Changing Habits (27 page)

“Tell me what happened.”

She started to sob. “I can't…”

“All right,” he said calmly. “Tell me this. Are you hurt?”

“I…I don't think so.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes!” she nearly shouted.

“Do you need a doctor?”

“I need a priest,” she cried.

There was a short pause and then he said, “I'm here.”

They talked nonstop for an hour, and when they'd finished Kathleen felt she had her soul back. The guilt was gone, but her heart ached and so did her body. Father Doyle suggested she swallow a couple of aspirin and try to sleep.

Kathleen took his advice and, to her amazement, fell quickly into a deep, undisturbed slumber. The phone woke her in the morning, and before she had time to consider that it might be Pete, she answered.

“How are you feeling?” It was Father Doyle.

She sat on one end of the sofa and brought her feet up while she tried to find an answer. “I don't know yet. I was in bed…I haven't had a chance to think.”

“Ah, so I woke you.” Apparently he found that amusing. “Turnabout is fair play.”

Kathleen smiled. “Thank you so much for talking to me last night. I didn't know where else to turn.”

“I'm glad I'm the one you called.”

She swept the long, tangled hair away from her face and sighed. “I did something very foolish. I learned a painful lesson because of it.”

“Yes, you did, but I don't want you berating yourself over this. What happened wasn't entirely your fault. In fact, it was more his than yours.”

“It doesn't matter whose fault it was.” To her, it didn't. What mattered was that she'd lost her virginity to a man who neither valued her nor appreciated what he'd stolen.

“There's something we didn't discuss last night that you need to do,” he said.

“What?”

“I want you to see a physician. This is important, Kathleen, so don't ignore me.”

He wanted her to tell a doctor what had happened. She
couldn't
do that. “I can't,” she whispered, half-tempted to weep. “I can't tell anyone else….”

“Don't worry—I've already made arrangements for you to see a physician friend of a friend. I talked to him and explained the situation. You won't need to say a word. I've taken care of everything.”

Kathleen was so grateful she didn't know how to thank him. “What would I do without you?” she asked.

“What are friends for?”

JOANNA BAIRD

“N
ixon's done it now,” Joanna said, sitting on the carpet, her back against the sofa and the phone to her ear. It was early November 1973 and she spoke to Tim every night. She could only guess what he was spending on long-distance charges as their conversations sometimes went on for two and three hours. Because of this, he'd had a second phone line installed in his home so they could talk for long periods of time without worrying that he might miss emergency calls.

“Do you seriously think Leon Jaworski is going to grant Nixon any political favors?”

“I don't know,” Joanna said, “but as far as I'm concerned that's what you get for voting Republican.” She didn't know his political allegiance for a fact, but she had her suspicions.

“You mean to say you voted for McGovern?”

“Darn right I did.”

“I don't believe it,” Tim cried. “The woman I want to marry is a Democrat.”

Joanna's hand tightened around the receiver. “What did you just say?”

“I can't believe you're a Democrat.”

“Not that, earlier.”

“Are your parents Democrats, too?”

Joanna sighed in frustration. “I don't know how my parents voted in the last election. I want to know what you meant when you said the woman you want to marry.”

“
Did
want to marry,” he said archly.

“Tim!”

He chuckled. “Okay, okay. You must've guessed by now that I haven't been calling you every night for the last five months because I like the sound of your voice.”

“I like the sound of
your
voice.” Every night she looked forward to hearing from him. In August, he'd flown out to spend a week with her, but that was all the time he could spare away from his practice. Those seven glorious days had gone by far too quickly.

“Well, okay, I do like the sound of your voice,” Tim said in low fervent tones. “But I like a lot more than that.” He paused and she held her breath. “You know I love you.”

“I love you, too.” So much that sometimes she could barely stand being apart from him.

“I've been waiting, Joanna, but I have to tell you I'm getting kind of impatient.”

“Waiting for what?”

“That letter from Rome,” he said, as if it should be obvious.

“I'm sure it'll be here soon.”

He muttered something under his breath.

“You can ask me, though.” She didn't need any letter; she knew her heart and had mentally separated herself from the religious life over a year ago. More than anything in the world, she longed to be married to Tim.

“Once you're free, I'll propose.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“That'll be my answer once you get around to proposing. Listen, perhaps you could talk to my father. He's…a little
old-fashioned and it would mean a lot to him if you'd discuss marrying his daughter with him first.”

