Alicia Palmer would have asked Deputy Cynthia Cooper, for she was a lively dinner guest, but she’d been tied up for weeks helping Sheriff Rick Shaw reorganize the department, top to bottom.
Patterson’s created an elegant, low, long centerpiece for Alicia’s dinner party. She had requested white, pink, and purple flowers. This was December 2, and Alicia wouldn’t decorate with red, green, and gold for a few more days. She thought it vulgar to rush the holidays. The decorations came down on New Year’s Day, too, just as Mary Pat Reines had done. Alicia had absorbed most of Mary Pat’s ways. Mary Pat was considered a rebel in her family, not because she was a lesbian (most families had gay members; however, they married and then discreetly engaged in affairs) but because she refused to marry and live by Reines standards. Mary Pat’s mother and grandmother had a servant behind each chair when they gave dinner parties. Life was grand indeed.
Mary Pat’s mother would visit the beautiful farm and gripe, “You live like a peasant.”
Alicia simplified life even more, but by most standards, except for those of a Saudi prince, she lived a beautiful and blessed life.
Alicia asked BoomBoom who she wanted as her escort. BoomBoom said Alicia could be her escort. The older woman laughed uproariously at this but was flattered. Alicia had abandoned the idea of an equal number of men and women at the table years ago.
Mary Pat’s idea for any party—and this held true for Big Mim and her aunt Tally—was to always have more men than women. Parties almost always had more women than men; changing the ratio ramped up the competition and energy among the men. It never failed. She’d raid the fraternities of the University of Virginia or call up a dear friend of hers who taught at Virginia Military Institute. She’d make a contribution to the group’s treasury, not that she told anyone. Her parties were wildly successful because they overflowed with handsome young men, each of them coached to pay attention to the various ladies regardless of age.
Alicia, when away from her husbands, would have parties of only drop-dead gorgeous young women, many of them hoping for a film career like that of their hostess. The attention lavished on Alicia picked her up better than any combination of alcohol or drugs. She wondered why so many people in Hollywood succumbed to pills, powders, and liquid fire. As time went by and husbands went with it, she changed. Most women become stronger with age. She no longer needed the secret parties away from her husband, or a secret lover or two on the side—usually female, sometimes male—to spice up her life. The older she became, the more she realized that what she wanted was a partner, a true partner. She certainly hoped the woman wouldn’t be ugly as a mud fence, but more than anything she wanted a woman in her life with a bubbling sense of humor, of adventure, of warmth and compassion. She would not turn away a gentleman with these qualities, but she found more of them in women than in men, or perhaps that was her illusion. Perhaps just as many men as women harbored these qualities. She leaned toward women intellectually, and her body gravitated toward the smooth skin of a woman. Long ago she realized there is no more reason to be gay than there is to be straight. It’s not a choice. It simply is. You are what you are and it’s up to you to make the best of it.
She sat at the head of the table, placing Herb at the foot. He protested that he didn’t deserve the honor, but she told him how lovely it was to have a man at the table. She put Maggie on his right hand. Technically Maggie should have sat at Alicia’s right as her guest of honor, but the hell with technicalities.
She also sat BoomBoom smack in the middle of the table, not considered a favorable place by those who understood that your place was indicated, literally, by your place. But BoomBoom knew her place in this community and had no need of visual reinforcement. She wanted the dinner to be a success, so she herself suggested she sit in the middle. In case conversation lagged, she could rekindle it from that position.
Jim Sanburne sat on Alicia’s right. As Mayor of Crozet this made sense. His wife sat on Alicia’s left.
She cleverly placed Harry on Herb’s left, for Harry could be quite funny, often unintentionally so. She scattered everyone in a manner she thought would bring the best out in them, keep them alert, and she certainly kept Paul de Silva alert when she placed Fair Haristeen next to Tazio. She put Bo on Tazio’s other side and placed Nancy Newell next to Fair.
By the second course the table buzzed. First of all, everyone enjoyed everyone else. They hoped a spark might be kindled in Herb and Maggie.
“They’ll need the miracle of the fishes and the loaves,” Big Mim commented on the crowds at Greyfriars.
“Can’t the faithful brown-bag it?” Harry, ever practical, said, which elicited laughter. “Did I put my foot in it again?”
“No, it’s just you.” Susan smiled, happy that Ned was paying attention to her.
“Well, the Blessed Virgin Mother can bless a ham sandwich as well as fishes and loaves,” Harry commented.
A moment passed and Herb said, his voice deep, reassuring, “I called Brother Handle to see if I could be of service. He thanked me but said they could manage. He did say people are giving the monks money, leaving money at the statue, leaving burning candles in glass votives, leaving contributions in the shops. He mentioned that the order does not seek wealth. I replied that surely there is no injunction against wealth seeking the order.”
Maggie, who had done many commercial voice-overs, asked in her distinctive voice, “And what did he say?”
“That he would bow to God’s will.” Herb smiled broadly.
“Which means: take the money and run.” Ned laughed.
“Susan, did Brother Thomas ever talk to you about his life in the order?” BoomBoom asked.
