The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (72 page)

By the time Gerry returned to the chapter house for her interview with Marian Abrams from
West,
to which Mother Ignatius had reluctantly given her approval, it was almost noon. As she made her way through the cloister garden, her thoughts turned to the reverend mother, who’d seemed unusually subdued these past few days. Was she finally slowing down? The woman was in her late eighties, after all, though the thought of her succumbing to age was as unimaginable as the mountains crumbling.

I ought to have a word with her just in case …

Gerry was the only person Mother Ignatius would consult—not in spiritual matters, of course, but about concerns that ranged from which shade of white to paint the chapel to whether or not they ought to invest in a new car—perhaps because Gerry was the only one who didn’t tremble in her presence. If she was ailing in some way, the reverend mother would tell her.

She was nearing the chapel when she spied Sister Agnes, her old friend and onetime novice mistress, kneeling with her trowel in the garden that had been her lifelong project—one that contained every plant and tree and bush mentioned in the Bible.

Gerry stopped to peer at a laminated plaque:

OLIVE

(Olea europaea)

And the dove came in … and lo,

in her mouth was an
olive
leaf

Genesis 8:11

“Come to help me with the spring planting, are you?”

Sister Agnes peered up at her from under the brim of a floppy straw hat, shading her eyes against the sunlight: a little cupcake of a woman without a square edge or angle. Though nearly as old as Mother Ignatius, she wore her years well.

“Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better,” Gerry answered with a sigh.

“Even God rested on the seventh day.” Sister Agnes’s apple cheeks shone as if polished, and a silvery wisp had escaped from under her wimple. “What is it you’re so busy rushing off to you can’t spare a moment to enjoy a bit of fresh air and sunshine?”

Gerry told her about Marian Abrams. “Heaven knows we could use some good publicity for a change.” She held back from adding,
After the ordeal with Sister Beatrice.

But Sister Agnes must have read her mind, for she settled back on her heels, making the sign of the cross. “The poor woman—I hope she’s found some comfort.”

Only Sister Agnes would be so forgiving of someone who’d taken two innocent lives and nearly a third— Sam’s. “I’m sure she has,” Gerry said, thinking that in the psychiatric hospital to which she’d been confined, Sister Beatrice had to be heavily medicated at least.

“I pray for her every day.”

Gerry knew what her former novice mistress was thinking—that no one was without sin. What would the other sisters think if they knew that Sister Agnes had been caught shoplifting in Delarosa’s a few months back? If it hadn’t been for Sam’s discretion in handling it, she might have spent some time behind bars as well. Though Gerry could hardly compare a weakness for pretty things to the homicidal acts of a madwoman.

“I’m just glad it’s behind us,” she said.

“Yes, though it’s certainly taken its toll. Our reverend mother doesn’t look at all well these days.”

So Sister Agnes had noticed it, too. “Has she said anything to you?”

The little nun shook her head. Crouched on her haunches, she looked like one of the wild hares Gerry often spotted early in the morning on her way to work, frozen amid the tall grass. “Do you think—?” Sister Agnes broke off, not daring to voice her fears. The threat of illness, especially Alzheimer’s, hung over the community’s mostly aged population like a pall.

Gerry saw the concern in her eyes, and knew she was thinking of poor old Sister Seraphina, clinging to life by a thread. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Sister Agnes rose to her full height—the top of her head barely reached past Gerry’s shoulder—and laid a hand on her arm. It was the size of a child’s but roughened from years of outdoor work. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If something
were
wrong.”

“You’d be the first to know,” Gerry assured her.

Sister Agnes caught up with her as she started down the path. She was carrying a basket from which a bunch of lavender poked, tied together with a piece of rough string. She caught Gerry’s glance and said, “It’s for Sister Seraphina. They’re saying she can’t hold on much longer, that she wouldn’t know her own mother from a hole in the wall, but I’m thinking she can’t be too far gone for a little breath of the outdoors.”

Gerry smiled. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“ ’Tis an awful pity.”

“Her being so sick?”

“No, not that—we all have to die sometime. It just seems a shame, that’s all, her being robbed of her thunder.” A reference, no doubt, to the numerous false alarms that would make Sister Seraphina’s death, when it came, seem anticlimactic.