“Are you always this bossy?” he asked.

She was annoyed that he'd called her bossy, because Joanna didn't see herself that way at all. “It was only a suggestion.”

“I've already talked to your father and your mother, too.”

“You have? When?”

“This summer when I was out there.”

“You didn't tell me! What did they say?”

“Oh, they seemed pretty pleased,” he said smugly. “But I may have to rethink my plans, since that was before I found out you voted for McGovern.”

“A Democrat didn't break into the Republican party headquarters, you know? A Democrat would never do anything as underhanded as that.”

His laugh echoed over the line. Joanna was smiling, too. She'd always enjoyed bantering with Tim, and as they'd grown more familiar with each other, their friendship had deepened.

“It's a good thing you live as far away as you do.”

“Why?” she teased. “Do you want to throttle me?”

“No, I'm dying to make love to you. I don't know how I'm going to keep my hands off you next week.”

Joanna was flying to Minneapolis for Thanksgiving and staying with his mother. “Your mom will make a wonderful chaperon.”

He grumbled some remark she couldn't quite catch—and probably wasn't intended to hear. “It's three months since I saw you. I know you were a nun, Joanna, but I was never a priest, and I'm telling you right now, it's damned difficult not to touch you….”

“Good.” She loved knowing she tempted him. What Tim probably didn't realize was how tempted she was, too. He knew she wasn't a virgin, but he'd accepted her decision that they should wait until they were married before they made
love. With Tim, she didn't want any regrets. When they said their vows, it would be because they were committed to each other for life. With that commitment came the God-given privilege of intimacy. Joanna had cheated herself once and refused to repeat that mistake.

“Good?” he repeated. “Do you
enjoy
torturing a man?”

“Only you.” She smiled at the way he grumbled, but she also knew that he respected and loved her enough to honor her wishes. “Before I forget, Mom told me this morning that Greg Markham's remarried.”

“So lover-boy is out of the picture.”

“He married a woman from the Philippines.”

Joanna had been somewhat taken aback. Greg had repeatedly complained about the problems in his marriage due to the differences between Xuan's culture and American attitudes. She'd never learned English properly and seemed to hate Greg for what she perceived as his lack of attention. Naturally, Joanna had only heard Greg's side, although she'd been reluctant to discuss the matter at all.

“I don't care if he married a space alien as long as he accepts that you don't want him in your life.”

“He's been out of my life for years. Are you going to be a jealous husband, Timothy Murray?”

“Very.”

“Well, I intend to be an extremely jealous wife. I only want you working with male nurses.”

“I'd like to work with you,” he said. “The hospital still hasn't found a nurse who's even come close to replacing you.”

“You certainly know how to flatter a girl.”

“I try,” he said with mock shyness.

That was the way most of their conversations went.

On Tuesday afternoon the following week, two days before Thanksgiving, Joanna's flight arrived in Minneapolis. It was the first time she'd been back since she'd left the convent.

Tim was waiting for her inside the terminal. She was so eager for the sight of him that she felt she might break into tears when she finally saw him. Wearing a dark overcoat and clutching a bouquet of roses, he made his way through the crowd.

They walked toward each other and when she was close, Tim took her in his arms, crushing the roses against her. And if she hadn't known it before, she knew it now: He needed her in his life with the same intensity that she needed him.

She'd never approved of public displays of affection but she couldn't wait a second longer for him to kiss her. He half-lifted her and the flowers fell to the floor as his mouth descended on hers.

“Timothy. Timothy.”

His name seemed to come from far away. So far that Joanna almost didn't hear it.

“In a moment, Mother,” he said.

Tim had brought his mother to the airport? Oh, great! They'd never met, and Joanna was nervous about this first encounter. Tim knew that.

Slowly he released her. With his arm still around her, he turned to the woman in the long wool coat and 1960s-style pillbox hat with matching purse. “Mother, this is Joanna Baird. Joanna, my mother, Alice Murray.”

Joanna felt the other woman's perusal of her. “You're the nun.”

“Former nun,” she said.

Tim's arm tightened around her waist. “The letter arrived?”

She smiled up at him and nodded.

“We're getting married!”

Joanna gave him a puzzled glance. “Yes, I know.”

“I mean now. Tomorrow, if it can be arranged.”

“Timothy,” his mother protested.

