by Luanne Rice
But then Sister Lucia called for everyone to return to the van, and the moment was over. Kathleen had been thinking about that winter kiss, wanting more, ever since. James had had many other chances to kiss her at the Home, but he wouldn’t. Not because it would be breaking the rules—he didn’t care about that—but because it wouldn’t be romantic. Kathleen knew that James would want their first summer kiss, especially, to be magically romantic.
Somehow she knew that he was waiting for the trip to the beach. That’s when he’d kiss her. Her dream would come true on that white strand, with the blue sea sparkling all around. As she lay awake in the girls’ wing, her fantasies about her real parents coming to claim her gave way, completely, to the moment James would take her in his arms.
It kept her going, it did. These were trying times. It wasn’t easy being thirteen. Especially going to school with “normal” kids, ones who had real families, parents who could buy them nice clothes and drive them places, to football games and movies and parties. Not that Kathleen, James, and the other Children’s Home kids weren’t invited, and not that the nuns didn’t try to make sure they had what they needed—but it was hard. Kathleen was actually wearing hand-me-downs from Sister Clare Joseph, a novice who had joined the order last fall and no longer had any need of jeans, sweaters, and the rattiest T-shirts Kathleen had ever seen.
The day of the picnic everyone was in a good mood. Sister Anastasia hurried into the kitchen, praising Kathleen’s cooking, helping her pack everything into coolers and baskets, ignoring James’s sunburn and the fact he’d been missing for the past hour.
“Kathleen, you’re a wonder,” she said, tasting the ham Kathleen had seasoned according to the recipe in the Julia Child cookbook. “We’re blessed to have such a talented chef, aren’t we, James?”
“Indeed,” he said, scrubbing pans.
“Perhaps you’ll go to a cooking academy one day. And open a restaurant! We’ll all be sure to go, if that ever happens.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Kathleen said, shimmering with pride.
“A restaurant,” James said, when Sister headed out to the van carrying a load of provisions for the picnic. “How about that?”
“Maybe I’ll just cook for my family,” she said. They’d stared at each other across the soapy water, and she’d felt a funny shiver run down her back. Did James know she was talking about him?
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes shining, letting her know he did.
“To the beach!” Sister called, ringing the bell. All the kids rushed down from their rooms, the older ones carrying the youngest, some of them already wearing their bathing suits, so eager were they to enter into the day, regardless of the nuns’ admonitions to change once they got there.
The ride to Courtown, County Wexford, was long and seemed to take forever. The girls sat in one van and the boys in the other. Sister Lucia drove the girls, playing the radio and all of them singing along. Kathleen sat in back, turning in her seat to look out the rear window, trying to see James.
When they got to North Beach, everyone piled out. Blankets were spread on the hot sand, and beach balls inflated, and right away a bunch of kids ran into the water. Kathleen took off her shirt and shorts, and she saw the way James looked at her blue bathing suit. It made her blush, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice, would think that it was just the heat of the sun.
“Are you going to tell me?” she asked as they walked toward the edge of the water, wondering when he would reach for her hand, pull her behind the sand dunes to be kissed. “Why you were late in the kitchen? You promised.”
“I did,” he said, looking around, to make sure the nuns weren’t listening.
“What is it?” she asked, feeling excited, but also a little scared by the look in his eyes.
“I heard something,” he said. “When I was outside Mother Superior’s office.”
“What, James?” she asked.
“I heard that your parents called. Your real parents, Kathleen. They want to take you home.”
“They what?” she asked, stopping dead in her tracks.
“It’s true,” he said, taking her hand. “I didn’t want to tell you back at the Home, because I knew it would shock you. Listen, Kathleen. I won’t let them take you. No matter what—you can count on me.”
“But James…”
“It’s what I was doing, when I wasn’t at work,” he said. “I was out back of the Home, getting some things out of chapel and the shed, hiding them in a bush. Things we can take when we escape, Kathleen!”
“Escape?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. “Some food, money, things we can sell.”
“Sell? What are you talking about?” she asked, backing away. Her head was spinning—a combination of the heat that had built up from wanting James to kiss her, the fantasy of her real parents, and James talking about escape. “Did you steal something?”
“Never mind that, Kathleen,” he said. “We have to survive! If they’re talking about sending you back to your real parents, Jesus! I’ll do anything to keep you from that. Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?”
“But maybe they’re wonderful,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Maybe they’ll let you come live with them, too!”
“Listen to yourself,” James said, shaking her. “They didn’t want you! It’s been thirteen years—where have they been? Kathleen! Forget about them. I snuck the stuff I got for us onto the van. It’s in my bag. We can wait till after lunch, when everyone is resting, and we’ll slip off. You can cook, just like Sister said. I’ll wash dishes. We can open a restaurant! Jesus, I nearly died when you said you could cook for your family.”
“I was thinking of you,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why we have to run away.”
Kathleen was horrified. Run away from the nuns? From the Home? And just as her real parents were finally coming to get her? Tears scalded her eyes, and she wriggled out of James’s grasp. “No,” she said. “I’m not running away.”
