“Invalid,” I repeated.
“Yes. Believe me. I don’t say that casually. It’s been a good life. Serving like this is a privilege that few men are called to, and it’s something I take very seriously. And perhaps I pleased my mum and da somewhere up there.”
“And what about Crosby? You were going to be transferred there.”
“I asked to be transferred, but that’s moot now.”
I looked sharply at him. “You asked to be transferred? You told me that your commission here at All Souls had come to an end.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Well, that was nearly true. I was due to get another letter about that. But yes, I asked to be transferred.”
“Why? I thought you liked it here.”
“I love it here. I love it too much. That was exactly the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Our dinners. Our studies. The time we spent together. You reminded me of my love of long ago. Your cinnamon rolls. The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous. All these things. I began to have the kinds of thoughts that a priest shouldn’t have. So I asked to be removed from this place. I needed to leave before I crossed a line that I shouldn’t have.”
I was speechless. To think that he could have loved me even as I was, that in this state I could stir such emotions in him. Enough that he felt he had to leave.
As if reading my mind, he said, “Look.” And he traced my face once again. “I knew when I married you that we would grow old together. See this?” He pulled at the gray hairs at his temples. “And this?” He rubbed a finger over the wrinkles around his eyes. “We’re both getting older. I’m not the robust young man that I was when you first met me. I’m going to have to have faith that you’re not going to leave me for some university-aged buck when you think I’m too much of an old man for you.”
I smiled. “I don’t know. What if he’s tall?”
Kyle stood and pulled me to my feet. “Then I’ll just have to find other ways to compete with him.” And he kissed me in a way that made me glad the curtains were closed.
Epilogue
Helen Bailey was born on 23 November 1940 in a flood of hot water at the height of the Blitz. She died on 5 August 1966 in the confessional of a remote church in Charcross. Her life was sad, friendless, and dotted with memories that were filled with remorse.
I, however, was reborn in that same little church when Kyle reached out to take my hand and forgive the sins that had been committed against him.
As predicted, the bishop dissolved his commitment without incident, expressing regret at losing such a dedicated priest. Having great admiration for Father McCarthy’s years of service, he recommended him for a teaching position at a small parochial school on the Isle of Man.
We left Charcross after Father Brown had been there for a few days, and we kept the nature of our relationship quiet for fear of causing scandal to those who didn’t need to hear an explanation. On the Isle of Man, we would start out again as Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy, and our strange history would be known only to us.
Our years there were happy and quiet. The same heart condition that had stolen my brother took me eventually, but I’d outlasted him by many years. I credited the love of a devoted husband and our daily walks along the coast of the island. I was an old lady by the time my heart finally gave out. My funeral was attended by Kyle, Lily, Albert, their two children, and three grandchildren, who had all traveled from London. And, of course, the many friends we had made. Jane’s health was too poor to travel at the time, but she and I wrote up until the very end and exchanged pictures of this family we shared under most unusual circumstances. Early in our correspondence, we agreed that Lily had a right to know about her parentage, and Kyle and I had a joyous reunion with our daughter when Jane invited us to a Christmas celebration at her house.
Kyle was the last to leave the graveyard. When all had gone, he knelt down and kissed the freshly dug dirt. His hand traced the length of it as he whispered, “Good-bye, gorgeous. I’ll see you soon.” He propped himself back up on his knees and then stood with much effort. His white hair glistened in the sunlight like the collar he had left behind so many years ago. He wiped the dirt from his hands and walked from my grave.
Book Club Questions
How might Helen, looking back over the years, identify with the life cycle of the caterpillar that Kyle finds for Charles in chapter one?
Lucille is the voice of reason as Julianne struggles with Kyle’s impending ordination to the priesthood. Would you have given Julianne similar counsel or encouraged her to pursue him?
Julianne loves that Kyle takes her to the ruins of Saint Dwynwen on their honeymoon. What is the most romantic thing you have ever done that required thought over cost?
Was Julianne’s abandonment of baby Lily the ultimate sacrifice of a mother or the self-serving action of a distraught woman?
Julianne has witnessed the last rites at the deathbed of Mr. McCarthy, and later as Helen at the side of Mrs. Campbell. How has her character evolved between the two events?
Why does Julianne choose nursing as a career, and how does that decision shape her life?
Before Helen goes to Charcross to work for Father McCarthy, she stops in Liverpool and observes her parents. Should she have revealed to them who she was? Or did she spare them from further grief and shock?
How might Kyle’s and Julianne’s lives have played out if he had never left for the war?
