If she cooks as well as she rings, Mary Helen thought ruefully, she wouldn’t be cooking here!
Although each building was separate, they all seemed to be connected by the sundeck. At least the main ones did. Felicita paused long enough to give them a taste of the panorama.
Drawing in a deep, woodsy breath, Mary Helen gazed out across a valley of redwoods, beyond the gorge to where ridge after ridge of the Coast Range rolled purple in the distance.
A hot sun falling just below the treetops on its slow descent into the Pacific, created a tranquil sky full of lavender and pink. Directly below the sundeck, long blue shadows stretched like fingers over the lawn and drew dark stripes across a sparkling swimming pool. An evening silence covered St. Colette’s Retreat House. The heavens were declaring the glory of God. Mary Helen stood rapt in the beauty until the raucous call of a jay perched on the deck rail broke the spell. Apparently he had heard the dinner bell, too.
“Right this way.” Felicita, plainly used to being immersed in all this loveliness, seemed anxious to get to the dining room. “We call it St. Jude’s,” she said, swinging back the heavy door. “He’s the patron saint of desperate and impossible cases, as you know.”
Eileen shot Mary Helen a warning look. Mary Helen stared back innocently. She had no intention of asking if its name had any connection to the food served, if that was what was worrying Eileen. After all, Mary Helen realized full well that, as hard as Felicita was trying to be hospitable, they were at best uninvited guests.
“When we first began this building, it seemed an impossible feat, so we prayed to St. Jude and—see!”
The two visitors looked around. St. Jude had outdone himself. The dining room was airy and spacious with walls of windows letting in the breathtaking view. Twelve, or maybe fifteen, brown Formica-topped tables were positioned around the room. Each had place settings and orange vinyl chairs for eight. Cylinder-shaped lights hung from the ceiling in groups of three.
“Looks as if a couple of the boys are already here,” Felicita whispered.
Sister Mary Helen followed her glance toward the table in the far corner. The “boys,” who were seated and sipping what appeared to be red wine, were two grown men in sport shirts and black slacks.
Mary Helen never understood why priests in “civvies” neglected to change their trousers. Black pants were such a telltale.
“Ah, Sisters, join us.” One of the priests, the older of the two, rose and pulled out a chair.
Although Mary Helen did not really know him personally, she recognized him as Monsignor Cornelius McHugh, pastor emeritus of St. Patrick’s Church in downtown San Francisco. The monsignor was a senior statesman of sorts, confidant of archbishops past and present. With his regal posture and a full mane of hair the color of winter wheat, his picture at ground-breakings and other official affairs appeared frequently in the San Francisco Catholic.
“I’m Father Con McHugh,” he said unnecessarily. “And this bright-looking fellow is Father Ed Moreno.”
Moreno scrambled up from his chair.
“These two Sisters—” Felicita began the introduction, but Con McHugh interrupted.
“Anyone who reads the Chronicle knows who these two are. As a matter of fact, when we saw you come in, Ed said, ‘I hope we’re going to be safe.’ Didn’t you, Ed?”
“You’re full of it, old man.” With a hearty laugh, Ed Moreno shook hands with Eileen, then turned to Mary Helen. She was surprised that the short, wiry fellow had such broad shoulders, big hands, and an almost painfully strong grip. He must lift weights or squeeze clamps or something, she thought.
They had just settled down at the table when the kitchen door was flung open. A large woman in a grease-spattered apron stood there, grim-faced. Her hair, pushed unconvincingly into a net, lay on top of her head like an untidy haystack.
“Are they all here yet?” she asked. Her impatient eyes strafed the room for hidden diners.
“They are on their way, I’m sure.” Felicita looked toward the monsignor.
“Just give us five minutes, Beverly,” he said with the ease of one used to being in charge. “Then, ready or not, here you come.”
Without a word or even a change of expression, the woman disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving the door swinging in her wake.
“I see Heavy Bevy is her usual happy self.” Ed Moreno lifted the wine bottle from the floor beside his chair. He filled three more glasses.
“Drink up.” Con McHugh pushed a glass toward each of the nuns. “From the looks of things, we might need it.”