“Kathleen…”
“And you’re not, either. We have to put the stuff back. I don’t care what it is, but you’re not a thief, you’re not going to start that now. Put it back, James. Where is it?”
He stood there, arms folded across his skinny bare chest, staring at her. His eyes were hard, shocked, hurt, and as blue as the sea just over his shoulder.
“If the nuns find out…” she said, panic rising. “You know that’s the one thing they don’t tolerate. Stealing. We have to pray they don’t discover what you’ve done.”
“You’d go with them?” James asked. “Your real parents?”
It was as if he hadn’t even heard what she said, wasn’t even thinking about his stolen goods, the fact the nuns could turn him over to the police, send him to a juvenile facility, depending on what he took. She thought of an older boy from a few years back, who’d stolen a gold chalice to sell for drugs. He’d been arrested.
“Tell me, Kathleen. If you had to choose them or me, who would you choose?”
Her heart was pounding so hard, she thought he could see it through her bathing suit. It made her feel dizzy, and her mouth was dry. She wanted to lie to him, just to make him feel better, but she loved him too much for that. She owed James everything, especially the truth.
“They’re my parents,” she whispered. She didn’t even know what she meant; they were people she didn’t know, but didn’t she have to give them a chance? That’s all she meant—or, at least, thinking back, that’s what she thought she meant. The truth was, even now, she wasn’t sure whom she would have chosen. If they were standing right there before her, her real parents and James, she couldn’t let herself imagine taking a step toward one, leaving the other behind.
But it was enough for James. In that instant, she saw his heart break. His blue eyes filled with tears. She had never seen him cry before, and it turned her to jelly. She reached for his hand, wanting to take it back.
“You’
re mine,” she said. “And I’m yours.”
But he turned from her and began striding away down the beach. She started to run after him, but then she heard Sister Anastasia call his name in a voice so stern, Kathleen knew even before turning around.
When she looked over her shoulder, she saw the nun coming toward them, black veil and skirt blowing in the sea breeze, holding James’s blue duffel bag against her chest.
“James!” Sister called. “Come here! I want to talk to you!”
But James just kept walking. He didn’t run, didn’t look back. Perhaps he expected, or wished for, Kathleen to go flying after him, catch up with him, run away with him, or try to convince him to come back.
She didn’t.
And her real parents were waiting when they returned from the beach that day, and they took her home, and she never saw James again.
PART ONE
One
Sister Bernadette Ignatius and Tom Kelly sat in the back seat of a black cab, driving from Dublin’s airport through the city. She felt jet-lagged from their flight from Boston and all the weather delays, but full of anticipation about what she was about to find out. Although she hadn’t been here in over twenty years, Dublin looked so familiar: the lovely Georgian townhouses with their fanlights and brightly painted doors, stone bridges arching over the River Liffey, the columned facades of imposing government buildings.
“Well, look at that,” Tom said, leaning across the seat to point at the cozy brick bar with hot pink petunias spilling from glossy black window boxes. “O’Malley’s Pub. It’s still here. Remember? Our own personal Tir na Nog. That’s where…”
“Some things never change,” she said quickly, to stop his words. “I wonder if Mr. O’Malley is still behind the bar.”
“I wonder what he’d think to see Bernie Sullivan in a nun’s habit.”
“With the convent right around the corner, I doubt he’s shocked by the sight of a nun.”
“No,” Tom said. “But then, you’re not just any nun.”
“Tom Kelly,” she said sternly. “We’re either going to do this the hard way or the easy way. I’m voting for the easy way.”
“You’re the boss, Sister Bernadette,” he said. “You always have been.”
She nodded once, hard. He was right about that: she was his employer. Tom was the foreman and groundskeeper at Star of the Sea Academy in Black Hall, Connecticut, where Bernadette was Superior. He and his crew kept the lawns manicured, the gardens blooming, the vineyard producing, and the old stone walls and buildings from falling apart. He had quite a vested interest in the place; it had once been the mansion and grounds of his paternal great-grandfather, the well-known industrialist and philanthropist Francis X. Kelly.
Bernadette slid a glance across the seat, saw Tom staring out the cab window. She tried to read his expression. She had known him forever, or at least most of their lives. They had met at Star of the Sea, at summer picnics when his family would invite hers down to the beach for the day. Francis X. Kelly had employed her great-grandfather, Cormac Sullivan, to build all the walls on the property. Their families had long histories, and so did Bernadette and Tom.
Tom had thrown away his family riches to work the land. He was passionate about social causes and justice, caught up in the legacy of his ancestors’ poverty, hunger, and fighting spirit. He had gone to private schools, then turned his back on a life of luxury and ease. He liked to keep his hands dirty and his feet planted solidly on the ground. Bernie loved him for it. She doubted she could have a better foreman and knew she could never have a better friend.
He looked tired, she thought. This trip was possibly more challenging for him than it was for her, and that was saying something. She knew that he had very strong hopes, in terms of the outcome. And she knew, even before they really set forth on their quest, that he would be disappointed.
“Here we are,” the driver said in his bright Irish accent. “The Convent of Notre Dame des Victoires.”
“Guess which one of us is staying here,” Tom asked him.
