Changing Habits

by Debbie Macomber

  “We just passed the convent,” she said, looking over her shoulder and watching the building disappear in the background.

  “I know,” he murmured as though it didn’t matter.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this.

  “You don’t trust me, Joanna?”

  She noticed the Sister was suspiciously absent. “Should I?” she asked.

  “That depends,” he said and pulled up to the drive-in window of a Dairy Queen. “I have a weakness for hot fudge now and then myself.”

  “Oh…” was all Joanna could manage to say. It’d been years and years since she’d indulged in anything so decadent, but that didn’t concern her nearly as much as the implication behind Tim Murray’s words.

  “So, what would you like?” he asked, studying her before placing his order. The teasing light was gone from his eyes.

  Joanna hesitated—and then asked for the largest hot fudge sundae they had. With whipped cream.

  By the time she returned to the convent, she was sure there was chocolate fudge smeared across her face. They’d sat in the parking lot and must have talked for an hour. As if she needed to convince him—and herself—she’d told him about her experiences as a nun and the peace she’d discovered in the religious life. He asked her a lot of questions and his interest seemed genuine. In the process, she’d succeeded in reassuring herself of her vocation, of her calling to work for God.

  When Joanna finally glanced at her watch, she felt immediate alarm. Arriving back at the convent this late was certainly going to raise eyebrows.

  Because of her tardiness, she had to rush to the chapel. If Sister Superior noticed when Joanna slipped into the pew with her fellow nuns, she didn’t indicate it in any way. Following chapel, they went in to dinner.

  Another space at the table was empty that night. Sister Julia was gone as if she’d vanished by some magician’s hand. No one needed an explanation. Sister Julia, like five others that year, had decided to leave the religious life. Joanna felt her absence profoundly. Had she pursued the possibilities she sensed with Tim, she might have found reasons to leave herself.

  That night she removed her simple habit, and tired though she was, knelt on the hard floor and reached for her rosary. Her mind drifted as she slid the beads through her fingers and recited the Our Father followed by ten Hail Marys. It took a determined effort to finish without falling asleep right there on the floor, with her head resting against the side of the mattress.

  When Joanna finally climbed between the cool, coarse sheets, she closed her eyes and almost instantly fell asleep.

  The first thing Joanna felt when Tim came to her in her dreams was that he shouldn’t be with her. But he refused to leave. He said he’d given careful thought to all her talk about being a nun and her reasons for staying in the convent, but frankly he wasn’t buying it.

  He told her she was just as attracted to him as he was to her. He sat next to her in his red Corvette, looking so intense and so handsome she couldn’t force herself to glance away.

  Then, because she knew he was right, she nodded. Yes, she was attracted to him, but— She wasn’t allowed to finish. With a small shout of triumph, Tim kissed her. Really kissed her.

  At first Joanna resisted, telling him such contact was strictly against the rules. But he wouldn’t listen, because they both knew how desperately she longed for his kisses.

  He tasted so good, just as she’d feared. It was everything she remembered and had missed so much. Again and again his mouth sought hers. Again and again she gave him all that she was, all the woman she longed to be.

  At some point he took off her clothes. Joanna was embarrassed that he’d see her nude. But when she saw the look of admiration and wonder in his eyes, she lowered her arms and stopped trying to conceal her body from him. How they’d ended up in bed together she couldn’t figure out. Everything seemed to be happening so fast; first they were in the Corvette and then they were in bed. Tim’s eyes had filled with love as he stared down at her.

  She smiled up at him and wove her fingers into his hair. She didn’t need to urge his mouth to hers; he released a small, soft moan as his lips met Joanna’s.

  He made slow, thoughtful love to her, revealing tenderness and care. It was so beautiful that she struggled to hold back the tears. Then he gently placed his arms around her and held her close.

  An alarm rang, so loud and piercing that Joanna panicked. Throwing him off her, she leaped out of bed and glanced wildly around, certain they were about to be discovered.

  It was then that Joanna realized she stood in the middle of her darkened cell in the convent of St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  She wasn’t in Dr. Tim Murray’s arms, but in the convent. The alarm that had so terrified her—announcing her sin to the entire world—was merely the bell calling her to pray.

  Joanna fell to her knees beside the bed, her eyes misting with guilt and regret. She was a nun and such dreams, such longings, were forbidden to her.

  And yet her body felt warm and she ached with the deep need to be loved, to be touched. To be treasured.

  26

  SISTER KATHLEEN

  “Oh, Sister,” Mrs. O’Malley said the moment Kathleen entered the rectory on Monday afternoon. “I’m glad I caught you. Father Doyle needs to speak to you right away.”

  The housekeeper’s face was drawn, her voice low and hoarse. Something must be very wrong.

  “What is it?” Kathleen asked.

  The older woman reached for a wadded handkerchief in her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “It would be best if Father Doyle told you himself. He went to the church to pray a few moments ago. He’s waiting for you there.”

  Her heart thundering with alarm, Kathleen hurried out the door and swiftly walked down the hill toward the large Catholic church. The sky was dark and leaden, and it felt cold enough for snow. It was early yet, mid-October, but in Minnesota winter sometimes arrived before Halloween.

