Contrition

  “Really?” I was glad Matt still considered me a friend.

  “Your words inspire people just like these paintings do, Dorie.” Matt chucked me on the shoulder. “Watching you chase this story is what finally got me off my ass and doing my movie. And, if I may be so bold, you need to go after what you want, not to mention turn down what you don’t want, after all this is over.”

  “I’m so sorry if I hurt you, Matt.” I felt tears well up in my eyes.

  “No sweat.” Matt automatically wiped my falling tears away with his thumb and then pulled back, awkward, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was my fault for choosing the absolute most inappropriate time to propose. Just when you were getting some clarity on where your life is headed, I tried to get to you to change direction.” He sighed. “Just promise me that once you’re sure what your vocation is, if you’ll excuse the word choice, you won’t waste years putting it off like I did.”

  I gulped. Deep down, I was already sure. “I promise.”

  As I spoke the words, the room’s noise level rose and flashbulbs illuminated the gallery entrance.

  Unable to see above the crowd, I ventured a guess. “Must be another celebrity coming in.”

  “One in the making, anyway.” Matt’s six-foot-three frame gave him a superior view. “I think your sister just arrived.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Craning my neck, I climbed a nearby set of stairs for a better look and saw what a modern-day picture of martyrdom might look like.

  A clearly terrified Catherine, hands covering her ears, wore the same shocked expression she had when she first caught me taking pictures in the little studio. Instead of arrows, microphones were aimed at her chest while the glare of camera lights poured down on her shoulders like so much boiling oil. I leapt off the steps and rushed over as fast as the surging crowd would allow. Trish excused herself from a conversation with Evan and fell in step alongside me.

  “Why didn’t you tell Evan Cole about my Wagner?” I hissed.

  “Because last week he would’ve offered half of what he’ll offer after this show,” Trish muttered without a trace of conscience.

  “But that’s not—”

  “That’s business, D. Get used to it,” Trish said as we neared Catherine. “Besides, he won’t miss any meals. Now let’s get to the Wagner at hand.”

  I stood there, deflated, as Trish waylaid Catherine.

  “Here’s the woman of the hour.” Trish put her hands on Catherine’s shoulders for a photo op. “Let me introduce you to one of your biggest fans. Now where did he go?”

  As Trish glided off with Catherine, I mouthed the words, “Are you okay?” to my twin. She tried to reply but got swept up in the crowd.

  “The noise level in here is bad for the average person.” Mother Benedicta arrived beside me and put her hands over her own ears. “Take that and magnify it ten times and you might have an idea how jarring it sounds to someone accustomed to silence.”

  I watched, angry and numb, as a few yards away Trish presented Catherine to Evan like a trick pony.

  “Catherine, I’d like you to meet Evan Cole,” Trish said with such treacle that it dripped off her sycophant’s tongue.

  “Nice to meet you, Evan,” Catherine said, polite but distant.

  Catherine obviously had no idea who Evan was. Trish’s head reared back in panic. How would a movie star react to someone not recognizing him? Would he be insulted?

  He was delighted. In fact, he blushed.

  “The honor is mine, Sister Catherine,” Evan said with a small bow that wasn’t so much theatrical as respectful. “I love the paintings.”

  Catherine grinned. I could tell she appreciated Evan not referring to the paintings as hers. He’d done his homework. Trish just looked bored and nudged the photographers toward the pair. The paparazzi snapped shots of the famous actor with the soon-to-be famous artist. Not far behind, more fans descended on my twin with a flood of superlatives.

  “Fantastic.”

  “Inspired.”

  “Pure genius.”

  “A miracle.”

  Catherine nodded her thanks, but the tilt of her eyebrows suggested that she was having a hard time determining whether these people were serious. Her body stiffened as people shook her hand, hugged her, or kissed her on both cheeks. For someone who rarely encountered strangers, it must have been incredibly stressful. Sweat poured from Catherine’s temples.

