Justifiable

by Dianna Love

  Couldn’t Baylor have chosen a different color than sunshine? But Baylor was so indispensable to St. C’s running, not to mention the restoration work goin’ on, he could have painted the whole interior Pepto Bismol pink and Monsignor would have only nodded and been happy.

  A glare flashed off the newly stained hardwood floors.

  Did everything have to reflect the sun?

  Just kill her now.

  Her queasy stomach balked at the smell of fresh paint. More of Baylor’s doin’.

  Maybe she should be passin’ out a memo – Margo Cortese, not the mornin’ person. The school clock on the wall corrected her. Okay, not a just-past-noon person either.

  She snatched off her glasses when she reached the quieter central hallway that fed to all the offices. The hall ended in front of the door to the kitchen and had an exit door on the left for the parking lot in the rear...that Valdez was slipping out of at the present moment.

  Wasn’t he supposed to be upstairs tidyin’ up the construction area? The smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, partnered with carrot-red hair, didn’t look like the mug shot of a young man convicted of burglary and assault. She couldn’t reconcile the name Valdez with all that red hair either.

  But then she was Irish as the day was long and didn’t have the first freckle – and hair more auburn than red.

  Valdez was Father Ickerson’s problem, not hers. She hadn’t figured out Valdez yet and was willin’ to give anyone the benefit of the doubt, but she knew lazy and sneaky when she saw it. Father Ickerson, on the other hand, had high expectations for his protégé.

  She would leave it to the good Father to deal with his underling. Dismissin’ Valdez, she headed to her office that smelled of history like the rest of the original building. Of being inhabited by many others long before her time, quite a contrast to all the remodeling happening on the second floor.

  The remodeling was going slowly, but construction workers were donating their time and skills, plastering and painting the new outreach center up there. All under Baylor’s watchful eye for detail work and his love for St. C’s.

  Not that she didn’t appreciate his skill and sincerity, but...did he have to be so talented?

  Monsignor loved art and admired the man’s ability to shape things with his hands.

  The only thing she could do with her hands was type.

  Jealousy is not attractive. Especially when the old guy just wanted to do a great job. And he was far more spry and pleasant than some people, like Icky.

  Just thinking about the cantankerous Father Ickerson sharpened her headache.

  Rolling her shoulders, she worked on mind control, fighting the potential migraine that had become an unpleasant companion since her first menstrual cycle. Almost as unpleasant as when she reached the third doorway on her right to find Father Angus Ickerson inside her office with his back toward her.

  Icky stood too close to Monsignor’s door on the far side, his head cocked at a snooping angle, hands squeezed together behind his back. No doubt trying to look more clerical and less like an accountant with a perpetually pinched expression.

  What was Icky doing in here? Waiting to see Monsignor? Wasn’t Icky supposed to be listening to noon confessions? St. C’s always had a few on Tuesdays.

  She stepped inside.

  Icky swung around, startled, then lifted those chicken lips into a tight little grin. What had him all in a tizzy?

  “Can I help you, Father?” She paused several feet from him, shrugging out of the faded red canvas jacket that had been a decade old when her brother passed it down to her. She tossed the coat over file folders blanketing the top of her desk.

  Father Ickerson, who boasted of havin’ studied in Madrid and Rome before comin’ here, smelled like garlic or curry most of the time, the reason the kids nicknamed him Icky.

  She had other reasons.

  “Big news about the Pope,” he tittered, hands now squeezed together just beneath his weak chin. Wavy brown hair, wide-set small brown eyes and a mass of freckles. If not for the pale skin as a backdrop he’d look like a tree trunk. A tree trunk listenin’ in on phone calls happening in the next room now that she heard Monsignor Jack Dornan’s voice.

  That sneakin’ stinkpot Ickerson. She ground her teeth. She should have been here sooner. Monsignor expected her to watch his back and protect his privacy. To be the layer between him and everyone else when necessary.