“Tim.” Joanna had a few objections of her own. “I intend to marry only once and I want a real wedding.”

His scowl was fierce. “I hope you can pull it together in a month because that's all the time I'm giving you.”

Joanna met his mother's gaze and she noticed her smile. “Can we do it?” she asked Mrs. Murray.

His mother laughed. “I don't think we have any choice. My son took a long time to choose his bride and it wouldn't be a good idea to keep him waiting.”

Joanna was in full agreement.

KATHLEEN O'SHAUGHNESSY

L
uckily St. Joseph's Parochial School was within walking distance of Kathleen's tiny apartment. With the gasoline shortage and the long lines at service stations all across America—not to mention the discrepancy between her salary and the cost of living—it would be a lifetime before she could even dream of purchasing her own car.

Walking into the apartment complex, Kathleen stopped to bring Mrs. Mastel her newspaper and mail. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked the eighty-year-old widow.

“Not a thing,” the woman told her. “Be sure and pet Seymour on your way out.”

“I always do,” Kathleen told her. Seymour was the ghost cat who'd died five years earlier and, according to Mrs. Mastel, had joyfully returned to her in spirit form. Kathleen had managed to convince her elderly friend that it wasn't necessary to feed the cat or keep his water dish filled, since he didn't exist as a corporeal entity. Spirits didn't eat or drink, she'd explained gently. The woman's married son had phoned to thank Kathleen. Apparently she was the only person who'd been able to convince his mother that she didn't need to buy cat food anymore—and the smell of rancid tuna no longer pervaded her apartment.

“Oh, dear, it looks like I have one of your letters,” Mrs. Mastel said just as Kathleen was heading out the door.

The woman studied the envelope. “It looks important, too.” She handed the letter to Kathleen, who thanked her and quietly left.

As she walked upstairs, Kathleen glanced at the return address, and her heart started to pound. Entering her own apartment on the fifth floor, she set her purse and newspaper on the kitchen counter, then examined the envelope a second time. It was the one she'd been waiting for all these months. Her exemption from Rome. A deluge of emotions overwhelmed her and for a moment she could hardly breathe.

After the degrading episode with Pete, she'd felt serious doubts about her decision to leave. Life inside the convent was safe. Protected. It'd taken several long conversations—not with her counselor, but with Father Doyle—before she'd finally made up her mind. In the end, she'd followed through with her original intention and applied to Rome to be released from her vows.

As she sorted through the mail, Kathleen set the bills to one side and found a second, smaller envelope. This one contained a letter, too, and as soon as she saw who it was from, she tore it open. Father Doyle wrote only on rare occasions. Since the incident that summer, he'd made an effort to keep in touch with her as her spiritual advisor. Kathleen was grateful.

He wasn't much of a letter-writer, and she knew that maintaining contact with her must be a chore. Several times she'd been on the verge of telling him it wasn't necessary to write. She couldn't make herself do it; she enjoyed his letters too much. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but in the overall scheme of things, that seemed a comparatively small sin.

She read over the few paragraphs, savoring each word, and then smiling to herself, refolded the single sheet and
returned it to the envelope. The letter from Rome remained unopened. Kathleen knew what it said. Her request had been granted.

The phone rang, startling her. Phone calls were infrequent, since she knew so few people and was only now beginning to make friends, outside of other former nuns. Like her, they tended not to use the phone very often. “Hello?”

“It's Sean,” her brother said.

Loren was generally the one who phoned, and it was unusual to hear from him. “What can I do for you, big brother?”

He hesitated. “I'm calling to ask a favor. Loren and I are having a bit of a disagreement, so I'm phoning myself.”

“What's the favor?”

“I have this friend. Now listen, it isn't like it sounds.”

Kathleen didn't have any idea what it was supposed to sound like.

“I want you to meet him,” Sean said. “His name's John. John Lopez. His wife died two years ago, and he's got a couple of kids. I think you'd make him a good wife.”

“Wife,” Kathleen repeated, laughing. She hadn't even
met
the man and already her brother had the two of them married. He certainly seemed to be leaping ahead. But then, Kathleen knew he was worried about her living alone, even though she'd never told him about Pete. She loved him for his care and concern.

“Well, why not? You want to get married, don't you?”

“Yes, one day. But I'd prefer to choose my own husband and in my own time.”