How does the author weave the concepts of heaven, purgatory, and hell into the story?
What scene or character most resonated with you personally?
Acknowledgments
I have always thought of writing as a solitary event. But I’ve never been so happy to be wrong. Many people have been a part of this journey.
To my agent, Jill Marsal. Thank you for taking a chance on me and for encouraging me to be better. Your first phone call was one of the best days of my life!
To my editors, Danielle Marshall, Catherine Knepper, and David Downing. Danielle—thank you for believing in this book so ardently and for your unwavering advocacy! Catherine—your comments made me smile and you helped take this book to another level. David—I appreciated your insights that gave the final polish to the story.
To everyone at Lake Union Publishing, I am grateful for all of your hard work and support on my behalf—Gabriella Dumpit, Tara Parsons, and the many others who make up an extraordinary team.
I am blessed to have wonderful friends who suffered through my early drafts. A few of them made some specific suggestions that I took to heart or offered just the right word of encouragement at a moment when it was needed: Elmie Guidry, Sarah Remmert, Julie Alexander, Jennifer Salamon, Myra Garza, Fr. Ed Hauf, Melody Escobar, Patty King, John Michael Ruiz, Sarah Weaver, Kathy Cucolo, Amy Castillo, Magda Pretorius, Leslie Sawaya, Magda De Salme, Jim and Kristen Peterson, Carol Taylor, Melanie Stovall, Beverly Lamoureux, Melissa Stack, Melissa Wittman, Tracy Remmert, Cece Smith, Carolyn Taylor, Yvonne Russell, Megan Homan, Judy Kennedy, Jennifer Eichelbaum, Bianca Sanders, Julie Williams, Joe and Laura Ilsley, the whole Solis family, Julie Reyna, Julie Di Maio, Inge Di Maio, Jessica Bernstein, Francine Chapa, Cindy Comfort, Anne Wright, David and Ann Dreggors, Norma Alvarez, and Marie Cook. And to Erin Chipman—my original Anglophile friend and sharer of banana splits.
To Amanda Tidmore, Lorraine Zavala, Lianna Patterson, Francine Wong, Julie Hardin, and Ashley Zimmerman: thank you for helping with real estate tasks so that I could write. And to everyone at Keller Williams Legacy for being so enthusiastic!
To Aunt Cheryl, for being my role model in strength, humility, and generosity. Thanks for making so many dreams come true. And to Uncle Travy, who inspired more than anyone knows.
I am here because of all the great writing that has captivated me ever since I could read. Thank you to my writer friends—your work and your own journeys are very inspiring to me: Stephanie Cowell, Leila Meacham, Eileen Palma, Jeanette Schneider, Melissa Ro
mo, Les Edgerton, Melissa Roske, and Ann Sullivan. And to the members of SARA, WRW, WFWA, and the other LU authors, who are all continual supports for the craft and lifestyle of writing. I look forward to reading your future books!
To my brother and sister, Paul and Catherine Remmert. They make a cameo appearance in chapter ten. I couldn’t write about siblings and not think of how blessed I am that they were given to me. They are the best! Paul is the genius behind my book trailer.
I won the offspring jackpot with Claire, Gina, Mary Teresa, and Vincent. You have been patient and helpful for much of your lives while I wrote this book. My prayer is that you will discover your own vocations and develop the individual gifts that you were given. You have had a front-row seat to what it means to achieve a goal—through frustration, elation, rejection, and celebration. I can’t wait to see what life has in store for you. You are all amazing and I love being your mom.
To Sir Paul McCartney: thank you for your innovative music. My story of a priest and his housekeeper was greatly inspired by your lyrics.
And, most especially, I am grateful for the faith that was given to me. The metanoia of the past few years means more to me than anything else that could ever happen. All things are truly possible with God, and I am living proof. Thank you to Mary, Therese, and Philomena for your intercessions.
I know, I know. If this were an Oscar speech, they would have cued the music by now.
Author Bio
Photo © 2015 Gina Di Maio
Camille Di Maio has always dreamed of being a writer and has had pieces published in various regional and parenting magazines. When she’s not delaying sleep in favor of reading “just one more chapter” of a great book, she and her husband homeschool their four children and run a real estate office in San Antonio, Texas. Camille also regularly faces her fear of flying to indulge her passion for travel. She is inspired by the concept of “sucking the marrow out of life” and, to that end, trains in tae kwon do, buys too many baked goods at farmers’ markets, and unashamedly belts out Broadway show tunes when the moment strikes. The Memory of Us is her debut novel.
The Memory of Us: A Novel Page 36