“Very funny,” Bernadette said as the driver chuckled.
Although the driver started to help her with her bags, Tom took over. She saw him reach into the trunk, pull out her suitcase. She rarely used it, hardly ever leaving Star of the Sea, except for the occasional monastic conference or retreat. Since her family—her brother John, his wife, Honor, and their three daughters—lived on the Academy grounds, she usually spent her week’s vacation right there at home.
She had applied for a sabbatical last year, hoping to go to Florence to study her beloved Fra Angelico, but had never found the time to take it. The Academy always needed her—to run the school, make decisions in the convent, keep the vineyard operating.
This trip to Dublin fell under the category of “personal time.” As Superior, she had granted time away to Sisters with sick siblings or parents, funerals to attend, family emergencies. For her own leave of absence, she had made arrangements very quickly, left Sister Ursula in charge of everything, including the hectic start of the school year. None of her nuns had ever needed to deal with anything like what she herself was about to face, and the thought of it sent chills through her body.
“Are you cold, Bernie?” Tom asked, seeing her shiver, standing on the curb.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“Coming down with something?”
She shook her head, gazing past him at the convent’s curtained windows. She thought she saw the fabric move and a shadow pass behind the glass.
“Well, I’ll be at the house,” he said. “You have my number if you need me. If they don’t have orange juice, or you need some aspirin or something, you know who to call.”
“I’m sure they’ll have everything I need,” she said dryly, slipping her hands into her sleeves.
“And if they don’t, you’ll get it,” he said. “You do know how to take care of things, I’ll give you that.” He squinted up at the convent, as if assessing the brickwork. “There’s some crumbling mortar there, needs repointing,” he said, pointing at the front steps. It was probably a very effective way to block out his memory of the last time he’d dropped her off at this address.
“Not every convent can be lucky enough to have you on staff,” she said.
He gazed down at her, the squint not letting up one bit. She waited for a smile, but it didn’t come. What did she expect? For him to thank her for the compliment? Not likely, not Tom Kelly. Under the circumstances, it probably sounded to him meager at best.
“At least, most likely, they don’t have a resident vandal,” he said, giving her a quick, mischievous smile. “What was that message, carved in the stone?” He paused, seeming to think, even though she was sure he knew the words by heart. She felt the heat in her neck and face, and she shook her head. She never would have expected Tom to be so mean. “Tell me the words, Bernie. The ones that appeared first, early in the summer…”
“‘I was sleeping, but my heart kept vigil,’” she murmured.
He nodded. “That’s right,” he said, lifting her bag, carrying it up the sidewalk. “How could I forget?”
“You didn’t,” she said coolly, unlatching the wrought-iron gate at the foot of the front steps.
As they climbed the steps, she felt years falling away, almost as if she were coming to the convent for the first time, preparing to join the order. Her mouth was dry, and she was filled with a sense of trepidation, fear that she might be making the wrong choice.
“You sure you want to do this?” Tom asked, the same question he’d put to her twenty-three years earlier.
“The choice has already been made,” Bernie said, echoing her own response.
Just then the door opened, and a nun stood there smiling widely, gazing at Bernie with warm green-gold eyes. She was tall and thin, and looked exactly as Bernie remembered her, all those years ago, when they were novices together.
“Sister Bernadette Ignatius!” the nun said in her Kerry bro
gue.
“Sister Anne-Marie,” Bernie said.
Tom slid the bag into the front hall, standing back as the old friends embraced and Bernie wiped away tears.
“Is that you, Tom Kelly?” Sister Anne-Marie asked, beaming.
“It sure is,” he said. “How’re you doing, Annie?”
“I’m fine,” she said, throwing herself against him in a big hug. Bernie watched the affection in both their faces, and she fought to keep her own expression as blank as possible. She knew this wasn’t going to be simple, and she had to maintain as much control as she could.
“Okay, I’m off,” Tom said. “You have my number, Sister Bernadette. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Take good care of her, Sister Anne-Marie.”
“You know I will,” she said with mock sternness, locking arms with Bernie, and pulling her into the inner sanctum, closing the door behind her.
Bernie’s heart was pounding. She looked around the hall, saw the delicate marble statue of the Blessed Mother standing in the alcove. The aroma of good cooking wafted down the hall, and she also smelled hints of incense from the chapel just off the front hall. Memories were flooding back, making her feel almost faint. She heard the car door slam, and when she glanced past the curtain, she saw Tom watching out the car window as the driver pulled away.
“Feels like it’s happening all over again,” she said in a low voice.
“It’s not, though,” Sister Anne-Marie replied, standing just behind her.
“I’m not sure why I came,” Bernie said. “This story has already been written. Right down to ‘The End.’”
“A kinder way to look at it,” Sister Anne-Marie said gently, her tone bringing hot tears to Bernie’s eyes as she eased her around, taking her hand, “is that the story is just beginning. ‘Once upon a time…’”
Bernie opened her mouth to reply, but just then she heard heavy footsteps coming through the parlor—the room where she had seen the shadow behind the curtain. And she knew without turning around that this was the person she dreaded seeing more than anyone in this world.