“I'm not saying you have to marry him,” Sean insisted, although he clearly had hopes in that direction. “John's a good man and he's had more than his share of bad breaks.” He paused and Kathleen heard Loren's raised voice in the background. Obviously her brother and sister-in-law were continuing their argument.

“Will you meet him?” Sean asked. “I'm not asking you to do anything but meet him.”

“Okay. I'm willing to do that.”

“Just… Kathleen, listen. If you aren't interested in him, don't lead him on, all right?”

“You have my word.”

A dinner date was set up for the following night. Kathleen was to walk down to a fish-and-chips place on the Seattle waterfront. John would meet her there. Sean had told her to tie her hair back with a pink ribbon, so John would know it was her. She figured he'd recognize her because she looked like Sean, but she didn't waste time arguing, since her brother already had everything worked out.

The next evening, Kathleen went to a well-known fish-and-chips stand and watched as a solidly built man with blunt features stepped away from the building. “Are you Kathleen?” he asked.

“You must be John.”

“I am.” As if he wasn't sure what to do, he thrust out his hand.

Kathleen shook it and noticed his handshake was pleasantly firm—neither crushing nor limp. That was a good indication of a man's character, her uncle had always said. “It's nice to meet you,” she murmured.

“You, too.” He gestured to the inside seating and a large menu posted there. “Would you like to order?”

“Yes, please.”

Once they'd decided, John went up to the counter to place their order, then waited to carry it back to the table. While he stood there, Kathleen had an opportunity to study her brother's friend. He seemed nervous and a bit uncomfortable. She understood that; it was how she felt herself. After Pete, she'd socialized some but always in a group. This was the first time she'd been alone with a man since the musi
cian. She trusted her brother, and if he'd set it up, she could be assured of John's decency—and her own safety.

John returned with two cardboard containers of deep-fried fish and salty French fries, plus a small container of coleslaw. They sat across from each other at a red picnic table.

“Sean tells me you're a teacher,” he said.

Kathleen licked the salt off her fingers. “Fifth grade. He told me you're a widower.”

He nodded. “My wife died in September a couple of years ago. She had breast cancer.”

“I'm sorry.”

He reached into his wallet and pulled out two pictures. “These are our kids,” he said, turning the bent photographs to face her. He pointed at the petite blonde smiling into the camera, holding two small children in her lap. “That's Patty a month before she was diagnosed.” Next he pointed at the boy. “That's Steve. He was four then, but he's seven now, and Chelsea. She was two in this photo, but she's just turned five.” The second picture was a more recent photograph of the children.

“They're beautiful,” Kathleen said.

He stared down at the photographs. “They miss their mother.”

“You miss her, too, don't you?”

He looked up as if she'd surprised him with the question. “More than words can say.” He replaced the photographs and she noticed that his hand shook slightly.

Kathleen sprinkled vinegar over her fish.

“Patty liked vinegar on her fish, too.”

She wasn't sure his comment warranted a response.

“Is there anything you want to know about me?” he asked.

Picking up a French fry, Kathleen paused. “This isn't an interview, John. Why don't we just have dinner and talk?”

“All right,” he agreed and seemed to relax. “That would
be good, except I have to leave in forty minutes. I don't like to leave the kids at night. Anyway, the neighbor lady said she could only stay until seven-thirty.”

“That's not a problem.”

“Would you like to meet my kids?”

“Perhaps later,” Kathleen said. “I think it would be best if you and I got to know each other first. I wouldn't want the children to get close to me too soon, in case the two of us decided…you know.”

“That we aren't compatible.”

“Right,” she confirmed.

“Good idea. I hadn't thought of that.”

“Have you dated often since losing Patty?”

He shook his head. “No. You're the first.”

She could've guessed that.

“You like kids, don't you?” he asked.

“Very much.”

“Good,” he said, sounding relieved. “You're Catholic, right?”

“John, you're interviewing me. I'm not applying for any position here.”

“Right, right. Sorry.”

“Relax, okay? I'm about the least scary woman you're likely to meet.”

He grinned. “I don't know about that.” He reached for a piece of fish, took a bite and then glanced up at her. “I like you, Kathleen. Thanks for putting me at ease.”

She helped herself to another French fry. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

They smiled at each other. John Lopez was a good, decent man, just as her brother had said. And even if it turned out that marriage wasn't a possibility, friendship was.