Changing Habits

by Debbie Macomber

  “Father,” she said, stopping him before he disappeared. “Do you happen to know where Father Sanders is?” If she could have ten minutes of his time, she might be able to clear up these discrepancies. She was certain he’d have a logical explanation.

  “Father is out for the rest of the day. Can I help?” he asked, moving into the office.

  “No, no… I have a few questions I need answered, but they can wait for another day.”

  “You’re sure I can’t be of assistance?”

  She appreciated his willingness but she needed the older priest. “No, unfortunately, I have to discuss this with Father Sanders.”

  Father Doyle shrugged, then said slowly, “I’ll ask him to be available for you the next time you’re here.”

  “Thank you.” Kathleen glanced up and saw that Father Doyle was frowning. She’d never really looked at him before. Or rather, had never looked beyond his collar. Although he bore a solid Irish name, his facial features betrayed none of the typical signs of being from Ireland. He might be one of the so-called Black Irish, she decided. It was said that Spaniards had settled in Ireland at the time of the Armada, which accounted for the blue-eyed, dark-haired men.

  Loud jovial singing could be heard coming from the kitchen. “That must be Father Sanders now,” Kathleen said. She wanted her questions answered as quickly as possible. Otherwise she might be held up for several days.

  “I’ll check and see.” Father Doyle hurried toward the kitchen and left the door between the rectory and the private dining room open in his rush. The singing became louder and more boisterous.

  Father Sanders joined her a moment later, obviously in an expansive mood. “Good day to you, Sister Kathleen.”

  “Good afternoon, Father.”

  “I understand you have a question for me?”

  “I do.” As simply as possible, she explained the differences between what the bank statement had noted for the deposit and the amount he’d entered in the ledger.

  “I must’ve written the deposit amount incorrectly,” the priest said. “Like I explained earlier, this accounting business is beyond me. Just change what you need to so it comes out right.”

  His advice shocked her. “Father! I can’t do that.”

  “You can if I say so.”

  “But…but what will Mrs. Stafford think when she returns?”

  Father sighed sharply, and she caught a whiff of mint on his breath. “She won’t think a thing of it, seeing I was the one who made the mistake. Mrs. Stafford makes allowances for my many flaws and you should, too.”

  “Yes, Father.” He was growing impatient with her, but Kathleen hesitated to alter the books simply because Father told her to. While it wasn’t a lot of money, she had no moral or legal right to do that.

  “Anything else?”

  Kathleen hesitated.

  “I don’t have all day, Sister,” Father said.

  Kathleen felt properly chastised. “Just one more thing,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. She could feel the embarrassment redden her face. “I’m afraid the receipts you gave me for expenses don’t reconcile with—”

  “Reconcile?” Father’s voice was too loud. “Speak English. How am I supposed to know what that means?”

  “I…I—”

  “Father.” The younger priest appeared, almost as though he’d been waiting in the wings. “Perhaps it would be better if you discussed this later.”

  “Yes, yes, it would,” Father Sanders mumbled, suddenly deflated. He stared down at the floor in apparent confusion.

  “I believe Mrs. O’Malley has coffee for you, Father.”

  “Coffee?” Father Sanders repeated with a scowl. Father Doyle artfully steered the older priest back toward the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder at Kathleen. Feeling his gaze, she looked up and read the apology in his eyes.

  It was then that she knew. At that moment she recognized what should have been obvious from the first. Father Sanders was drunk. It’d been years since she’d seen anyone in that condition. And yet, now that she was aware of it, she wondered how she could have missed all the signs, from the mouthwash or peppermints masking his breath to the too-careful enunciation and mood swings.

  Just as she was clearing off the desk, Father Doyle returned. He hesitated, evidently unsure of what to say.

  When he finally did speak, his voice was regretful. “In the future it might be better if you came to me with your questions, Sister.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Father Doyle preferred to handle the situation on his own—preferred not to involve her—which was understandable, she supposed. Understandable and very kind. What he probably didn’t realize was that she was already embroiled in Father Sanders’s troubles.

