aware that you’re wearing a rather thin garment, a dressing gown of some sort, I suppose. If we were observed, it might be … a bit awkward for you.”
With an odd but distinct feeling of regret, she released Mr. Cordoba’s arm and stepped away. “Of course. Thank you, I didn’t think of that.” She wandered toward the door. “I’ll leave you, then, if you’re sure you’re all right?”
“Quite.”
“Good. Well, then.” She opened the door.
“Sister?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder—would it be against convent rules for you to join me for dinner this evening?”
She felt her smile blossoming into a big, wide grin. After a thoughtful pause, she said slowly, “Noo-o-o, I can’t think of any rule that would break. Actually, we’re quite a forward-thinking order, Mr. Cordoba.”
She’d forgotten that he had a devastating grin of his own. “I’m delighted to hear that about the Blessed Sisters of Misery.”
“Hope,” she corrected gently.
“Hope. Shall I knock on your door in about an hour, then?”
“I look forward to it.”
He made her a low, formal bow, which she found utterly charming, and she danced out of his room on silent bare feet.
“It happened exactly thirteen months ago. I was on a ship sailing from Liverpool to San Francisco. I’d finally finished my studies, and I was on my way home. My wedding was three weeks away.”
“Your wedding?” She laid her fork down and reached for her wineglass. Château Ducru-Beaucaillou, 1879, Mr. Cordoba had told her. The dining room at the Saratoga served only domestic Chablis; when he’d heard that, he’d gone back to his room and gotten a bottle of his own. He was a connoisseur.
“Isabella and I had been engaged for four years. She was waiting for me.”
“What happened?” she asked when he paused.
“A fi
re broke out below decks on the last night. Everyone panicked. I tried to help, first with putting out the fire, then leading frightened passengers out of their smoky cabins to safety. It went on for hours. I shouldn’t have done it—it was foolhardy, not brave—but I went back down for one last try, even though I knew I was exhausted. I remember hearing a terrible cracking sound over my head. And then …” He grimaced, and passed a hand across his brow. “A burning beam split, fell, and struck me on the back of the head.”
“Merciful heavens!”
“The ship landed safely, thank God. Eventually I recovered from the blow, but my sight was gone. Every doctor I’ve been to since the accident says my condition is permanent.” His hollow voice prompted her to throw caution away and take his hand, which was lying open on the tablecloth. He stroked his thumb across her knuckles and managed a wan smile. “Isabella was so brave, so plucky—she insisted we go ahead with the wedding. But of course I couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t let her tie herself to a hopeless cripple for the rest of her life.”
“Oh, but if you loved her—”
“All the more reason. And it was the right thing to do. A few weeks ago, I received word that—that she’d married another.”
She blinked rapidly. “Oh, Mr. Cordoba—”
“Edward.”
“Edward. I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Thank you.” They shared a soft, deeply sympathetic moment. Then, “But enough about me,” he said gruffly, releasing her hand. “Tell me about yourself, Sister. When did you first think you might have a religious vocation? Or—I beg your pardon, is that too personal a question?”
“No, of course not. I was twelve.”
“Ah, so young. Your family must have been very devout.”
“Not really. As a matter of fact, they were opposed to my taking the veil. But once I’d seen the miracle, there was nothing anyone could do to stop me.”
“The miracle?”
She regarded him speculatively. “Are you a Catholic, Mr. Cordoba?”
“Edward.”
“Edward.”
“I used to be,” he said, with suppressed bitterness. She started to say something sad and shocked, but he cut her off with Spanish imperiousness. “Tell me about the miracle, Sister.”
“All right.” She took a bracing sip of wine. “I grew up near Santa Barbara. Like you, we lived on a big ranchero, and there were few neighbors nearby. None, in fact. And so my best friend was Maria Elena, the little daughter of one of our ranch hands. We were closer than sisters, completely inseparable. That is, until she developed the stigmata.”
“The what?”
Her eyebrows went up. “I thought you were Catholic.”
“Oh, the stigmata—I didn’t hear you.”
“It happened the first time during Mass in our little private chapel on the ranch. Right after communion, Maria’s spotless white dress was suddenly covered with blood.”
“Good Lord. What was wrong with her?”
She frowned at him. “I’m telling you, she had the stigmata. There were holes in her hands and feet, and one in her side, and little marks on her forehead from the thorns.”
He set his glass down carefully. “And this was a miracle’?”
“But of course! All the marks went away and the bleeding disappeared by the end of Mass. It was a miracle, a sign from our Lord of His eternal presence, and a reminder of how much He suffered for our sins.”
He nodded slowly. “And that’s why you became a nun?”
“Indirectly.”
“I suppose Maria Elena became one, too.”
She heaved a tragic sigh. “No. Not long after that she fell gravely ill—an ague of the lungs, the doctor said. Her suffering was terrible, but she never complained. Already she was a saint.”
“Ah.”
“The night she died, she asked me with her last gasping breath to take the veil in her stead. Of course, I said yes. She’d been in great pain and emotional turmoil before that, and my promise set her free; she died at peace. I’ve never regretted my decision.”
Visibly moved, Mr. Cordoba reached for the wine bottle. His knuckles struck the neck; she had to grab it before it toppled over. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m still so clumsy.”
“You’re not,” she chided, refilling his glass. “I think you’re remarkably graceful.”
