Sam’s face brightened. “That would certainly be helpful. A birdhouse covered with a clover pattern and a clover in the book. More overlap to make a point. Eternity. Trinity.” He yawned. “I’m exhausted already. It’s only three o’clock.”
“I’m exhausted as well,” Amy said. “And I haven’t eaten anything all day.”
“I can solve that problem,” Sam said. He jumped to his feet. “I’ll make some pasta.”
***
After a quiet meal, Sam drove Amy home. They dropped off the original notebook with Raksha. Sam was a little anxious to let it go, but he seemed to relax after Raksha placed it near her heart.
“We’ll keep it very safe,” she had said.
Amy took a long nap after Sam left. When she woke up, she visited the Patels. Their son, Abheek, said his mother went to the bank. Amy presumed Raksha was putting the notebook in the safe-deposit box. She felt blessed to have such a reliable friend.
“Do you have a computer I can use, Abheek?”
He looked at her as if she came from Mars. “Of course we have a computer.” He led her into the office and set her up with an open browser.
“Thank you.”
Amy spent a couple of hours researching famous, influential people named Pat and came up with very little. Then she researched cities outside Colorado with the word Springs in their name. She came up with too many possibilities to digest.
In Florida there was Bonita Springs, Coral Springs, Tarpon Springs, and Altamonte Springs. Louisiana had a Denham Springs. Texas, a curious Dripping Springs. In Georgia she found a Powder Springs and a Sandy Springs. Santa Fe Springs in California. Saratoga Springs in New York. Ocean Springs in Mississippi. And Harbor Springs in Michigan.
Amy examined the list and sighed. Maybe one of those cities was founded by a Pat something or other. It would be Pat’s realm.
Then she sat up with a renewed vigor and typed in nunnery springs.
Three results popped up. One in Tibet, a Buddhist nunnery Amy suspected. One in Colorado Springs. Would she really stay that close to home? It would be easy enough to drop by and see. It was a cloistered community. She may well be able to disappear there. Finally, there was a nunnery in a city that had not appeared in her original search – Borrego Springs, California.
“That’s enough for today,” Amy whispered. She thanked Abheek, returned to her room, and crashed.
As she drifted off to sleep she became aware of a fact that made her proud.
I made it through a day without alcohol.
Chapter Seventeen
Amy called Sam at 7:30 a.m.
Tit for tat, she thought when he answered in a groggy voice.
“I’ve done some research,” she said, and she launched into a full story about the lack of intriguing Patricks, the cities with the word Springs, and the two most hopeful nunnery spots.
“Man, I doubt she’d try to disappear so close to home, but it wouldn’t hurt to visit the nunnery in Colorado Springs. I’ll call and make an appointment.”
“Okay. I have to work today. Let me know if you figure anything out.”
A couple of hours later, Amy was back to scrubbing grease out of obscure corners of the kitchen she’d missed on her first go-around. Sam called.
“We’ve got an appointment at four thirty,” he announced.
“I work until four. You’ll have to go on your own.” Amy was disappointed, and she immediately wondered if Sahil would be willing to allow her to take off early.
“I kind of need you, actually.”
“Why? Are you afraid of nuns?”
“I didn’t actually tell them what I was up to.”
Amy sat on a stool. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a cloistered community. I thought if I told them I was looking for someone they might politely decline. Perhaps some women go there to get away from people who are looking for them. I would guess the sisters would want to protect their own.”
“So what did you tell them?”
There was a short silence before Sam said, “I told her I had a friend who was in trouble, someone who needed help urgently.”
Amy groaned. “You lied to a nun? You didn’t.”
“Well… uh… yeah I did.”
“So you’re not getting past the front door without a damsel in distress by your side?”
“Something like that.”
“Let me talk to Sahil. I’ll call you back.”
***
They were on the road, headed to the Carmelite Monastery of the Sacred Hearts, by 3:06 p.m.
“We won’t find her at a monastery,” Amy said.
“Actually, that’s what they call it. The use of nunnery must be archaic. I don’t know, but this is the community for the nuns. The priests are at a different location.”
“Oh.” She thought about this new information. “I’m not going to lie to the nuns.”
“You won’t have to. The mother prioress will talk to us privately, I’m sure. As soon as we sit down, I’ll tell her I’m looking for Emma. I have her picture, the article, and” – he handed Amy a makeshift notebook he had clearly made with scissors and tape – “the clues. I’m sure she’ll hear me out once we’re all together.”
“Good.”
That information satisfied Amy’s skepticism. She decided to think about the clues during the drive. People were driving like maniacs, so Sam had to stay focused on the traffic. Amy tried to quiet her brain and let it drift over the clues, hoping she had better ideas just below the overanalytical part of her thinking process. Since the real notebook was now in the Patels’ safe-deposit box, Sam had turned one of his copies into the exact three page configuration of the original. Amy thumbed through it absentmindedly, but she felt edgy. It was as if someone were poking her with needles randomly all over. She finally admitted to herself that her body was protesting the lack of alcohol. This fact greatly concerned her, but the obsession nagged her all the same.