  Father Doyle was the most honest and ethical man she’d ever known and if he wanted to protect Father Sanders, then she could only agree.

  “As Father said, he doesn’t have a head for numbers.”

  Kathleen offered him a weak smile. “So it seems,” she murmured.

  Father Doyle was studying her, as if to gauge how much she’d discerned from the other priest’s behavior. She considered explaining that she’d been around a tavern most of her growing-up years, but Father Sanders’s drinking was a subject that needed to be handled with discretion.

  Singing exploded from the kitchen again, loud and badly off-key.

  Father Doyle’s gaze sought hers.

  Kathleen recognized the song from her uncle’s pub. “My uncle used to sing that,” she said in a whisper.

  “Your uncle?”

  They were tiptoeing around each other, neither wanting to say what was obvious. “He’s…a favorite uncle of mine. My father works at the pub my uncle owns. Uncle Patrick doesn’t have a head for business, either, and so my dad helps tend the bar and he does the books.”

  Father Doyle’s relief was unmistakable. “Father Sanders is a good priest,” he said seriously. “He has his struggles, as we all do, and I’m sure he’ll…improve.”

  Kathleen was relieved, too. Father Doyle was taking care of the situation. She needn’t worry. “I’m sure he will.”

  The younger priest grinned. “So it appears your uncle Patrick and Father Sanders share a certain weakness for…numbers.”

  Kathleen grinned back. She could keep a secret and she wanted Father Doyle to know that. As far as she was concerned, the fact that Father Sanders liked to drink would stay between the two of them.

  16

  SISTER ANGELINA

  “What did you think of Jimmy?” Corinne excitedly asked Angie the following Monday when she arrived for her first Home Economics class. It was the twenty-fifth, and the last week of September.

  “He seems very nice,” Angie said, busy setting out all the ingredients for the recipe her class would be working on.

  “Are we cooking today?” Corinne asked, glancing at the kitchen countertop, laden with plum tomatoes, olive oil, onions, garlic, parsley and fresh basil.

  “We are. I’m going to teach you how to make a proper red sauce.”

  “Red sauce?” Corinne wrinkled her face as though she’d never heard of it before.

  “Better known as spaghetti sauce here in the States,” Angie qualified.

  “Oh, good,” Corinne said as the other class members slowly filed into the room. “When I told him about the class, Jimmy said he couldn’t wait to have me cook for him. Mom and I are going to Italy this summer. I want to learn as much about Italian food as I can.” She looked over her shoulder to see who’d entered the room before lowering her voice. “Jimmy says Italian women are hot-blooded.”

  “Hot-blooded,” Angie repeated, making sure Corinne heard the displeasure in her voice.

  “Not you, Sister,” Corinne said quickly with a horrified look.

  “I should hope not,” Angie said with a small irrepressible laugh. Hot-blooded, indeed!

  “Sorry, Sister. It’s just that…well, Jimmy’s special and I want to be the perfect wife for him.”r />
  Angie struggled to keep her voice calm. “You two don’t need to think about marriage for a long time.”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “I’m going to marry Jimmy.”

  “And how does Jimmy plan to support you?”

  Corinne’s face hardened. “He has a part-time job at the lumber-yard and he thinks pretty soon they’ll take him on full-time.”

  “But what about school?” Angie certainly hoped Corinne’s young man hadn’t dropped out of school. That was a sure way to mess up his future and possibly Corinne’s.

  “He didn’t drop out, Sister, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No,” Morgan Gentry said, joining Corinne and Angie, “he got expelled. A week ago.”

  Corinne glared at her best friend. “That wasn’t Jimmy’s fault and you know it.”

  “I don’t know any such thing and if your mother finds out you saw Jimmy again, you’ll be grounded until graduation.”

  Furious now, Corinne whirled around to confront her.

  Just then, thankfully, the class bell rang and cut off their disagreement before it could develop into a full-blown fight.