  “How would you be learnin’ this big news about the Pope?” Margo asked, crossing her arms. “And what news might that be?”

  A loud thump, thump, thump on the ceiling pounded as though God drove nails the size of railroad spikes into steel beams. Plaster chips trickled down over her jacket and desk. Her ten-foot high ceiling had yet to be covered with the new hanging tile system, but that was a low priority with so much more goin’ on.

  Right now, though, construction workers remodeling the second floor were turnin’ her office into a torture chamber.

  Father Icky, obviously not sufferin’ from a killer headache, angled his chin as if a peasant had dared to question him. Just into his thirties, he acted his shoe size most days.

  She might not be a deacon or priest, but she was chief of staff and deserved his respect as such.

  Before Margo could press Icky, Mr. Baylor came in whistling. She recognized the melody as The Eucharist and turned slowly, her only speed until her stomach stopped threatening to play volcano. Just another side effect of her ambitious headache.

  Baylor’s bushy silver mustache hovered over a jutting bottom lip and rigid jaw. St. C’s quiet, but oh-so-competent handyman, maintenance man, do-whatever-man wore faded coveralls. He raised intelligent eyes to her that had seen close to six decades of livin’ and were still bright with life. St. C’s would fall apart without Baylor, even if he sometimes demanded as much of Monsignor’s attention as Icky wanted. Men could be just as difficult as unruly boys. He placed a stack of mail on the only open corner of her desk.

  “Thank you.” Margo smiled at the old guy who never complained. He didn’t smile much, but he always did his work and the kids liked him. Much better than they liked Icky.

  But then, few people liked Icky.

  Guess she’d have to confess that uncharitable thought.

  “Want me to clean up in here this week?” Baylor asked. “I could do the Monsignor’s office, too.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Baylor.” She answered nicely, the same way she did every time he asked to clean her and the Monsignor’s offices. She didn’t like people touching her things and never minded maintainin’ her own space. And Jack Dornan? He was a stickler for his private sanctum.

  Before Margo could resume questioning Icky about what he was doing here and why, the Monsignor’s gray-green door opened with a squeak of admonishment that made her jump. She gritted her teeth at the sharp noise.

  The Monsignor’s slightest move exuded power and careful decision. His casual greeting commanded attention. At six feet, three inches tall, with shoulders so wide his crisp black clergy shirt and Roman collar had to be custom made, he didn’t look his fifty-six years. Nodding first at Icky, Monsignor said, “Father,” then he turned to Baylor with a smile. “Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Baylor. How’s the scroll work coming in the chapel?”

  Baylor scratched his beard and said, “Quite fine, Father, but I’d like your opinion on a section when you have a moment.”

  Margo squelched the urge to roll her eyes, which would have drawn Monsignor’s attention, and in the wrong way. The Monsignor did not have time to inspect every little –

  Monsignor nodded. “Be happy to take a look this afternoon.” Then his gaze slid to Margo. “Didn’t hear you come in from lunch, Margo.”

  Might that be because I slithered in, silent as a mouse with stolen cheese?

  “Good afternoon, Monsignor.” Margo didn’t let her pain or frustration show. She admired this man above all men but the Pope. “Your door was closed when I arrived. I’d ha
ve called to let you know I’d be a few minutes tardy, but there’s a problem with my home phone.” She told the truth. Wouldn’t lie to him any more than she would to God.

  But the truth took a crooked turn when she omitted the part about forgettin’ to pay her phone bill at her cottage down the street, thus the dead line this morning.

  “You’re fine.” His voice held no rebuff, which it rarely did for others, though he allowed himself no room for error. “The schedule is still casual here until the construction is finished, which should be soon.”

  Monsignor’s blue eyes were so clear she could practically see through them. Shiny gold hair fell in gentle layers, just long enough to suit all the members in the parish from young to old. The few lines at the corners of his eyes had formed from years of quick smiles and narrowed concentration.

  Just one of many expressions Margo had witnessed in the past eight years.

