Griffin cocked his head and grinned. “Not sure if I have that much clout with the Almighty, but I can ask for sure. That good enough?”
Maggie thought for a moment and agreed.
Three games later Griffin was declared the champion and Maggie grudgingly handed over her share of the cookies.
“I’ll still ask for your miracle,” Griffin offered generously around a mouthful of gingersnaps. He offered her a cookie from his now sizable pile. “Want to tell me exactly what you’re hoping for, though I’m betting I can guess?”
Maggie opened her mouth to tell him that in fact they needed two miracles, but caught sight of Jonah watching them, close enough to hear her reply.
“Some other time,” she said, inclining her head slightly toward the children.
Griffin caught her meaning and nodded. “Well, anytime you want to tell me, I’ll be happy to keep my end of the bargain.”
“Thanks.” Maggie wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to tell the priest about the debt anyway. At the end of the day, what could he do? Quote another dead mystic? Tell her that even this would turn out okay? She thought of Daniel paddling out in the kayak, intent on not returning, of Lena lying in the hospital far away, of the huge amount of money they had to come up with if they were to keep the island house. They needed far more than simple optimism or offhanded petitions won by croquet matches. They needed a genuine miracle. Problem was, Maggie had no idea how to find one.
Two days later Maggie returned from yet another fruitless visit to the hospital. Lena remained unresponsive, and every day Maggie’s hope dimmed just a little more. She paid the taxi driver and had him drop her at the mouth of the driveway, giving herself a precious few seconds of solitude before she went into the house with its bustle and energy, the smell of something good bubbling on the stove, the barrage of words from the children.
She trudged up to the house, giving in for a brief moment to the overwhelming sensation of frustration and despair. She would do anything to help Lena, but the truth of the matter was that she was doing all that could be done—taking care of the children, keeping Lena’s world running as well as possible while her life hung in the balance. Lena’s fate would be determined by something entirely out of any of their control. It seemed as though they could do so little.
Maggie spotted Griffin’s black motorcycle parked by the door for the second time that week. She sighed. She didn’t feel up to a visit from Father Griffin, not now, not when her spirits were so low. Her initial wariness about him was softening, but he could still rub her the wrong way with his optimism, his perceptive gaze that saw more than she wanted to share. Perhaps she could sneak upstairs if he was occupied with the kids.
As she walked up to the house, Griffin appeared, backing out of the mudroom door, talking to Ellen, who nodded at his every word. It was clear she thought Father Griffin Carter hung the moon. Maggie straightened her shoulders and forced a polite smile as she approached.
“So you’ll talk with Maggie about letting the kids come?” he said to Ellen. He turned and caught sight of Maggie behind him.
“Maggie, we were just talking about you.” He gave Ellen a cheerful wave. “No worries, I’ll ask her myself.” He latched the screen door, and Ellen disappeared back into the house. Maggie waited, expecting him to ply her with whatever request he’d come to make. He approached her, opened his mouth, but then stopped. He studied her for a long moment. “Ellen said you were at the hospital,” he said gently.
Maggie nodded. “No change.” She couldn’t keep the tinge of bitterness from her voice or stop the catch at the end of her words. She felt like she might start crying and blinked fast and hard, trying to gain control of her emotions. Griffin waited for a moment, his expression warm and sympathetic. Maggie glanced down, irritated by her show of weakness. She braced herself for whatever words of encouragement were sure to come, but Griffin surprised her.
“Want to go for a ride?” he offered, nodding toward the motorcycle. Maggie, caught off guard, didn’t reply. He took her silence as assent and handed her his helmet, clambering aboard the bike.
“Come on, it will do you good. Fresh air, a little freedom. You don’t even have to talk to me. You just have to hold on.”
Maggie hesitated. What she really wanted was to be alone and have a good cry, but that was unlikely to happen now that she was home. She would be mobbed by children and the dog the minute she opened the door. At least going with Griffin meant getting away for a while from the routine of the house. It would feel good to be on the move again, even if it was just circling the island.