Mary Helen was not surprised to see Felicita take the first sip. From the tense expression on her face, she needed it. “Salute,” Felicita said after the fact.
“Ed, here, works at Juvenile Hall in the city,” the monsignor began. Before he went any further, the door to St. Jude’s opened and three more men in sport shirts and black slacks sauntered into the large room.
“Get over here, you guys, before Heavy Bevy and her cleaver arrive,” Ed called.
Felicita’s cheeks blazed. “Shh, Father! What if she hears you?”
“I’ll pretend Tom said it.” Ed pointed to a tall, curly-haired priest with a crooked grin.
Mary Helen recognized Father Thomas Harrington, the articulate and much televised director of the Archdiocesan Communications Center. “Happy Harrington,” he was called because of his easy grin.
“That man could charm honey from the bees,” old Sister Donata said whenever she saw him on television.
And how will he fare with Beverly? Mary Helen wondered crazily while the monsignor made the formal introductions.
“This is Father Andrew Carr.” He nodded toward a balding priest with a scruffy graying beard.
“We call him ‘Handy Andy.’ ” Apparently Ed Moreno had a nickname for everybody.
“Why is that?” Eileen took the bait.
A flicker of annoyance shadowed the monsignor’s face. Obviously he did not like to be interrupted. “Because he’s always handy when the archbishop has a chaplaincy to dole out,” he said. “Andy is now chaplain to the Police Department, the Fire Department, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Knights of Malta, and the whole Port of San Francisco.”
“The guy is so busy he doesn’t have time to shave,” Ed Moreno quipped.
Ignoring him, Andy smiled at the nuns. “Jealousy is a sad thing, especially in a clergyman,” he said.
“Last, and definitely least,” the monsignor said, winking, “may I introduce you to Father Michael Denski.”
A red flush began at Father Denski’s jaw and spread quickly up his cheeks to his too-long sideburns.
“Father Denski is newly ordained. Right, Mike?”
With his smooth, unwrinkled face and wide, almost topaz-blue eyes, he reminded Mary Helen more of an altar boy than of a priest. How new? she wanted to ask. Again, Con McHugh supplied the information.
“It will be two years next week. Right, Mike?”
Father Denski nodded.
“Where are you stationed, Father?” Eileen asked kindly.
“He’s got one of those cushy suburban jobs as associate pastor at St. Dunstan’s in Millbrae,” Moreno answered for him.
“Dunstan’s a fine Irish saint.” Eileen filled the tense silence that followed. “Nobly born, he became a monk and went on to reestablish monasteries, counsel kings, advise popes, teach at Canterbury. Besides that he was a noted musician and metalworker. And he illustrated manuscripts.”
“How long did he live?” Mike Denski asked in amazement. It was the first time he’d spoken.
“If I remember correctly, he died at about seventy-eight,” Eileen said, astonishing everyone but Mary Helen with her memory for trivia.
“You better get busy, Con,” Ed Moreno teased.
Before anyone else could comment on Eileen’s brief hagiography, a stainless-steel serving cart hit open the kitchen door. Beverly, her plain face red and damp with perspiration, launched it toward them like a guided miss
ile.
With an angry thud, she flung down platters of beef stew, plates of steaming corn bread, and a tub of butter.
“If you want dessert, it’s here.” She pointed to the bottom of the cart, where individual Pyrex dishes full of lemon cup pudding steamed like a row of six-ounce volcanos. “Coffee’s in the kitchen. And I’m done for today.”
“Thank you, Beverly. This smells and looks delicious,” Felicita said politely. “We’ll see you then, tomorrow.”
“I hope so,” Beverly said ominously, leaving Mary Helen wondering if the cook was not coming or if she expected one of them to be missing.
Suddenly the loud, insistent barking of the German shepherds filled the room. “She’s gone out to feed Rin and Tin-Tin, the two dogs,” Felicita shouted over the din. “The noise won’t last long.”
As Felicita predicted, the uproar stopped as unexpectedly as it began. “Beverly really loves those dogs,” she said apologetically.
In the distance Beverly’s car door slammed. Everyone, especially Felicita, visibly relaxed. Like London after the Blitz, Mary Helen thought, watching the plates and platters being passed.
