There’s been a wedding, and Rosamond stares at the dozen or so people in their Sunday best posing for pictures out front, especially the beautiful bride in her white silk dress with a train so long that a girlfriend needs to carry it across the threshold so that it doesn’t drag on the ground.
Looking at the bride and groom a tear comes to Diana’s eye. “They’re so lucky. I hope it works out.”
“You’ll meet someone,” Rosamond encourages her friend. “When I was a schoolgirl we had a very short prayer: Dear Saint Anne, please send a man.”
“Oh, there are plenty of men. I’m just afraid I’ll never meet the right one. And have what my parents had, or even what annoying Linda and boring old Ted have.”
“Of course you will. You’re intelligent and attractive—”
Diana nods her head at these words as if she’s been hearing them all her life, and nowadays only serve to convince her that they’re not true, that people say them just to make her feel better.
Rosamond is again struck by the fact that for some mysterious reason she has yet to comprehend, Diana truly lacks confidence in herself.
“So how come you stopped going to church?” asks Rosamond.
Diana assumes that by changing the subject her friend is acknowledging that it’s true, that she doesn’t have much chance of finding someone.
“Same reason everyone stops going, I guess. It was more my parents’ thing. And Joey’s father certainly didn’t have any interest in going.”
“Was there anything you liked about it?”
“Yes. It made my mother so happy. She would save up all her problems, bring them here, and leave feeling that it was a brand-new week and everything was going to be fine. I was always amazed by how such an intelligent woman could leave a crisis in the hands of God. . . . Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, no.” Rosamond involuntarily smiles that secret smile, the way nuns always do at people “on the outside” who act as if the daily grind were more important than their spiritual lives. Onlookers rarely understood how nuns could have committed their entire lives, hearts, and spirits to something that can neither be seen nor touched.
“What’s so amusing?” asks Diana.
“Well, we get hit with that quite often,” says Rosamond. “I imagine it’s become a sort of refrain like men always saying how attractive you are.”
“Oh.” But Diana doesn’t really see the connection.
“Listen,” says Rosamond. “I’m not suggesting that you should start going to church again.” They both automatically glance out the window at the handsome old church and the happy wedding party. “But it may be worth considering where your mother got her confidence—her confidence that you and Linda wouldn’t be run over on the way home from school, that her husband wouldn’t stray, that the bills would eventually be paid. You have to believe in something, Diana, even if it’s not God. Even if it’s just yourself.”
“You mean like Dad? I know he doesn’t believe in God.”
“But it doesn’t mean that at one time or another he didn’t look fear right in the face and decide how to deal with it.”
Diana briefly considers Hayden’s difficult early life in comparison to her own relatively easy one. Rosamond was right, he did indeed possess the confidence of an evangelist.
A tremendous cheer goes up as the bride and groom dash through the crowd hand in hand under a shower of birdseed.
“The gardens are so beautiful,” says Rosamond.
“So are the cars,” says Diana. She gazes at the line of brand-new Mercedes and shiny BMWs out front, comparing them to Hayden’s ten-year-old Ford station wagon with the rust patches on the doors. Diana had been forced to sell her little Mazda Miata when the child support and alimony checks stopped coming, shortly before they moved to Brooklyn. Now she was dependent on the subway and borrowing her father’s car, just like when she was a teenager.
chapter twenty-eight
They locate a parking spot on the side of the road two doors down from Selma Thackery’s sprawling brick ranch house, since the circular driveway is already filled with Audis and SUVs. A group of twelve women in their early to mid-thirties has gathered at the home of Diana’s closest childhood friend. Some wear linen business suits indicating that they’ve come directly from high-powered jobs in the city, and others are dressed as if they were recently finger painting with active toddlers.
The group has just finished reading the new Andrea Aniston novel called All for Love, which is being hailed by the critics as a “thinking woman’s romance.” Only it isn’t until they actually sit down for a discussion that it occurs to Diana the subject of the book might not be appropriate for one who has just fled a nunnery. On the other hand, maybe it will advance Diana’s hidden agenda of Hayden and Rosamond falling in love so that he’ll finally consent to try the treatment for his cancer.