“Let me just text Ellen to let her know.” She sent the text and then put on the helmet. Griffin revved the engine and waited as she climbed up behind him. She settled in, a little self-conscious as she grabbed his waist for balance. It felt a little wrong to hold so tightly to a priest. And then with a roar they were off.
Griffin Carter liked to go fast. Luckily, so did Maggie. They couldn’t talk over the noise of the engine, and Maggie relished the enforced solitude, the feeling of the wind rushing past her body, the sense of freedom that came with the open air and the pavement rolling away beneath the tires. She took a few deep, gasping breaths that smelled of warm plastic from the helmet. The frustration and tensions of the past few days seemed to slip from her, thin and brittle as a snakeskin, fluttering away behind them. Her heart lifted. She had missed this, the feeling of being a bird on the wing, able to change direction without a second’s hesitation. As they roared down the road, she felt the cares and responsibilities of her current life lift from her shoulders, leaving her with an exhilarating lightness. She hadn’t felt this free in weeks, not since Nicaragua, before the call from Lena. She drank it in like oxygen, feeling it bubble through her veins. She grinned inside the helmet. Oh, how she had missed it! The thrill of flying high and free.
They slowed all too soon, cruising into Roche Harbor, the tiny, picture-perfect resort town on the north end of the island. It boasted a café selling overpriced Northwestern-style food and homemade donuts, a historic white clapboard hotel, a gift shop or two, a fresh-seafood stand, and a tiny craft market. At the mouth of the expansive marina stood a little store selling fresh produce and grocery essentials to the upscale boating community that crowded the harbor in the summertime.
Griffin pulled to a stop before the store. Reluctantly, Maggie took off the helmet, shaking out curls flattened from the ride.
“You keen for an ice cream?” Griffin asked casually. Maggie eyed him for a moment.
“Is this a date?” she asked lightly, trying to match his casual tone. “Isn’t there a special circle of hell reserved for people who tempt priests?”
Griffin laughed, ruffling his hand through his windblown hair. “Maybe for Catholics. But since I’m Anglican, all bets are off. We Anglicans are allowed to date, get married, have kids, the whole nine yards.”
Maggie gaped at him, surprised. “You’re not Catholic?”
“Nope.” Griffin stretched, unkinking his back. “Anglican to the bone. And as such, very datable. But don’t worry,” he reassured her. “This isn’t a date. If it was, you’d know.”
“So you just take women for rides and buy them ice cream as . . . what? Part of your work as a priest? Am I a charity case?” Maggie asked, balancing her helmet on the seat of the bike.
Griffin laughed again. “That’s a cheering thought, taking beautiful women out for dessert as part of my parish duties.” He shook his head. “Take it as a gesture of friendship. That’s all. Besides, you’re not my type,” he tossed back over his shoulder as he headed into the market. Bemused, Maggie followed.
The store was deserted this time of the afternoon. Its narrow aisles were lined with shelves neatly arranged, holding a mishmash of objects—cake mixes, trail mix and beef jerky, boxes of cereal, fishing nets and bobbers, travel-sized toiletries, and tiny containers of laundry powder.
“Ice cream’s back here.” Griffin wove his way through the aisles unti
l he found the freezer case stocked with treats.
“Looks like they’re out of Butterfinger bars.” He sounded mildly disappointed as he browsed the selection. Maggie peered into the case, scanning the options.
“Can I have an ice cream sandwich?” she asked.
“Great choice. I’m going with the Snickers ice cream bar, king-sized.” Griffin fished both selections from the case.
“So what is your type?” Maggie asked, a little nettled by his previous statement.
“Oh, you know, sweet, demure, a girl who doesn’t instantly get her back up at the sight of me.” He shrugged and handed Maggie her bar. Maggie looked down at her treat, feeling uncomfortable. Had her irritation with him really been so obvious? Griffin seemed unaware of her discomfort. He peeled back the wrapper on his bar, took a bite, and went to pay for them both at the register. Maggie unwrapped the white paper covering her ice cream sandwich. A dribble of vanilla ice cream was beginning to seep through the seam of the wrapper. She wiped it up, licking it off her finger, delaying walking to the front of the store where Griffin was.