Although the cook’s attitude had been unpalatable, her stew and corn bread turned out to be delicious. The priests and Sisters ate leisurely, enjoying good humor and good conversation.
Tom Harrington, quoting Benjamin Franklin, Mary Helen thought, announced a little thickly, “Wine is a constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy,” and refilled the wineglasses.
While they talked, a slim girl with a nervous face and auburn hair done up in a French braid walked in and out, quickly gathering up the dishes. Felicita introduced her as Laura Purcell.
Long after Laura’s last trip, the group continued to talk about their ministries, about the people they knew in common, about new trends in theology, world affairs, and the latest doings of San Francisco’s rather autocratic archbishop, Norman Wright, whom Ed Moreno irreverently called “Absolute Norm.”
The kitchen was quiet and the sky was filling with stars when Mary Helen, no longer able to stifle it, yawned.
“You’re tired,” Felicita said—too quickly. Obviously she was waiting for any excuse to call it a night. She looked relieved when Mary Helen admitted that she was.
While the priests talked on, the three nuns excused themselves.
“Sorry you’re leaving us,” Con McHugh said with a gracious nod. He sounded as if he really meant it.
Outside the sky was navy blue velvet pierced with stars that looked close enough to touch. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as Felicita led them across the deserted parking lot toward the dormitory buildings. “Be careful out here,” she cautioned, “it’s easy to turn your foot on a fallen acorn or a loose stone.”
Slowly the three nuns moved across the dimly lit pavement. The German shepherds, like sentries, flanked them on either side, panting as if they’d just finished a long run.
The stillness surrounding them was so profound that Mary Helen heard a single pinecone fall to the ground. From somewhere a screech owl trilled and, as though on cue, thousands of crickets began wildly rubbing their tiny legs together.
“Is it always this peaceful?” Eileen asked, sucking in the cool night air.
As if in answer, a door slammed and someone ran across the parking lot. The dogs, alert, began to bark.
“Oh, shut up!” an angry voice shouted.
“Laura?” Felicita recognized it. “Is that you, dear?”
“Yes, Sister. It’s me.” The young woman stopped beneath one of the parking lot lights and waited for the nuns to reach her.
“I was in St. Agnes’ Hall using the bathroom,” Laura offered, although Felicita hadn’t asked. Her thin face was still pink, and soggy. From recent tears, Mary Helen conjectured. A sprinkle of freckles stood out on her red nose. Straggly pieces of auburn hair, escapees from her French braid, hung in her face.
Sister Mary Helen hardly recognized her as the same quiet, intelligent-looking girl who had removed the dinner dishes. Laura looked as if she’d fought a decisive battle.
“What in the world are you doing here so late? I thought surely you’d have gone by now,” Felicita said. “You must be exhausted.”
Laura gave no indication that she had heard Felicita. “I have something to say to you, Sister.”
“Yes, dear?” Sister Felicita blinked nervously. From Laura’s tone of voice one knew that what she intended to say was not good.
Instinctively, Mary Helen and Eileen stepped back to give Felicita a little privacy.
Laura’s green eyes were as hard as glass. “I quit!” she said, and with a stiff arm, pushed her folded apron into Felicita’s unsuspecting hands.
Poor Felicita reeled back as if she’d been struck. “You quit? Oh, no, Laura. Why?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why, Sister. I cannot . . . no, I will not, take one more moment of Beverly.” Unexpectedly, she exploded like a boiler into furious sobs.
“There, there, dear.” Felicita led the girl toward a wooden bench. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry, Sister,” Laura hiccuped, “but I am so mad I can’t stop crying. She’s awful. She’s just plain mean. Tonight, she used every pot, pan, and skillet in the whole place on purpose. I’ve been here, Sister, three months now, and I really need the job. I’ve tried, but I just can’t take her.
“Nothing I do is ever right, no matter how hard I try. When she is nice, it’s worse. It scares me, like she wants something from me.” Laura shuddered and Felicita put her arm around the thin, rigid shoulders.
“When Greg came to pick me up, she told him to come back in two hours. She knows my car is dead and that he was going to pick me up for the show.” Laura’s green eyes blazed. “She makes me so mad, I could clobber her with one of her precious pots.”