Selma passes trays of dainty canapés and nori rolls that obviously came from a gourmet shop while Lynn Kohnstamm begins with a summary of the plot, just in case anyone didn’t finish the book. Then she declares the meeting open for comments and critique.
“I think it’s unrealistic that a married woman with two children would cheat on her husband to get back at him for having an affair,” insists Magda Waterston.
“Why not?” counters Geraldine Baxter. “If it were the opposite, if the man found out his wife was cheating, I’ll bet you’d believe it if he went off and had an affair.”
“I’m not so sure,” says another woman, sexier than most of the others in a black halter top and denim skirt. “Did anyone see that movie where the wife has an affair with that incredibly sexy French actor?” All the women except for Rosamond nod their heads to indicate that they’d indeed seen the movie and more than one face appears dreamy at the memory of their favorite male star. “Well, the deceived husband didn’t have his own affair, he went off and killed the lover.”
“That man is so sexy,” says one of the women.
“To die for,” says another.
“Is he really French?” asks another.
“He is,” a quiet woman in a frumpy oversized sweater interjects. “He’s a French citizen, born in Paris, France, January 12, 1966,” she reports like an obsessive fan.
“Well, he can put those used books that he deals in on my bedside table any time of the day or night,” says the halter top.
“He’s too short for you,” oversized sweater states authoritatively. “Five-foot-seven.”
Clearing her throat in the manner of a high school teacher whose class discussion has run away from her, Selma asks, “What’s your impression, Rosamond?” Like a good hostess she makes an effort to include their visitor, who appears slightly lost, and about whose background she is unaware. “Do you think Miranda should have had the affair?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Rosamond is startled to be called upon and is still wondering who this mysterious man is they’re all talking of and seem to know so much about. “I didn’t read the book. And it’s hard for me to even imagine such a situation, being that I just came from two decades in a convent and was recently diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.”
The women stare at her and then look to Diana, as if their guest’s life is a hundred times more interesting than anything they’ve ever read in a novel or seen portrayed on the screen. Meanwhile, at the mention of lung cancer, Selma grabs for the closest ashtray and immediately stubs out her cigarette. Before the discussion can go any further the phone rings.
A moment later their hostess returns from the kitchen and addresses Diana. “It’s your neighbor, Mrs. Trummel. The police are at your place again. It isn’t a Greyfriars night by any chance, is it?” She gives the group a wry smile. Having known Diana since elementary school, most of the women are familiar with her father’s tremendous enthusiasm for social occasions.
“These days any night can be a Greyfriars night.” Diana rises and gathers her things. “Especially since Dad splurged on the large-screen TV so that
life-sized Scots and English can do battle every night thanks to DVD copies of Rob Roy and Braveheart.”
Diana turns to Rosamond. “We’d better go. The Scots spend most of their time fighting wars; only when there isn’t a war, they fight one another. Last week it was over who invented the jig—the Scots or the Irish.”
As they say good-bye to the group something about the previous discussion suddenly occurs to Rosamond. “You know, there’s a similar situation in the Book of John.”
“John Grisham?” asks Selma.
“No. The Bible. A woman cheated on her husband and they were about to stone her. But Jesus said that whoever is without sin should be the first to throw a stone at her. So she was saved. But he said she must leave her life of sin behind.”
The women nod at her, as if this is indeed an interesting take on All for Love, and all the more valuable coming directly from a convent.
When Diana and Rosamond open the front door Braveheart is nearing its end and all the men, along with Joey and Hugh’s teenage son Andrew, are shouting and raising their fists at the TV during the final battle scene. Diana’s eyes land on the bagpipes and snare drum on the floor next to the couch. By standing directly in front of the set she blocks most of the picture while muting the volume. The rowdy men boo her and angrily raise their glasses.