  She hurried into the church, but her eyes didn’t adjust to the dim light for a moment or two. Gradually a lone figure took shape, kneeling at the railing in front of the altar, bent over, his head in his hands.

  It was Father Doyle and he appeared to be in some spiritual distress. Kathleen’s imagination went wild. Father Sanders was nowhere to be seen and she couldn’t help wondering if this problem involved the other priest.

  Tentatively Kathleen stepped toward Father Doyle, unsure if she should interrupt his prayers.

  He must have sensed her presence, because he raised his head and slowly turned to look her way. Kathleen saw such anguish in his eyes that she automatically stretched out her hands to him, in an overwhelming urge to comfort.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  Father Doyle took her fingers in his and together they moved to the front pew. They sat angled toward each other, so close their knees touched. The priest squeezed her hands and then released them. Kathleen placed them in her lap, missing the warmth and reassurance of his touch.

  “I’ve been transferred.”

  “Transferred?” Sister Kathleen couldn’t take it in. There had to be a mistake. “But why? Where?” She knew Father Doyle had gone to the bishop about Father Sanders and his drinking problem, but surely Bishop Schmidt wouldn’t send him away because of that. None of this made sense.

  Father Doyle nodded. “I’m afraid I’ve been ordered to leave.”

  The questions crowded her mind and she couldn’t get them out fast enough. “You went to Bishop Schmidt? You told him about Father Sanders? What did he say? How could he do this?” The lump in her throat thickened.

  Father Doyle seemed resigned to this news, whereas she had yet to deal with it. “I’ll try to answer your questions,” he said, and his eyes held a distant look. “I did speak privately to the bishop regarding Father Sanders.”

  “What did
he say?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head “Perhaps it would be best if I kept that to myself, but suffice it to say that I have failed Bishop Schmidt just as I’d feared.”

  “But how?” Surely the bishop understood that Father Doyle could do only so much on his own.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he whispered. “The last thing I want you to do is worry.”

  How could she not? Kathleen was deep in this mess. She was certain Sister Eloise knew of Father Sanders’s weakness for the bottle, but if her superior discovered that she and Father Doyle had covered for the priest, there was no telling what would happen.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sister,” Father Doyle said, “but I want to assure you I didn’t mention your name.”

  At this point Kathleen no longer cared. “How could the bishop do this?” she demanded, her raised voice echoing in the church.

  “There’s an emergency,” he said flatly, revealing no emotion. “Father Wood from Holy Family in Osseo has died suddenly and the parish is desperately in need of a priest.”

  “What about right here at St. Peter’s?” she asked. Surely the bishop wouldn’t leave the parish in the hands of an alcoholic priest, a priest who was more often drunk than sober?

  This all seemed so unfair. Father Doyle hadn’t gone running to the bishop to report on Father Sanders; in fact, he’d waited until the situation had reached crisis proportions, and prior to that, he’d done everything humanly possible to help the older priest. Father Doyle was well aware of his mission at St. Peter’s, but what did the bishop expect him to do? No one could protect Father Sanders forever.

  “A new priest has been assigned to St. Peter’s,” he told her.

  “Why didn’t Bishop Schmidt send the new priest to Holy Family? You belong here. I don’t want you to go.” She recognized that she was being selfish, but she didn’t know what she’d do without Father Doyle.

  From the anguish she read in the priest’s eyes, Kathleen knew he didn’t want to leave the parish, either.

  “Sister,” he said and he gripped her hands once again. “I want you to tell Father Sanders that you can no longer manage the books. Make up whatever excuse you want, but you must promise me you’ll disentangle yourself from this matter as quickly as possible.”

  She nodded. “What…what about Father Sanders?” she asked, her eyes pleading with him for answers she knew he didn’t have.

  He shook his head as though he had nothing more to tell her.

  This was so wrong! “He could injure or kill someone if he gets behind the wheel of a car,” she said urgently. “Not to mention the harm he might do himself.”

  The priest’s jaw tightened. “I have my orders and this parish is not my concern anymore.” He said those words as though he was repeating what he’d been told. “I’ve been given a new assignment.”

  “You can’t leave us,” she protested.

  “Sister Kathleen,” he cried. “I have no choice! Do you understand what I’m saying? I can’t do anything, and neither can you. It’s in the hands of Almighty God now.”

  “Oh, Father.” Kathleen blinked back tears. “I can’t believe this.” Mortified that the priest would see her weep, she covered her face.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. “So very sorry.”

  Kathleen was, too. After a moment she composed herself and raised her head. “When do you have to leave?” Surely the bishop would give Father Doyle a few days to put his affairs in order before forcing him to move to another town and another church.

  “Tonight.”

  “So soon?” She was aghast.

  “Holy Family…” He let the sentence dwindle into nothingness. He was obviously as aware as she that this new assignment was just an excuse to get him out of the picture and the sooner the better.

  “Who’ll be replacing you?” she asked.

  “Father Yates. Donald Yates.”

  Sister Kathleen had never heard of him. “Do you know Father Yates?”