They strolled past the chapel along the covered walkway lined with bas-reliefs—fourteen of them, one for every Station of the Cross. When they reached the path that led to the infirmary, Gerry paused to help herself to a sprig of lavender, holding it to her nose and breathing in its fragrant scent. She was about to put it back when Sister Agnes took it from her, tucking it in a buttonhole in Gerry’s sweater instead. “For luck.” Her eyes were the violet-blue of the lavender.

“Thanks.” A small gesture, but Gerry felt moved; it was as if Sister Agnes had read her mind. She glanced about before bending down to give Sister Agnes a quick peck on the cheek. Displays of affection were frowned on here and as the lone lay member of the community she had to be more careful than most.

Minutes later she was seated in the reverend mother’s office two doors down from hers. The window was open, letting in a mild breeze scented with jasmine—a reminder that spring was just around the corner. It was also the only indication that any time had passed since she’d last sat here. For as long as she’d been at Our Lady, the sturdy oak desk across from her had held the same ink-stained blotter and vintage metal fan propped on a volume of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica,
and the bookcase had been home to the same cracked leather spines. The plain wooden crucifix and faded tapestry—Mary kneeling before the Angel Gabriel—had hung on the walls since Mother Hortense’s time, the only things saving them from being utterly bare.

Mother Ignatius was seated in the chair behind her desk regarding Gerry somberly. “I hadn’t planned on saying anything until I knew for sure,” she said, her hands folded on the blotter in front of her. “Someone from the mother-house alerted me last week—I’m not saying who—but it wasn’t until a few hours ago that it was confirmed. Mother Edward called to let me know they’re sending someone—a Sister Clement—to do an evaluation. Based on her report, they may make some changes.”

“What kind of changes?” A stitch formed in Gerry’s belly.

“I can’t be sure”—she paused—”but I had the distinct feeling it has something to do with you.”

“Me?”

“Mother Edward seemed quite curious about you. She wanted to know what, if any, involvement you had with the community outside of Blessed Bee and what effect your, shall I say, secular, influence might have had on us.” She lifted a hand, holding it out as if to caution Gerry not to jump to any conclusions. “Maybe I’m reading too much into it. After what happened with Sister Beatrice we’re all a bit skittish.”

The stitch in Gerry’s belly tightened. “Are you saying I could be fired?”

“I’ve always been honest with you, Gerry, so I won’t mince words now: Yes, your job could be on the line.” She sighed. “If it’s any consolation, I have a feeling I may be next.” Her pale blue eyes shone with indignation—and perhaps a touch of resignation—in the alpine crag of her face.

Gerry felt her own indignation flare. “You?”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger.”

“Says who?”

“I’ll remember that next time I have trouble getting up off my knees in chapel.” The old woman’s mouth flattened into the faintest of smiles. “As for you, if I’d have thought she wouldn’t misinterpret it, I’d have told Mother Edward the truth—that you’re a breath of fresh air around here.”

“It sounds as if they think of me more as poison.” Gerry appreciated the reverend mother’s words of support, but she’d need more than that to keep from getting fired.

“We won’t know anything until Sister Clement does her report. Until then, I suggest you go about your business as usual.”

Business as usual—with this hanging over her head? “What should I tell Marian Abrams when she gets here—that the bees aren’t the only things to watch out for around here?”

“I wouldn’t advise it.” The reverend mother’s voice was stern.

“It’s not fair,” Gerry pushed on regardless. “They’re looking for a scapegoat, and who better than me?” She cast a rueful glance at her skirt, which ended demurely at her knees but nevertheless stuck out like a sore thumb around here.

Mother Ignatius sighed. “I wish it were as simple as that, but the truth is they have a point. Not about you in particular, but I don’t have to remind you that a spiritual community is like … well, like a chorus line.” She smiled at the analogy, one she would have used only with Gerry. “What happens to one affects us all.”

“ ‘Friendship of the world is enmity with God’?” Gerry quoted from James. “I’m not sure it’s as high-minded as that.”