Susan, wearing a forest-green dress that looked good on her, shook her head. “Not much. The only thing he ever said was, people are people, and I never quite knew what he meant.”
“That politics is politics and if you have more than three people in a room, you have politics,” Jim replied.
“In Virginia you only need one person.” Tazio, originally from St. Louis, laughed. “One Virginian can hold five conflicting opinions simultaneously.”
The conversation switched to a state senator from Rockingham County who they felt would run for governor next election.
Herb, tone measured, inclined his head toward Maggie. “Conservative fiscally but quite liberal on what I call personal-choice issues, an interesting mix.”
“The mix of the future.” Jim Sanburne became enlivened. “This country can’t continue with the kind of polarization we have now, a polarization because the extremes of both parties are controlling them. Americans aren’t extremists.”
“Only in defense of liberty,” Herb smoothly said, cribbing from the late Barry Goldwater, earning an admiring smile from Maggie.
“What the extremists have done, which I find very dangerous, is pull the debates away from the center. So the center is now thirty degrees to the right of where it might have been during the presidency of Dwight D. Eisenhower, a president who I feel was far better than he is credited for.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Big Mim simply said in reply to Alicia’s astute observation.
“But all those men, men of that generation, whether Republican or Democrat, were fundamentally centrists,” Tracy Raz, retired from a long career in the military and then the CIA, offered. “What we are seeing now is a generation not tempered by World War Two.”
Paul de Silva, a South American with his green card—and therefore a lucky man—softly said, “You believe war brings wisdom?”
Herb, Jim, and Tracy had seen combat in World War II or Korea. Ned, a Navy man, just missed Vietnam but worked in the aftermath. Bo was in the fleet during Vietnam.
Herb lifted his chin. “What war teaches you is that you never want to see another one. I think the leaders that came out of World War One and World War Two did have a deep wisdom, a deep respect for human life. If lives must be lost, then the cause must be just and great. To squander an Amer
ican life is a terrible calamity.”
The group was silent for a minute. All agreed with the good reverend.
Harry finally spoke up. “It is strange, though, isn’t it, that we can kill someone in a different uniform, but if we do that at home, it’s murder.”
“But maybe even murder is occasionally justified,” Tracy said. He quickly held up his hands. “A wife kills a drunken husband who has their baby by the heels and is threatening to destroy the child. There are no easy answers, I’m afraid.”
“And that’s a gift.” Alicia broadly smiled and brought them back to a lighter mood. “If it were easy, think how bored we’d be. Aren’t all the great questions of life irrational, irrational to the human mind but perhaps not irrational to a mind greater than our own or to nature?”
“Like what?” Susan leaned toward Alicia.
“Love, the only fire against which there is no insurance. Intelligence is no guarantee that one will find the right love, shall we say? After all, consider Arthur Miller in love with Marilyn Monroe.”
“Do I have to?” Harry popped off.
“Harry, God forbid you consider anything of the sort.” Susan teased her.
“Let’s pick someone closer to her generation.” Miranda looked across the table at Tracy, thinking him the best-looking man for his age she had ever seen, and he was looking at her thinking the same of her.
“You don’t have to give me examples. I know what you mean.”
“Honey, I’ll be your Arthur Miller anytime,” Fair gallantly promised as the others applauded him.
“Does that mean I have to wear low-cut dresses, wiggle, and get a boob job?”
Maggie Sheraton’s mouth dropped open for a second.
“That’s our Harry.” Herb beamed at Maggie.
“Darling, you don’t need breast augmentation.” Alicia carefully chose her words.
“You say that to all the girls.” Harry couldn’t resist.
“No, only the special ones.” Alicia laughed at herself, which only made her guests all the more animated.
“Well, now, there’s a subject for philosophers.” Fair nodded to his hostess. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
This set them off.
Maxwell, sitting patiently by his mother’s right hand, listened. Humans amused him, and being a Gordon setter he was more generous in his assessments than a Jack Russell terrier might have been. Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter hunkered under the table. Tucker hoped for fallen tidbits. Alicia allowed them to attend the party because she loved animals, they were well behaved, and Maxwell and Tucker were fast friends. Resting in the front hall was Brinkley, Tazio’s yellow Lab. He liked people well enough but, even though Labs are not known for being guard dogs, he liked watching the door. Brinkley had been saved by Tazio last winter during a nasty storm. His entire life was devoted to Tazio.
“Love stuff.” Pewter yawned.
“They’ll rattle on all night.” Tucker chuckled.
“I had a boyfriend once,” Mrs. Murphy said.
“We all know your boyfriend. Worthless, that Paddy.” Pewter couldn’t abide the black and white cat, who now lived in Keswick, having been rescued by Meredith McLaughlin.
Not only was he rescued by one of Albemarle County’s biggest softies, he was doted on by her neighbors, Claudia and Andy Lynn, who loved creatures as much as Meredith did. The result was that Paddy was insufferable—plus he had a new girlfriend, named Twisted Sister.
“Worthless he may have been, but he was fun.” That was all Mrs. Murphy had to say on the subject.
“While they’re talking about love, you know Mom is figuring out when she’s going back up to the monastery.” Tucker thought the main course smelled mouth-watering.