  “Are you all right?” a concerned Evan asked her. “You look like you need some air.”

  “She’s fine,” Trish said and then yammered on. “I’m asking buyers to let me keep the show up for a few months so the public can see this important work.” Trish pointed to the paintings like a flight attendant indicating exits. “All I can say is, thank God the cloister is in financial crisis. If it weren’t for this year’s mudslides wreaking havoc on the convent’s facilities, this show never would have happened.”

  A man with pince-nez and an attitude to match agreed.

  “Talk about good things coming out of bad situations,” he said. “If this is what happens when it rains in Big Sur, I hope it floods.”

  Catherine stared at the man with an appalled expression. As the jostling crowd, unbearable noise, and thoughtless comments hit critical mass, she walked away from a mid-sentence Trish. Evan held two prying photographers back as my twin, bumping elbows and upsetting drinks, pushed through the throng in an attempt to escape. Catherine lost her footing in the clogs and tripped halfway to the back exit. Picking herself up, she yanked the fabric of her habit free from under someone’s shoe with a rip and continued on. Finally she disappeared through a rear door. I did my best to follow.

  Spilling a few drinks myself as I made my way through the mob to the back door, I couldn’t help but pause when I noticed an auburn- haired young woman who looked captivated by the Joan of Arc painting. As she stood there gazing at the painting, I saw in her fascinated expression the same awe I’d felt when I first encountered the Madonna and Child. I wanted to stay and watch her, to reexperience Catherine’s work for the first time through her eyes, but there wasn’t time.

  I found my sister in the tiny gallery bathroom, leaning over the toilet, throwing up.

  “Dad used to puke at shows, too,” she said between gags. “Even before he drank.”

  “Oh, Catherine.” I locked the door behind me. “I’m so sorry.”

  She finished vomiting and turned to me with sweat pouring down her face and a wild look in her eyes. I grabbed some paper towels and mopped her brow. I held her veil back and away from her face, but the white wimple that covered her head, neck, and ears made it impossible for her skin to breathe.

  “Screw it.” I dropped the veil. “Let’s get this off you.”

  Catherine didn’t protest as I pulled out the three straight pins securing her veil. Next I unfastened the white wimple and slipped it off of her head to reveal her thick, brown hair cut mercifully short. Catherine closed her eyes in apparent relief as the air reached her, but she looked far from peaceful.

  “Did you hear what they—”

  “Forget them.” I folded the veil and wimple in my hands the way I’d seen it done in the cloister laundry. “Sometimes people don’t think about what they’re saying.”

  “Is anything selling? Did this save the cloister?” She stood and cupped her hands to gulp water from the tap, swishing it around in her mouth and spitting it into the sink before sliding down the wall to sit on the floor again.

  “I believe it did.” I recalled the mesmerized young woman studying the Joan of Arc and hoped the show had saved a few souls as well. I checked outside the door. “Wait here while I see if Graciela can drive around back and sneak you out through the alley.”

  Catherine looked too tired to argue. Kicking off her shoes and resting her head on the wall, she smiled for the first time that night.

  “My job is done,” she murmured.

  As I nodded reassuringly at my sister, weak
and exposed as she huddled bareheaded and barefooted on the floor, I knew the task was far from over.

  • • •

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said when Graciela dropped us off at my car a few minutes later. I was grateful the press hadn’t noticed us. “Tell Trish I’ll call her tomorrow from Big Sur.”

  “You’re going back esta noche?” Graciela flicked cigarette ash onto the pavement outside her window. “Why tonight when you could stay in town and drive back in the morning?”

  “Catherine is anxious to get home and share the good news.” I looked to my pale but giddy sister, who nodded as she and the prioress climbed into my car.

  “As am I,” Mother Benedicta agreed with a grin that crinkled her eyes. “But only if you’re not too tired to drive, Dorie.”

  “I’m fine,” I reassured Mother. “I’m amped on adrenaline.”