  “I’m here.” Deacon Grizzle entered softly for a six-foot-five man who towered over her five-ten and Icky’s six feet. Baylor sort of disappeared in the midst of these giant men. A quiet mid-sixty year old, Grizzle wore his standard khaki pants, beige cable-knit sweater and button down shirt, pale yellow today.

  What was it with this place and yellow?

  “Here for what?” Margo muttered, glancing past Grizzle as Baylor turned and left. She hated how the man moved around skittish as poor relations at a feast. She knew how that felt, but appreciated his respecting parish business by leavin’.

  Icky, on the other hand, had no compunction about enterin’ private conversations.

  “I have news that must stay between the four of us since it isn’t confirmed yet,” Monsignor answered.

  Icky vibrated with excitement.

  Overhead, pounding started up like a competition between two hammers, out of sync.

  Most women wanted cosmetic surgery. Right now Margo would take a lobotomy for relief from her head and Icky.

  “Everyone step into my office.” Monsignor led the way then closed the door once they were all inside. The finished ceiling filled with insulation dulled the noise some.

  Monsignor’s familiar scent reminded her of early autumn and citrus. Some smells would always instill a basic animal reaction. His conjured up a sense of peace and comfort for her in the worst of times.

  Dark-stained panels covered his walls, not yellow.

  A man with a man’s taste. He propped a hip on his cherry wood desk that held one tidy stack of folders, a reading lamp and writing accessories. How did he accomplish so much without ever looking disorganized or rushed?

  Margo straightened her desk each night, but she’d never been accused of bein’ OCD.

  Margo, Icky and Grizzle spread around the Monsignor’s desk, waiting for what he had to say. His smile started from deep in the heart and broadened. “I just got off the phone with Bishop Gautier who told me the pope may stop here during his visit to America.”

  “Sweet Mother of Mary.” Icky bounced on the balls of his feet as if he’d been told he would become the next pope.

  Grizzle ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper gray hair, his voice in hushed awe. “A dream come true.”

  “’Tis an amazing honor for St. C’s,” Margo said. A tremor of excitement raced along her spine. The pope. Here. The Monsignor must have had a hand in this, but he’d never say. For a man whose reputation knew no boundaries, a man who inspired awe in everyone around him, he wanted only what was best for his flock.

  In the eight years she’d known Monsignor, he’d been the only one to inspire her to become more than a clichéd result of a dark past. He’d spearheaded changes in the church many never believed possible, all with the blessin’ of those above him. Some said the Cardinal, and even the pope himself, supported Monsignor’s pushing the boundaries.

  Monsignor switched gears just that fast and moved to the next phase of this meeting without missing a breath. “Exciting, but it also means we have a lot of work to do. We’ve got to get this parish cleaned up, push the work upstairs to have it completed on time and show the pope how St. Catherine’s is the flagship program for more inner city outreach centers across the U.S.”

  Margo soaked up his enthusiasm, ready to tackle anything he wanted.

  “The young man I brought in to mentor, Valdez Gibson, has been asking for more responsibility,” Icky announced. “I can have Valdez spend time upstairs overseeing the men since he used to work in construction.”

  Before he was paroled, Margo added silently. Icky loved to be in charge of something or someone at all times.

  “We want to include everyone in this endeavor, but we will be under a microscope when this visit becomes public knowledge and can’t have a misstep.” Monsignor had directed his words at Icky whose smile lost spark.

  “Valdez is dependable and honest,” Icky argued. “He deserves a chance to prove himself.”

  “I won’t deny him that opportunity,” Monsignor assured Icky. “But we also have Mr. Baylor to consider. He’s doing a fine job and it would be uncharitable to demean him by favoring someone else with less experience.”

  “But Baylor is so...so – ”

  Getting on your nerves, Margo wanted to finish for him. Icky had a competitive streak a mile wide, especially when it came to Monsignor’s attention.