“Who is Greg?” Felicita asked, obviously trying to distract her.
“My boyfriend. Actually, he is—almost—my fiancé.”
For the first time, Felicita seemed to remember Mary Helen and Eileen, who were standing a little apart. “Why don’t you Sisters wait for me in St. Agnes’?”—she nodded toward the far redwood building with an alpine roof—“until Laura and I get this settled.”
“It is settled,” Laura said, her lips set in a thin line.
Before Felicita could protest or the other two nuns could move, tires screeched and a pair of headlights swept across the parking lot.
The dogs pitched forward, barking and nipping at the wheels of a sporty white Camaro. When the driver switched off the motor, they seemed to lose interest and, with a perfunctory bark or two, went chasing after another supposed intruder in the underbrush.
“It’s Greg,” Laura said, standing up and smoothing her hair from her face. She forced a smile.
The door swung open and a broad-shouldered young man unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. Although it was difficult to tell much in the dim light, Mary Helen thought him good-looking in a blond, sun-bleached, surfer sort of way.
“Are you okay, Laura?” he asked.
Quickly, Laura went to him, buried her face in his leather bomber jacket, and began to sob again.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked. “Are you hurt or something?”
“Hurt?” She pulled herself away. “I am not hurt. I am furious. I am so mad I could scream.”
“Sounds like you are,” Greg teased.
“This is not funny, Greg,” she said, although the anger was already seeping out of her tone.
“Beverly again?” he asked.
“Again! Still! Always! But I’m not taking it anymore, Greg. No matter how much we need the money, I quit!” Laura nuzzled her face back into the front of Greg’s leather jacket.
Felicita groaned.
Greg enveloped Laura with his arms, pressed his chin onto the top of her head, and smiled helplessly at Felicita. “She ain’t a redhead for nothing, Sister,” he said.
The door of St. Jude’s opened and a beacon of l
ight spread across the parking lot. “I thought the priests’ retreat started tomorrow,” Greg said, staring at the laughing clerics framed in the doorway.
“A couple came early,” Laura muttered, without ever moving her face from his chest. “That’s what started all the trouble, I think.”
Ed Moreno raised his hand in a wave and the group strolled across the blacktop.
“Let’s go,” Greg said quickly, “or we’ll miss the last show.”
“Maybe tomorrow, when Laura calms down, she and I can talk,” Felicita appealed to Greg.
“I’m sorry, Sister.” Laura’s back stiffened. “I have had it.”
With a stiff plastic smile, Felicita watched the car disappear over the hill and the five priests disappear into their building before she sank down on the bench. “She’s had it?” Felicita sighed. One tear ran down her soft, round cheek and splashed onto her scapular. “What about me?”
A distinctive buzz reminded Mary Helen that, sitting on the bench, they were nothing more than the entree for the mosquitoes’ main meal. “Is there someplace inside we can sit?” she asked.
“There’s a small kitchenette in St. Philomena’s Hall.” Felicita removed her rimless glasses and dabbed her eyes with her snowy white handkerchief. She pointed to the nearest dormitory building.
“St. Philomena? Didn’t the Church declare her persona non grata?” Mary Helen asked, more to distract Felicita than anything else.
“Don’t tell her.” Felicita nodded toward a statue of the saint illumined by one of the overhead lights. Philomena, dressed in her native toga, held a palm frond in her stone hand as a symbol of her martyrdom. “She’s the one we prayed to for Beverly.”
“Be careful what you pray for.” Mary Helen smiled, paraphrasing the old Chinese proverb. “You just may get it!”
Over steaming cups of herbal tea, Felicita spilled out the whole story. “For years we had nothing but trouble finding a decent cook. We were desperate. Then Beverly came along. She had excellent recommendations. And lives not far away, over in the Bonny Doon area.” She shrugged. “And so we didn’t hesitate when she asked for a two-year signed contract. Actually, we were delighted.
“ ‘How long can a two-year contract be?’ I asked Mother Superior at the time.” Felicita scowled at her own foolishness. “Now I know!
Death Goes on Retreat Page 2