  “How are you going to get your article done by deadline if you’re driving?” Graciela asked.

  “Oh, no.” I smacked my forehead with my hand. “I completely forgot.” I peered at Catherine curled up in the rear seat, already nodding off. “I’ll call it in on the way up.”

  “Like that would be safe.” Graciela didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.”

  Even though I had initially suggested to Phil that Graciela write the second series, I paused before accepting her offer to pinch hit. The piece about Catherine’s successful opening was arguably the most important one of them all and I wanted to be the one to write it. But Graciela was right. There was no way I could dictate a decent article and drive Mother and Catherine safely back to Big Sur at the same time. Could I hire them a driver?

  I looked in on Catherine again, now asleep in the back seat and knew the answer. Being ferried home by a stranger would freak my twin out, and she’d been spooked enough for one day.

  “That would be great,” I said to Graciela. “Do you think Phil will be okay with—”

  “El jefe will just have to deal.” Graciela tossed her cigarette onto the pavement.

  Crushing the cigarette under my shoe, I permitted myself a sigh of relief and then got into my car. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Be careful driving.” Graciela honked and drove off.

  “May I borrow your cell phone?” Mother checked the time on the car clock. “I’d like to call Sister Teresa before Grand Silence begins in three minutes.”

  “Sure.” I grabbed my phone, went to hit the speed dial button to the monastery and then paused and chuckled in disbelief.

  “Is something wrong, Dorie?” the prioress asked.

  “No. I just never thought I’d have a monastery on speed dial.” I remembered my promise to Matt, took a deep breath and turned to Mother Benedicta. “And I never thought I’d ask this, but now is as good a time as any. May I have an application to become a sister at the cloister?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t guarantee I’ll actually fill it out, so please don’t expect—”

  “I don’t. Your vocation is between you and God. I’m just the secretary handling the paperwork.”

  “Thanks.”

  I sat there smiling and cradling the phone for several seconds before Mother spoke again.

  “Can I make that call now?” she asked.

  “Oh right. Sorry.” I hit the monastery button and handed her the phone. “It’s ringing.”

  “Sister Teresa?” Mother said into the mouthpiece. “We should be back around three-thirty...Very well...See you then.”

  After the prioress hung up, we practiced our own Grand Silence in the car. Anxious to forget the implications of what I’d just asked for, I spent the time reviewing the events of the gallery opening. The show was every bit the success, yet every bit the mistake I had thought it would be. The paintings had saved the cloister, but at what price? Was God happy with the outcome? It seemed to me that the cloister should be saved simply as a house of worship, not as a nice home for an artist making important contributions. If only it worked that way.

  Then again, if others had been moved half as much as the young woman I’d seen responding to Joan of Arc, then perhaps the show served God’s purpose on a level beyond my understanding.

  At midnight, Catherine’s internal clock roused her and she recited the first Divine Office of Vigils with the prioress. I followed along with their prayers as best I could while I drove. When they finished, Catherine went straight back to sleep and our Grand Silence resumed.

  I pulled up to the monastery gate at 3:45 in the morning. As Sister Teresa opened the creaking gate, Mother Benedicta reached back and nudged Catherine awake. My sister rubbed her eyes and stirred.

  Emerging from the car to the soothing hum of cicadas, I looked up to find the entire community assembled in the garden awaiting news. Respecting that Grand Silence was still in effect, the sisters didn’t speak but looked to Mother for some sign of how the opening had gone. The prioress frowned and then smiled and gestured that they should ask the artist. Everyone turned to Catherine, who responded to their questioning expressions with thumbs up and happy tears in her eyes.

  Tears welled up in my own eyes as I watched the community erupt in silent celebration. Sister Teresa hugged Catherine, Sister Scholastica broke into a tuneless jig, and Mother Benedicta and several others fell to their knees in gratitude. Even Penguin the cat leapt into the air to swat at the flower petals that Sister Dominica threw like confetti.