  The priest nodded. He offered no assurances about the man, no words of advice.

  “What’s he like?” she asked, needing all the information she could get.

  “He taught me in the seminary,” Father Doyle said guardedly. Then he added, “I didn’t know he was serving as a parish priest. I…wouldn’t think it was his calling.”

  This was worse than she’d imagined. In all the time she’d worked with and known Father Doyle, she’d never heard him utter a disparaging word about anyone. His intimation that Father Yates wasn’t a suitable parish priest was the strongest warning he could have given her.

  She realized Father Yates was the reason he’d told her to find a way out of the bookkeeping task as quickly as possible. He was worried about what would happen to her. A chill raced up her back.

  “Why is Bishop Schmidt sending you away and not Father Sanders? Does he honestly believe this new priest will do any better than you did? I don’t—”

  He stopped her with a raised hand. “Father Yates is more…exacting.” He sighed. “I can’t delay leaving any longer,” he said and started to rise.

  “No, not yet!” She astonished herself with the demand. “Please,” she added softly. “Stay for just a few more minutes.”

  He nodded and sat back down.

  But now she didn’t know what to say and fought down the urge to weep. “Will I ever see you again?” she whispered. Father Doyle had become a friend. He was everything that was good about priests and the Church. His genuine love for God and his parishioners exemplified what the religious life should be.

  “I don’t know,” he told her. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

  Kathleen had said farewell to those she cared about before this, but she’d never experienced such a profound sense of loss as she did in that moment. “Is there anything I can do for you, Father?” she asked.

  After a few seconds, he said, “Pray for me, Sister.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Every day.”

  “I’ll pray for you, too.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He stood to leave and this time she didn’t stop him. As he walked away, she bowed her head in sorrow. The lump in her throat made it difficult to choke back tears.

  “Sister,” he said, his voice calm now and reassuring, as though he’d found peace within himself. “If there’s an audit or if Father Yates decides to check the books and you need me, then all you have to do is pick up the phone. Call me at Holy Family. Call me anytime you need my help. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled softly. “God be with you.”

  “And with you,” she returned. But it seemed that God had abandoned them both.

  27

  SISTER JOANNA

  Joanna didn’t see Dr. Murray again until Friday of the following week. Halloween skeletons decorated the nurses’ station, along with giant orange pumpkins. All the talk was of the upcoming presidential elections.

  Joanna passed Dr. Murray in the hall and kept her gaze averted. It was an obvious attempt to pretend she hadn’t seen him, which appeared to suit his purposes, too. Irrational though it might be, Joanna felt slighted. The least he could do was acknowledge her even if she chose to ignore him.

  It was all too apparent that Dr. Murray had taken her words to heart. God had called her into His service, she’d told him over and over. She knew now that she’d worked so hard to convince him because she feared what would happen if she admitted otherwise. It was chilling to realize how strongly she was attracted to him. The dream had made that completely clear—her subconscious at work, although her conscious mind tried to suppress the attraction. This flirtation had gone on long enough. For both their sakes it had to end. And yet…

  They’d walked past each other when Joanna heard him call her name. “Sister Joanna?”

  Despite her resolution to the contrary, relief rushed through her as she turned to face him. She was unable to hold
back her smile. “Hello, Dr. Murray,” she said, and wanted to kick herself for sounding as perky as a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. That wasn’t how she’d meant to sound. She’d hoped to appear sober and professional.

  If he noticed anything was amiss, he didn’t comment.

  “When was the last time you checked Mrs. Wilson’s blood pressure?”

  “I just did. I made my notations on the chart.” Her tone was perfect this time.

  “Good.” He nodded once, and without another word, continued down the corridor.

  So much for that, Joanna mused as she entered her next patient’s room. As far as the doctor was concerned, their outing had been time shared between friends. That was the way it should be. She was the one obsessing about it, the one who’d built it into this wildly romantic fiasco.

  “Did you hear the latest?” Lois Jenson asked Joanna at the end of her shift. Joanna was preparing to go off duty and head to the bus stop.

  “Hear what?” she asked. Lois took delight in passing on rumors, usually adding a comment or two of her own.

  “About Dr. Murray and Jenny Parkland. Jenny’s that sweet maternity nurse.”

  “They’re dating,” Joanna said casually. She hadn’t heard, but it wasn’t a guess. Somehow she knew—and understood. She was off-limits to Tim. He was right, of course. She was a nun; this was the life she’d chosen, the life she wanted.

  Lois seemed unaware of Joanna’s drifting thoughts. “Three nights this week.”

  Joanna returned her attention to the other woman.

  “Dr. Murray and Jenny,” Lois repeated. “They had three dates last week alone. They’re seeing each other every day now.”

  “That’s great,” Joanna said, forcing a smile. “It’s about time he made the rounds.”

  Lois laughed. “Cute, Sister, very cute. A little play on words there.”

  The joke was a pitiful attempt to disguise how the news had made her feel. But Joanna had no right to feel anything whatsoever regarding Dr. Murray. He was a handsome, eligible bachelor and she was as good as married. Her vows had been spoken and she was wedded to the Church, a bride of Christ.