“Dad, were the police here again? And why is Joey still up?”
Hayden waves her off like an annoying mosquito. “Oh, Alisdair was playing along on the pipes while we were butchering the Brits. Old Mrs. Trummel trounced on us for making a ruckus.”
“Okay boys, that’s enough Gaelic culture for one evening.” Diana extends the channel clicker like a lightning rod and turns off the TV set. “You’ve seen this a million times.” The men continue to hiss and denounce her. Diana removes the two bottles of Lagavulin whiskey from the end tables only to find they’re empty. Next she turns to her son. “Joey, go to bed right now or else your growth will be permanently stunted from lack of sleep!”
Rosamond also finds herself highly unamused by Hayden gambling so recklessly with his health. After her initial fascination with the merry Greyfriars Gang, she’s come to agree with Diana. As well-intentioned as they may be in wanting to help take Hayden’s mind off his illness, they are a bad influence. And the mornings following their rambunctious gatherings he’s usually in terrible shape, barely capable of moving and unable to eat anything.
Rosamond is about to demand to know why he’s so intent on killing himself. But even in his inebriated state Hayden anticipates her and slinks off to his room, quickly closing the door behind him.
chapter twenty-nine
In the morning Hayden lies in his new bed pretending to be asleep while waiting for Diana to finish in the kitchen and leave for work. His daughter, however, knows that he always fakes sleep on his side so he can keep an eye on the door and really only sleeps on his back or stomach. She noisily enters the room carrying a large glass of purplish-brown prune juice and the cordless phone.
“You look terrible!” She waves the telephone handset over his body like a laser pointer. “I’m calling the doctor.”
“Don’t you dare!” He makes a halfhearted attempt at grabbing the phone away from her. “It’s bad enough he already wants me as a free guinea pig.” His voice sounds throaty and nasal. “Besides, it’s just a cold.”
Diana examines the bedside table and finds a tumbler with an amber-hued stain on its bottom along with a spilled container of aspirin and glares down at him like an Old Testament prophet. “I think it’s more like a Highland Hangover.” She replaces the cocktail glass with the one containing the juice. “Dad, all this aspirin is ripping apart your stomach, and you know what the doctor said about drinking . . .”
“It’s possible that Paddy overserved me just slightly,” Hayden admits with a twinkle in his eye. “He has a heavy hand with the—”
“Please, I could hear you reciting ‘Lochinvar’ while I was loading the dishwasher.”
“Lovely poem.”
“All eight stanzas!”
“Now, Sir Walter Scott is a good example of a man who was devoted to his art and yet held a regular job,” says Hayden in an effort to turn her attention away from his liquor consumption. “He was a lawyer and the sheriff of Selkirk for thirty years. If you insist on marrying an artist, why can’t it be one with a salary?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Joey enters the sunroom in his pajamas and Hayden begins reciting: “So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,” and then points to Joey who raises his right arm as if brandishing a sword and finishes: “There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!”
Hayden claps his hands and Joey beams with pride while Diana scowls at them both. Then Hayden leans his head against the pillow as if he could go back to sleep for another eight hours.
“You don’t look very good,” says Joey. “Are you going to die today, Grandpa?” Joey glances around the room to see if The Cancer Monster is lurking in a corner or else has a big, hairy green foot sticking out from under the bed.
“I do’an’ think so. But as long as I’m under the weather we should use the situation as a trial run. Now be a good lad and fetch the newspaper and then make your grandpa a bender-mender of black coffee and toast.”
Rosamond enters the room wearing a white low-cut silk robe, obviously borrowed from Diana, and sits down in a chair next to Hayden’s bed. Diana rolls her eyes before leaving as if to say, “I give up, he’s all yours today.”
“So, did you play the bagpipes last night?” Rosamond asks.