  “Father Ickerson,” Monsignor soothed. “There will be opportunity and responsibilities for all when the right time comes. Perhaps you could speak to Mr. Baylor about sharing some of his workload with young Valdez. Keeping in mind you’re responsible for Mr. Valdez and anything he does.”

  Icky nodded, mollified.

  Monsignor continued. “We also have to be exceptionally careful with the media, especially after the embezzlement incident. I came here to rebuild St. Catherine’s reputation and to do that we must avoid bad press.”

  Margo knew better than anyone in this room just how capable Monsignor was, how many times he’d been the catalyst for unbelievable changes. Like in San Francisco, where he’d spent most of the past year before coming here.

  “I want Margo to field media requests and contacts, to create press releases as necessary and to report everyone’s progress to me.”

  Press releases were among her least favorite job duties, but if that’s where she could help most, that’s where she would.

  Icky did protest this time. “I’m senior here beneath you.”

  Monsignor could have just said his decisions were final, but he turned on his charm and showed why he’d become a respected leader by smoothing the friction. “So noted, Father Ickerson, which is exactly why I would never impose on your time to do busy work our chief of staff can handle. You’re needed in a higher capacity.”

  Bullseye. That appeased Icky.

  Grizzle coughed, a raw sound as though his lungs were ripping apart.

  Monsignor paused. “Deacon Grizzle?”

  “You should be seein’ a doctor, Deacon.” Margo considered patting his back, but that required touching.

  When Grizzle caught his breath, he said, “Yeah.” Cough. “Think I got bronchitis again.”

  Monsignor’s brow creased with concern. “Better stop by the health clinic and see to that before you get worse.”

  Grizzle nodded though he rarely took time off and didn’t seem eager to do so now either.

  Moving ahead, the Monsignor addressed Grizzle again. “If you feel up to it, I’d like you to start interviewing teachers for our preschool program. We only need a couple for now, but I’d like to show the Bishop and the pope that we’ll be ready soon to take in children.”

  Grizzle quieted, uncovered his mouth and took a shallow breath. “If that’s all, I’ll get to work.”

  “We’re through here.” Monsignor’s gaze slid to Icky who would remain planted in this office for as long as allowed.

  “I’m very busy, too.” In a show of importance, Icky hustled out with Grizzle right behind, hacking again.

  Margo figured Monsignor had more to say and she had news t
o share with him. “Much as it pains me, I need to tell you about Sally Stanton.”

  Monsignor was already picking up a thick file. “Who?”

  “The mentally-challenged woman with a little boy named Enrique? They were here last week. You took her confession.”

  “Oh, yes. A Philomena House resident.” Monsignor frowned. “What about her?”

  “She was killed last night.”

  He paused, no doubt as stunned as she was. “That’s tragic.” His voice was calm, but sounded like he paid only half attention to her words. “How, where?”

  “Gunshot wound and her body was left – ”

  He shook his head, a growl of frustration escaping. “We have to do something about Philomena House. Ickerson isn’t doing a solid job of vetting people for that place or here. We can’t have people getting shot every other week.” A deep frown marred his face before he glanced back at her. “The pope will think we’re running a crack house instead of a halfway house for the indigent. His visit is going to affect all of us, you in particular.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, I’ve informed Bishop Gautier I’m giving you more authority. You’ve gained tremendous experience from all the different projects we’ve tackled. I’ve been laying the groundwork for you to become the director over a program and I think this outreach center is the perfect place for you to show what you’re capable of doing. I’d envisioned your position eventually expanding into a regional one, as we open more centers.”

  Not a position that would normally go to a woman.

  “Thank you, Monsignor.” She couldn’t swallow. The director. That meant...

  “The job comes with a load of responsibility, as does anything worth having. You asked me for a platform, the opportunity to prove yourself. That’s one reason I accepted this appointment at St. Catherine’s, along with paying back the support I’ve received from Bishop Gautier.”

  “I’m beholden to you for all you’ve done for me.”