“It’s very charitable of you to say so.” He cocked his head, listening. “Aren’t you pouring any for yourself?”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“You’re not allowed to have wine?” He sounded shocked.
“We are, but only in moderation.”
“Well, then. What could be more moderate than two glasses?”
She allowed a thoughtful pause before giving in. “Well, all right. But just a little.” Tilting her glass to inhibit the glug-glug sound, she filled it to the top.
She told him more about her lonely childhood on the ranchero, and discovered that his had been remarkably similar. Time flew.
“It’s been wonderful for me, speaking about these things,” he said when dinner was over. “You’re an exceptionally easy person to talk to, Sister Augustine.”
“Thank you. I could say the same of you—Edward.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I tell you this.” He paused uncertainly. “You have a very soothing voice.”
She rested her chin on her hand. “I do?”
“I’ve become a bit of an expert on voices. And yours is most intriguing.”
“It is?”
“Very. It’s rather low-pitched for a woman, and the tone has a certain … how shall I say … “ He touched his beautiful fingertips together thoughtfully. “A certain confidential quality. Soft, and yet cool and clear. At the same time, there’s something innocent, almost childlike about the s’s. And, rather incongruously, an unexpected gruffness that creeps into every seventh or eighth vowel.”
She stared at him, utterly spellbound, wondering again what color his poor blind eyes were. His thick, dark hair gleamed bronze in the candlelight, curling ever so slightly on the ends. He’d shaved before dinner, she could tell, not only by the smoothness of his lean cheeks but also by the subtle odor of … bay rum? She leaned a little closer to identify the scent. Something about the set of his lips told her he knew how near she was. And what nice lips they were, wide and hard-looking and on the thin side, a shade paler than his tanned skin. Did he open them when he kissed? Some men did, she knew for a fact. Or did he start out closed and then open them, nudging yours apart at the same time … ?
“Here you are!” Mr. Sweeney loomed over them suddenly like a hunter’s moon. “What luck! I stretched out for a little nap, and woke up in the pitch-dark two hours later. Thought I’d have to eat supper all by myself. You don’t mind if I join you, do you?”
Oh, not at all, they assured him—and if she wasn’t imagining it, Mr. Cordoba’s heartiness sounded just as false as hers. But she should be glad of the interruption, she realized after a sober moment’s reflection, because it was Mr. Sweeney she was supposed to be cozying up to, not Mr. Cordoba. Mr. Sweeney was the one touring with a fortune in priceless art objects.
Sometimes she amazed herself. With what casualness, what brilliant, seamless tact did she bring the conversation around to security precautions for his traveling art exhibit. Did he entrust it at night—she was finally able to ask outright, having laid the groundwork so skillfully—to whatever Wells Fargo relay station he’d reached at day’s end? Or did he feel it was more secure under each individual hotel’s safekeeping?
“Neither,” he scoffed, beaming smugly. “My own theft-prevention measures are far superior to any of theirs.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. For one thing, the collection is hardly ever out of my sight, and I’m a firm believer in the superiority of one’s own surveillance over the less self-interested vigilance of others.”
“But aren’t you afraid of being burgled in the middle of the night?”
He laughed indulgently, showing a mouthful of gold-filled molars. “I’d like to see somebody try.”
“You’re armed,” she guessed. Well, then, that was that.
“Better—I travel with a suitcase full of special door and window locks, all custom-made. They’re stronger and much more foolproof than anything Wells Fargo’s got, not to mention a hotel safe. My room’s virtually impregnable, Sister.”
“Custom-made?” she probed, looking suitably amazed.
“That’s right, by a master locksmith. They cost the museum a fortune, but it’s worth it for the peace of mind.”
That’s all he would say, and for the life of her she couldn’t think of a way to ask him what kind of locks they were; unless it came from a locksmith, no amount of tact could make that question sound natural.
Too bad. Henry called her an amateur because she wouldn’t practice, but she might have had a go at Mr. Sweeney’s special door locks if she’d known what kind they were. She could pick a rim cylinder in her sleep, but the newer pin tumblers still gave her trouble.
Oh, well. In truth, she felt more relieved than disappointed. As much as she needed the money, outright theft wasn’t really in her line. Too crude. Did Henry even know a fence? He’d never mentioned it. And as far as she knew, he’d never actually burgled anything. The circumstances might be dire, but she expected he’d advise her now, if he were here, to find the money they needed in the old-fashioned way: by swindling it.
After dinner, Mr. Sweeney said he wanted to go outside and stretch his legs for a bit, so they said good night to him in the lobby, and Mr. Cordoba—Edward—walked her to her room. Outside the door, they both hesitated, and she wondered if he might be feeling as reluctant as she was to end the evening so early. Inviting him in was out of the question, of course. But … what if she weren’t wearing a nun’s habit? Hmm? What if they were just two anonymous travelers, alone and free, marooned for the night in a Saratoga hotel? The possibilities made her heart race; she felt her cheeks flush, and made a face at herself—which, fortunately, he couldn’t see. Rule number one, Henry had decreed years ago, was never to let personal feelings muck things up when you were on a job. Until now, it had been an easy rule to follow. The fact that she was even tempted to break it must mean she’d drunk one glass too many of Chateau whatchamacallit.
Crooked Hearts Page 2