Nordy Elliott was already there, lugging a heavy camera. He thought if he went alone and in the dark, he could shoot the footage he desperately wanted: a close-up of the Virgin Mary’s face. And he was certain he could sneak in and not be detected. He was wrong.
18
Sweat poured down Nordy Elliott’s face; a line of sweat rolled down the middle of his back. The heavy camera added to his distress. He’d been smart enough to park well away from the iron gates. Footing was treacherous. He’d pitched and fallen flat on his face but managed to keep the camera intact.
Breathing heavily, he approached the statue, which shone with a silver glow in the waxing moonlight. The skies, clear for a change, throbbed deep electric black, a black seen only in winter.
The crunch of his boots frightened Brother Mark at the statue. The men startled each other.
Nordy ordered, “Don’t move.”
“Don’t give me orders,” snapped Brother Mark, tucking his rosary in his robe’s deep pocket. He stood up as Nordy walked to the front of the statue. He observed closely the look on the reporter’s face when he beheld the tears of the Virgin. Rapture. This wasn’t the rapture discussed in religious texts. This was the rapture of greed, greed for fame, for a bigger market, a national show. Without hesitation, Nordy swung the camera eyepiece to his own eye, his fingers numb with cold, sweat still running down his back. He held his breath so the camera wouldn’t shake, the whirring sound of the motor being his reward. Nordy congratulated himself on shooting for two minutes, stopping, moving, then shooting from a different angle.
“All these shots are up toward her face. I need one where I’m level or shooting down.” He spoke as if thinking out loud, not as though speaking directly to Brother Mark. He took a step back, slipped a little, and caught himself. He gingerly picked his way to a tree, put the camera on the ground, and, with difficulty, swung up.
“Her face is beautiful in this light.” Brother Mark slid his hands into the heavy sleeves of his gray woolen robe.
“Mmm, hand me the camera, will you?”
Brother Mark picked up the camera, hoisting it over his head while Nordy leaned down and grabbed it with one hand.
“Heavy.”
“I don’t know how Priscilla does it.”
“Oh, you can get women to do anything. I envied you that when we were in college.”
“You tell them they’re beautiful, smart, and that you want them. Works ninety percent of the time. You were always to the left of Pluto, Mark. You were out there spinning in your solitary orbit. Still are.” Nordy hiked the camera to his eye, getting good footage of the statue. “This is going to look great.”
“People need to see the tears.” A pious tone informed Brother Mark’s voice while he ignored the insult. “They need to feel that the Blessed Virgin Mother is crying for them.”
“Uh-huh.” Nordy cut the motor. “Here.” He handed down the camera, then slid down the tree trunk backward. “I don’t believe man is descended from the apes.”
Holding the camera, Brother Mark found this observation peculiar. “Of course we aren’t descended from the apes. Man is created in God’s image.”
Nordy laughed. “We aren’t descended from apes because we’d climb trees better.”
“You know, Nerdy really is the right nickname for you.” Brother Mark handed the camera back to Nordy. “You have no feeling for beauty, no faith.”
“I do, just not in the same things that you do,” the reporter honestly replied with humor in his voice. “If you kneel like when I first walked up here, it would make a great shot.”
“No.”
“Why not? No one will know it’s you; pull the hood over your head.”
“No.”
“What if I shoot you from the back?”
“In the back is more like it, Nordy. You’ll walk over anyone to get ahead. The answer is no. Besides if Brother Handle found out, he’d—” Brother Mark stopped, listened carefully. “You’d better get out of here. Someone’s coming.”
“Maybe I can get them to let me shoot them praying before Our Lady.”
With urgency, Brother Mark said, “And have your camera smashed? Then you’ve got nothing. You’ve got your footage of her tears of blood. People will see
the miracle. Now get out.”
Nordy now heard the footsteps coming closer. He ducked down the back side of the statue, slipping down the slope into the woods, where the sliver of moonlight wouldn’t reveal him. He’d worked too hard for this footage to have it destroyed.
Brother Andrew’s voice called out, “Who’s there?”
“Me. Brother Mark.”
As Brother Andrew came into view, he walked faster. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
The lanky monk looked down at the footprints, slick in the packed-down snow. There were so many footprints. “Who would be up here at this hour?”
“No one.”
“Why are you here?”
“To pray. Why are you here?”
“I don’t know.” Brother Andrew shivered as a fresh wind rustled the dry oak leaves and pine needles, which wouldn’t drop until spring growth. “I needed to think.”
“This is the best place to do that. I come here as much as I can.”
“Are you sure you were alone? I would’ve sworn I heard voices. Sound carries on a clear, cold night like tonight.”
“Yes,” Brother Mark lied.
Brother Andrew stared at him, then quietly said, “I don’t believe you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to your cell.”
19
Makes me sick.” Harry turned up her nose.
“It’s supposed to be progress.” Susan slowed her station wagon as they passed the brand-new post office, under construction on the southwestern side of the railroad overpass.
“There wasn’t one thing wrong with the old building. It’s small, but Miranda and I made out okay.”
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