“No darlin’, I’ve given up me pipes until I can go grouse hunting back home in the Sidlaw Hills outside o’ Dundee. Takes too much lung power.” He explains this in an exaggerated brogue and then adds a cough for emphasis. Though Hayden uses the opportunity of moving his head up and down to take a surreptitious look at Rosamond in the flowing robe with a pink negligee peeking out from underneath and decides she’s quite fetching from head to foot.
Once Joey has dutifully delivered the paper and toast, but no coffee, and headed off to watch cartoons, Rosamond asks, “Hayden, I was wondering, would you do me a favor?”
“Oh whistle and I’ll come to ye, my lass, O whistle, and I’ll come to ye—” but he starts coughing for real. After taking a sip of prune juice Hayden manages to croak out, “Robbie Burns.”
“I’ve invited a young man over this morning,” begins Rosamond.
Upon hearing the words young man Hayden’s brows float upward like two twigs in a storm, not unlike Diana’s when she’s preparing to deliver an impromptu sermon. Hayden is willing to admit that he’s been attracted to Rosamond from the first moment her heavy silver cross smacked him full in the face when she leapt up to do the wave. However, he’s also aware that he’s fourteen years her senior. Though what should age matter if they’re both going to die soon anyway? But more important, it’s obvious from the backyard disaster that she’s not thinking along those same lines. Still, that doesn’t mean he’ll allow someone else to threaten her honor!
Sensing that Hayden might be coming to the wrong conclusion, and very much not wanting him to, Rosamond adds, “Hank’s a priest. At least he’s training to become a priest, just a few more months to go. I met him in the hospital when he was doing rounds and then ran into him again last Sunday when I wandered over to the church at the end of your street. And . . . and I’d like you to speak with him.”
Hayden is relieved that Rosamond isn’t suddenly producing a beau so shortly after turning him down. Yet at the same time he’s annoyed by this attempt to pour religion down his throat. “Oh Rosie, I thought ye’d given up on all this God codswallop.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she insists. “It’s simply that I don’t believe this young man has the calling, I mean, I’m afraid that he’s making a mistake.”
Hayden laughs with no small amount of relief. “Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“T
here’s something about you, Hayden . . . how can I say this so it doesn’t come out sounding all wrong? You have a way of making people feel either much better or much worse about their religion. And so I fibbed just a bit. I told him you have spiritual conflicts that need immediate attention. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Glad to know I’m still good for something.” Perhaps the way to Rosamond’s heart is through performing deeds of heroism and chivalry like a Scottish Don Quixote.
“Wonderful, because he’s going to stop by in a few minutes, on the way to Mass.” She moves toward the door. “Now I must go and put something on.”
Hayden shakes his head in an attempt to shrug off his hangover. “Does it have to be this morning?”
As if in answer to his question the doorbell rings.
chapter thirty
Embarrassed at being caught in her nightclothes, Rosamond pulls the robe tight around her before going to the door and directing the young man to Hayden’s bedside. Henry Flaherty is tall, broad, clean-shaven, and crowned with a lion’s mane of golden brown hair that makes him look like a schoolboy when it flops into his eyes, which is every time he wags his big head.
“Father Flaherty, I presume,” says Hayden. Americans rarely catch his reference to when the New York Herald correspondent Henry Stanley found the famous Scottish missionary Dr. David Livingstone in Africa.
But Hank shakes Hayden’s hand and actually acknowledges the reference. “I’m afraid my missionary work was in Guatemala, Mr. Stanley. And please just call me Hank.”
Rosamond leaves the two men alone while she goes upstairs to shower and change. As she passes the hall clock she can’t help but think what the mother superior would have to say about shuffling around in a carnation pink negligee covered by a silk bathrobe at half past eight in the morning. The nuns were out of their scratchy cotton oatmeal-colored nightdresses and into their habits by four A.M. And barely thirty minutes later they were kneeling on the cold marble floor of the chapel for morning prayers. Lauds was said at daybreak, thanking God for the first light, as at the beginning of creation, and for the light of Christ’s resurrection. Following that the nuns chanted the first interlude of the Divine Office.
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