She remembered her brother’s warning. Could this have something to do with Jim? What if he were secretly plotting to get rid of her? It was far-fetched, sure, but she wouldn’t put it past him. And with the influence he must yield in the archdiocese …

The thought was interrupted by Mother Ignatius saying forcefully, “If anyone’s motives are less than pure, we’ll get to the bottom of it, I can assure you.”

The brief silence that followed was disturbed only by the ticking of insects against the screen and the swish of a scrub brush down the hall. Gerry stood. “When is Sister Clement coming?”

“Monday. I trust you’ll make her feel welcome.” Mother Ignatius rose and stepped out from behind her desk, tall and spare in the dark serge habit that fell about her in folds, reminiscent of the flinty-eyed pioneer women in the sepia photos hanging in the museum downtown.

Gerry mustered a smile. “I’ll do my best.”

She floated to her feet and started for the door. All at once it sank in: She’d spent her entire adult life behind these walls. What would it be like without this place to come to every day? Without the garden to stroll through, and the sweet sound of voices joined in song? Without the hives and the honey house and Sister

Agnes? They might as well pack her off to be with Sister Beatrice.

Marian Abrams turned out to be a stylish middle-aged woman with dark shingled hair and an artfully made-up face. It was only a preliminary interview, but she’d come prepared: a briefcase containing a notepad and minirecorder, and a camera case holding a fancy Nikon. Gerry gave her a tour of the grounds, followed by tea in the visitors’ room, where she told the story of the origins of Blessed Bee.

“It all started back in the early thirties with Sister Benedicta,” she began. “She was sent here to recover from tuberculosis—it was felt she’d benefit from our dry climate. And at first she
did
get better.” Gerry smiled, relishing the tale as much as she had the storybooks she’d read to her children when they were little. “She was full of joy, always singing, always a kind word—but the most amazing thing about her was her way with animals. It was said that sparrows would alight on her shoulders and deer would eat from her hand. She could walk among bees and not be stung, even reach barehanded into a hollow tree trunk and pull out a honeycomb.

“Soon the nuns had all the honey they could use—honey that was rumored to have curative powers. Before long they were inundated with requests from the outside, and Sister Benedicta was put in charge of constructing an apiary. Within a few years Blessed Bee was being sold throughout the valley and beyond.” She paused, taking a sip of her honey-sweetened tea. “Then Sister Benedicta fell ill again.”

“Hold it!” Marian scrambled to pop another cassette into the recorder.

When the tape was whirring, Gerry went on. “She died shortly thereafter and was buried in the graveyard on the hill. I’ll have one of the sisters take you up there, if you’d like. It’s a bit of a hike.”

“Okay if I take pictures?”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.” She took another sip of tea. “Where were we? Yes, the burial. It was winter, the time when bees normally hibernate, but the most incredible thing happened: A swarm gathered on Sister Benedicta’s grave. Efforts to brush them off were useless. When the weather grew colder, they began to die off. The following spring, wildflowers grew up out of the husks of all those dead bees. Some of the nuns say that if you listen closely, you can still hear a faint hum in the air.”

“That’s quite a tale.” Marian smiled, clearly not believing a word of it. Her eyes shone with excitement nonetheless. She knew a story her readers would gobble up when she heard one. I’ll give this to our writer, if that’s all right with you.” She tapped the cassette with a long red fingernail. “She’ll be giving you a call sometime next week.”

“Good. We’ll set something up.” Anything to take her mind off Sister Clement’s impending stay.

They finished their tea, and she passed Marian on to Sister Carmela for a tour of the honey house and apiary. An hour later Marian was back in her office. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said, gripping Gerry’s hand. “This is terrific stuff—just what I was hoping for.”

Gerry ushered her to the door. “Call if you have any questions.”

Later that afternoon, on her way home, it occurred to her that she might not be around to answer them. Depending on Sister Clement’s findings, she could be out on her ass long before the
West
article appeared in print. She grew cold at the thought. Never mind her own needs, how would she feed her kids?

She thought about phoning Aubrey; it would be good just to hear his voice. She hadn’t seen him since the wedding—he’d left for Budapest the following day. It had been two weeks since then and she’d missed him more than she would have thought possible. It was for that very reason she hadn’t rushed to his side the day before yesterday when he returned. She needed to prove to herself she could get along fine without him.