  Home Economics went faster than any of Angie’s other classes. It was a subject she held dear, especially the food and cooking sections. Her father had taught her well, and she’d become an inventive and confident cook.

  The one drawback of teaching these classes was the memories they stirred of her youth. She’d spent so many hours with her father at his restaurant. Her restaurant, she mused sadly. It would’ve been hers if she hadn’t entered the convent. In some ways Angie wished she could be two women. She wanted to serve God; she also wanted to earn her earthly father’s love and praise by giving Angelina’s the same passion and dedication he had all these years.

  “Sister?” Morgan looked at her, face slightly tilted. “I was asking about the red pepper flakes. Aren’t they hot?”

  “Very, so they should be used sparingly.”

  “Simmered in the olive oil?”

  “Yes.”

  Another hand shot into the air. “Does it have to be extra-virgin olive oil?”

  The girls giggled as if this were a smutty joke.

  “The term extra-virgin signifies the first run of the press. And no, it isn’t necessary.” It would be a sin to use anything else, but only in her father’s kitchen. In a high school class, where every penny was carefully considered, less costly oil would do. “You can use any good oil.” She nearly choked on the words. “But olive oil is preferable.”

  “Fresh parsley?” One of the other girls threw out the question, taking notes as she did.

  “Fresh,” Angie repeated. “Always fresh whenever possible. Use dried only if you have no choice.”

  Her students leaned over their notebooks and scribbled furiously. This recipe was the most popular of all the ones she’d taught over the years.

  “Why do you call it red sauce instead of spaghetti sauce?”

  “Because it’s used on more than pasta.”

  Her students glanced quizzically at one another. “Like what?” Corinne asked.

  “Like pork roast or spread over top of a meatloaf. My family had at least a dozen dishes that required red sauce. A good Italian cook will make up a large batch on Saturday.”

  “Every week?”

  “Without fail,” Angie said. “And the sauce is used for the next few days.” She tried to think of a comparison. “It’s a little like hot sauce. Some people put Tabasco on their fried eggs, right?”

  “Maybe some people, but not me,” Morgan said, shaking her head.

  “Well, ketchup then.” Angie shuddered.

  “Red sauce isn’t a condiment, is it, Sister?”

  “Not exactly…” The bell rang and her class moaned with disappointment.

  Lunch period was next and the girls hurried out. All except Corinne. She walked over to Angie’s desk. “I don’t want you thinking the wrong things about Jimmy,” she said.

  “It isn’t my place to judge another.” Angie gathered up her books.

  “I know, but Morgan made him sound bad.”

  Angie hesitated. “Is it true that Jimmy was expelled?”

  Corinne frowned and nodded reluctantly. “But it’s not like it sounds. He wasn’t the one at fault, but Garfield’s principal has it in for him and…” She let her voice fade. “I love him, Sister. I really, really love him.”

  Angie gave the girl her full attention. “What do your parents think of him?”

  Again Corinne looked uncomfortable. “My dad doesn’t like him, and my mom thought he was all right until he got expelled. Now they don’t want me to see him anymore.”

  That explained a great deal.

  “But you’re continuing to see him?”

  “Only sometimes. We tried to stay away from each other, but it’s no good. We were meant to be together.” Her face held that dreamy look of young love. “When you saw us the other day, it’d been more than a week since we talked and it just wasn’t any good, Sister. Not for Jimmy and not for me.”

  “Is it good to meet behind your parents’ backs?”

  “No,” Corinne agreed quickly enough. “We hate it. Jimmy’s going to talk to my dad, face-to-face. He said it’s the way a man does things.”

  Angie’s estimation of Jimmy went up a notch. “Good. And he’s asking you questions about the Church?”

  Corinne looked at the floor. “Some.” She looked back at Angie, smiling widely. “We went to Mass together last Sunday.”

  No doubt without her parents’ knowledge. If they had known, they would’ve disapproved.