He was right. She had been unfriendly to him, but she thought he hadn’t noticed, or that perhaps he didn’t care. As though being a priest made him immune to her prickly demeanor. And why had she treated him that way? Why did he get under her skin? He had shown only kindness to Lena and the kids. He’d gone out of his way to be supportive.
She thought it over as she retraced her steps to the front of the store. She didn’t have a concrete reason. It was pure instinct. Their confrontation at the hospital when Lena had first been injured highlighted an underlying truth. Maggie didn’t trust the goodness Griffin projected, afraid that behind it was something else entirely. She was worried that sooner or later the truth would win out and she would find ulterior motives. She couldn’t quite bring herself to trust his openhanded goodwill. Experience had taught her there was likely something hiding behind it. She was on guard until she figured out just what it was. She joined him outside by the motorcycle.
“Thanks for the ice cream.” She took a big bite, her tongue going numb with the cold.
“Sure,” he said around a mouthful of his ice cream bar. After a moment he added, “I’m guessing you might need to get out once in a while. Someone like you who travels so much, the change in lifestyle must be hard.”
“Yeah, you can say that again.” Maggie gazed out at the marina filled with rows of expensive white yachts and sleek sailboats. She licked the line of ice cream between the two chocolate cookie halves, then bit deeply into one end. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Out in the harbor a seal barked. One of the boats started its engine and slowly glided out of its slip, leaving an empty space between a row of boats, like a missing tooth in a smile.
“Want to head down to the south side of the island?” Griffin offered, and Maggie agreed, not yet ready for the sensation of freedom to end. She climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, sucking the last of the soft chocolate cookie from her fingertips.
They hugged the wide, gray ribbon of road through rolling hills, passing an alpaca farm, a small winery with a picturesque white chapel, and homesteads with hand-lettered signs advertising jams, pies, dyed yarn, and all manner of other handmade goods for sale. The air smelled of baking asphalt and cut grass. Maggie took it all in, letting the rush of the breeze and the peaceful, bucolic scenes soothe her. They approached a farm stand by the side of the road, its folding table loaded with cartons of ripe cherries. Griffin slowed down and pulled up beside the stand in a spray of gravel. A Mason jar sat beside the cherries with a sign that said, “$8 a carton. Be honest. Keep your good karma.”
“Hold on,” he instructed, returning after a moment with a carton full of ripe Rainier cherries. Wordlessly he put them in the side saddlebag on his bike and then returned to the stand to stuff a ten-dollar bill into the Mason jar.
They continued south, not stopping until they reached San Juan Island National Historic Park and wound their way to the long stretch of shore that comprised South Beach. They parked in the deserted lot, then picked their way to the beach down a narrow whisper of a trail through high, dry grass. It was empty, with huge stacks of driftwood piled haphazardly like a giant game of pick-up sticks. Waves rolled in slowly and pulled out across the smooth stones, making them clatter together with a sound like rain on a tin roof.
Griffin found a giant bleached driftwood log and settled down, carton of cherries in hand. Maggie perched next to him on the same log, putting a little distance between them. They sat in companionable silence, looking out across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to the distant Olympic Mountains. The sun scuttled behind clouds, cooling the air, only to reappear again a moment later in a blaze of warmth. Maggie turned her face to it, breathing in the salt tang.
“So, have you figured it out yet?” Griffin asked after a few minutes.
“What?” Maggie turned to look at him.
“Why you don’t like me. You’ve been worrying that question like a dog with a bone ever since we left the store.” Griffin scooped a handful of cherries from the carton and offered them to her. Maggie smiled ruefully at his intuition, opening her hand for the fruit. She didn’t answer for a moment. She looked down at the cherries in her palm. They were plump and vividly colored, the translucent, sunny-yellow flesh blushed bright with pink. She chose one that was mostly yellow. They were the sweetest.
“It’s not a question of not liking you,” she said finally, honestly. “I don’t know if I can trust you.” She bit into a cherry, savoring the burst of flavor.