  A few minutes later, the sisters went inside for another hour of sleep before they rose for Lauds. As I turned to walk to my guest quarters off the public courtyard, I saw the first news van labor up the bumpy cloister drive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  By the time I helped Sister Teresa open the monastery gate to the public at 5:30 a.m., ten television vans lined the driveway. Dazed reporters, photographers, and cameramen who must have traveled straight from the gallery tumbled out and roamed the parking lot. More vultures than usual hovered overhead.

  Enough rumpled journalists crowded into the pews of the public chapel to leave the regulars without seats for Lauds, Mass, and Terce. I stood in the back with the locals, who looked unsure of what to make of this sudden intrusion upon their home church. Despite Father Charles’ pithy one-word sermon, “Behave,” a murmur of discontent arose when Catherine failed to appear for the morning services. Several photographers stuck their lenses through the enclosure and took pictures of the sisters who were in attendance. None of the journalists left. They simply settled in to wait.

  As the nuns filed out after Terce, Mother gestured to me from behind the chapel grille.

  “It seems we’ve become quite popular,” the prioress said once I’d made my way through the stuffy public sanctuary and met her at the grille. “Can you stay a few more days to help us handle the press?”

  “I’m due back in the newsroom tomorrow, but I’m sure my editor will want continued coverage given these developments.” I heard stomachs rumble amid the unshaven and unfed journalists camped out in the pews behind me. “I can arrange to stay another week or so.”

  “Excellent. I’ll extend your access to the cloister. Meet me in the business office after breakfast.” Mother closed the wooden shutters and disappeared behind them.

  I downed a granola bar in my room and went to the office. There I found the prioress and Sister Dominica struggling to keep up with the faxes and emails pouring in while Sister Scholastica manned the telephone.

  “Time, Newsweek, The Atlantic Monthly and 60 Minutes all called requesting interviews,” Sister Scholastica said as the phone trilled again. “Is Sister Catherine willing to talk to them?”

  “I don’t want to snub the media, but I don’t want to overtax Catherine either.” Mother Benedicta turned to me. “What do you advise, Dorie?”

  “Tell them you’ll organize a press conference for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. That way, she can respond to all of them in one fell swoop. I’ll write up a statement for her to read. Where i
s she?”

  “Still napping.” Mother yawned, her own lack of sleep catching up with her. “I excused her from morning offices so she could rest. And I suggested that she participate in afternoon prayers from the infirmary window until things die down a little.”

  The infirmary window was a small opening set high along the back wall of the altar, originally designed to hold spotlights in the chapel’s prior incarnation as a theater. A sister too ill to leave her bed, or, in Catherine’s case, too popular to appear in church without disrupting services, could hear the chanted prayers through this window connecting the second-level sickroom with the vaulted chapel.

  “That makes sense,” I agreed. “Give her a break from the media until the press conference anyway.”

  “Here’s a fact sheet on the cloister that might help you write the press statement,” Mother said as she pulled a document from a drawer and handed it to me without letting the other sisters see it.

  “I’m not sure I really need...” I looked down at the document and realized that what the prioress had handed me wasn’t a fact sheet, but a cloister application. “Oh.”

  “You don’t have to use it.” Mother winked. “Just take it in case you need it.”

  “Thanks.” I reddened and shoved it into my pocket.

  Clanging out of key with the ringing telephone, the second bell pealed for the Divine Office of Sext. Sister Scholastica stopped mid-reach for the receiver, rose, and exited the room. Dominica and Benedicta also dropped their tasks and left with no regard for the jangling phone. It was nice to see some things hadn’t changed.

  • • •

  That afternoon, tourists began arriving in droves, their cars crunching up the already tenuous road. Those visitors who couldn’t fit into the packed chapel wandered the grounds, startling the wildlife. When the parking lot was full, they left their vehicles in the middle of the driveway, resulting in an angry blaring of horns every time someone trying to leave discovered the blocked exit. So much for silence.