  “I wish Morgan hadn’t said anything,” Corinne said as she walked out of the room. “I hate it when people hear something about another person and then judge that person without even knowing the details. It’s so unfair.”

  “Yes, it is,” Angie agreed. “But unfortunately that’s the way it is in life.” If Jimmy didn’t return to school for his diploma, he’d carry that stigma wherever he went.

  “He was talking about going into the Marines, but they said they wouldn’t take him until he graduated.” She continued to hug her books.

  Morgan was waiting for Corinne at the end of the hall. “Gotta run. See you later, Sister.”

  Angie smiled as the girl ran down the hall. Parenting must be an extremely difficult task—much more so than teaching, she decided. She prayed God would grant Corinne’s parents wisdom in dealing with their daughter.

  17

  SISTER JOANNA

  Joanna was all aquiver. That was how she’d describe her feelings, although “quiver” was certainly an old-fashioned word. She’d come across it in an ancient novel she’d found in the convent library, the kind written by an “authoress” a century ago. Nevertheless, aquiver summed up her emotions perfectly. Because this was the first day of her modified habit with its short veil. Her naturally blond hair was artfully styled around it.

  The nuns were required to make the modifications to their own habits. The sewing machines at the convent had been humming all weekend. Joanna had never seen such chaos. It was crazy and funny and exciting in ways that baffled her.

  Her hair. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time fussing with it, positive that any style she wore would be ridiculously outdated. Joanna wasn’t alone in that; many of the nuns had complained about having to find time for personal grooming in their rigid schedules.

  The shorter skirts and veils were only the beginning of what was going to be a difficult adjustment for them all.

  As she stepped on to the city bus that would drop her outside the hospital, Joanna felt breathless, full of mixed emotions. She couldn’t help wondering if Dr. Murray would comment on the change in her dress. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

  She shouldn’t be thinking about him. It was a matter of discipline. A matter of obedience. She had no right, no possible excuse, to allow a man to linger in her thoughts. It was flirting with danger, and Joanna knew that as well as s
he knew her own name.

  She hurried into St. Elizabeth’s, and as she’d feared, her appearance on the third floor attracted immediate attention. It seemed that everyone, right down to the maintenance man, turned to stare at her. This was decidedly unnerving.

  “Sister?” Lois Jensen, a lay nurse, blurted out when Joanna awkwardly approached the station. All of a sudden she didn’t know what to do with her arms and tucked them behind her.

  “You look…” Lois was obviously at a loss for words.

  “Different?” Joanna supplied, hoping to ease the other woman’s discomfort—and her own.

  “Yes! Different.”

  “Let me have a look,” Julie Jones, a hospital volunteer, said eagerly. She came around the front of the nurses’ station to get a better view.

  Julie took Joanna by the shoulders and turned her slowly around, studying her from head to toe.

  “You two are embarrassing me,” Joanna said, feeling herself blush.

  “So this is the new habit we’ve heard so much about,” Julie said. “It’s quite a change, isn’t it?”

  Flustered, Joanna nodded. Thinking it would help if she immediately got to her work, she moved toward the tray of prescriptions to be dispensed to her patients.

  “Come and look, Dr. Murray,” Julie called.

  Joanna wanted to grind her teeth in frustration. The last person she wanted to see right now—or be seen by—was Dr. Murray. She’d hoped to avoid encountering him until the unfamiliarity of this new habit had worn off. Clearly, that was not to be.

  “Well, well,” the physician said, joining the small group of onlookers. He crossed his arms and gave her a thorough inspection. “What have we here?”

  “Sister has legs,” Lois said.

  “Good ones, too,” the doctor added appreciatively.

  “Would you kindly stop,” Joanna pleaded.

  “And hair,” Julie felt obliged to point out. “I didn’t know you were a blonde, Sister.”

  Joanna’s hand involuntarily went to the side of her head. “You three might have time to waste, but I don’t.” Eager to escape, she reached for the tray and headed down the corridor.