Griffin spit a cherry pit far out into the sand. “Why is that? The motorcycle? The accent? My rakish good looks?” He gave her a wry smile.
“The collar,” Maggie said quietly.
Griffin turned, surveying her. “So that’s it, is it? Raised Catholic?”
Maggie winced and nodded, turning away from his gaze, again thinking he saw more than she wanted him to. “Yeah, that’s it.” She stared hard at the cherries in her hands.
“That bad?” Griffin asked gently.
Maggie laughed, a short, harsh sound. “You could say that. My mom was as devout as they come—Mass twice a week, fish on Fridays. She wore a little white-lace cap to church, and she said the rosary every night before bed. I was raised on the saints and angels.”
She stopped. Just speaking the words dredged up so many painful memories, the sting of them still sharp after more than a dozen years. Griffin said nothing, but she could sense him waiting beside her. “My mother was a good little Catholic girl with only one problem—me. She wasn’t married when she had me. She moved from Puerto Rico to Chicago right after high school to work and got pregnant just a couple of years later. I grew up without a father. I have his last name but nothing else. I never met him or knew anything about him. And a single unwed mother wasn’t okay with the church. When our parish priest in Chicago found out, he told my mother she was no longer in good standing. She was disgraced. He refused to baptize me, and he refused to give her communion. But she just kept going back, every week, sitting in the last pew with her little white cap on. Every week, going forward and crossing her hands to receive the blessing the priests give to anyone not worthy enough to take the Eucharist.”
Maggie stopped and leaned forward, hands cupped around her cherries. She couldn’t continue. The memories were still raw. She ate a cherry, pursing her lips and spitting out the pit. It landed a good three feet shy of the water.
After a moment she said, “I think she was hoping for absolution, but she never got it. All we ever got were sideways glances and halfhearted blessings for the fallen.” Her mouth twisted around the words, the image of her mother’s face, raised in hope beneath the priest’s outstretched hand, enough to squeeze her heart with equal parts fury and pity, a mix that still wrenched her gut.
Again, Griffin said nothing, just looked at her for a long moment. “I’m so sorry, Maggie.” His voice was kind. She thought he might defend the priests, but he didn’t.
It took her by surprise, and she brushed off his words.
“It was a long time ago.”
“That still doesn’t make it right.”
“Yeah, well, they thought it was right. They used every possible opportunity to make me feel bad about myself,” Maggie countered.
Like an old movie, jerky and slightly off-kilter, she saw Father Flanagan leaning down, his dry lips forming a perfect O of contempt as he said, “Do you know where your name comes from, Magdalena? Mary Magdalene was a woman of ill repute, known for her sins. Your mother named you very rightly. Magdalene, the fruit of sin.” And then he smiled, his voice frigid with righteousness. “You remember that now, you hear? Be a good girl and don’t repeat your mother’s mistake.” Mistake . . . He had meant her.
“They even told me my name was sinful. Magdalena. That I was the fruit of sin, branded from birth like I was already bad.” She threw a half-rotten cherry into the foam of the surf, livid all over again with the remembered shame.
Griffin shook his head, his brow furrowed. “They were wrong,” he said firmly. “Faith is an open door for everyone. It’s not closed to you just because of how you were born.” He paused, searching for the words to explain. “A German mystic named Meister Eckhart describes it like this. He said, ‘God is at home. It’s we who have gone out for a walk.’” Griffin threw a mushy cherry in a long overhand, and a seagull swooped down and caught it midair. “I think Eckhart was on to something. I imagine God standing at the door, inviting us to come back. And the door is wide open for us if we want to come in. It’s as simple as that.”
Maggie said nothing, just watched him. She wanted to believe his words were true. They felt like a soothing balm on a wound that still ached so many years later. Griffin continued to surprise her. He was a puzzle. He got under her skin, but if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit she was drawn to him. Not in a romantic way, but in a more fundamental sense, drawn by all in him that seemed right and true. And Griffin Carter certainly seemed true. Perhaps she had misjudged him after all.
Ascension of Larks Page 20