The Carmelite Monastery was located in the northern region of Colorado Springs to the east. They drove through a flat area – large properties with very little vegetation, a few developments, a trailer here and there. It was nothing like the western part of the city, which was nestled in the foothills, but it had a quiet, unhurried quality.
The monastery was modest on the outside, a small brick building on a property with many trees. It was peaceful. Just inside the door, the artwork and architecture was more elaborate, with beautiful paintings and sculptures in addition to a vaulted ceiling.
Soon a woman in her fifties, wearing the traditional garb one might expect of a nun, greeted them and introduced herself as the mother prioress. The twinkle in her eye and a sense of joy in her temperament made Amy feel at ease. They exchanged pleasantries before she led them down a hallway. She brought them to a small office, indicated they could sit, and offered them water.
“No thank you,” Sam said, and he got down to business, producing Emma’s photo and the mock notebook.
The mother prioress’s expression changed slightly from candidness to caution.
“I’m looking for my sister,” Sam explained. He handed her the photo. “Her name is Emma.”
The sister examined Amy. “You’re not in trouble, seeking refuge?”
Amy shook her head and looked at her lap.
Sam persisted. “We’re just trying to find my sister.”
“Mr. Foster, I cannot give you information about our members. Many wish to maintain their anonymity. They come here to turn away from the business of the outside world and dedicate themselves to prayer.”
“I understand that, ma’am, but my sister, she wants to be found. Look. She left me this notebook with clues. We were wondering if there was ever a mother prioress named Patricia.”
The sister gave him a slightly amused look as she reached out to accept the notebook. “I’ve been here for thirty years, and I’ve yet to meet a Patricia. I wasn’t always the mother prioress, of course, but we definitely didn’t hav
e one named Patricia.”
“Okay, no worries. That’s still a puzzling clue, but look at her drawings.”
The mother prioress examined the book and read the poem. “I see no indication she was planning to join an order. In fact, there is nothing here that speaks of an interest in Christianity.”
Sam became frustrated. “The trinity knot, the clover, and her reference to eternal love. I know she was a Christian when she disappeared. I think it’s possible she became a nun based on the things she said to me.”
Amy thought the things Emma had said to Sam were vague enough to mean anything, and she now doubted their interpretation of the poem and drawings. There was no crucifix or depiction of Mary. Why assume Catholicism and nunneries?
The mother prioress tilted her head. “When was this? When did she leave?”
Sam sighed. “She’s probably at another convent. We have a couple of ideas. I’m sorry to waste your time.”
“When did your sister leave, Son?”
“Fifteen years ago,” he mumbled.
The mother prioress’s expression softened. “That is a long time to be following these odd and cryptic clues.”
“We only just found the clues.”
The sister stood as Sam stood. Amy scrambled to get out of her chair.
The mother prioress spoke, her voice filled with compassion. “I believe she would have contacted you by now if she truly wanted to be found.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”
She led them out. A look of kindness and sympathy remained on her face as she waved good-bye.
“That was a waste of time,” Sam grumbled.
“It was only one nunnery. We have another city named Springs as a possibility. And we really should examine the clues in more detail. Perhaps we’re missing something.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. Just because I often assumed she became a nun doesn’t mean she did.”
“Exactly. Let’s keep our minds free of assumptions.”
Sam chuckled. “Shall I play some New Age music?”
“No, thank you.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know you were.”
***
They remained quiet for the duration of the ride until they got closer to home. Amy continued to flip back and forth in the notebook. Periodically, she closed her eyes in an attempt to settle her mind. Unfortunately, her agitation only increased. The sensation of being prodded by needles intensified.
“How’s the meditation going?” Sam asked.
“Dismal.”
“Would you like some dinner?”
“Your pasta?”
“Sure.”
“And some Jack Daniels?” Amy suggested.
He grinned. “If you insist.”
The thought of Jack Daniels burning her throat actually settled Amy’s anxiety. Finally relief. She tipped her head back again and thought of Sam’s little apartment, his happy dog, and the cluttered mess they left in the living room.
“How about if I tidy up Emma’s books while you cook?” Amy suggested.
“Are you trying to say that my apartment is a mess?”
She shrugged. “Consider it a tiny act in honor of your sister.”
“She loved her books,” he admitted.
When they approached the apartment, Roxy’s happy barks filled their ears.
“I’ll take her for a walk first,” Sam said.
“I’ll come with you.”
***
They were falling into a routine of getting together and walking the dog. It felt normal, a luxury Amy never had during her childhood or in her marriage. She contemplated holding his hand, but she blushed and folded her hands instead.
When they returned to the apartment, Sam camped out in the kitchen while Amy sorted the books by size. When she got to the book on Irish folklore, she flipped through it again, searching for the trinity knot. She thought she ought to reread that passage, but something else caught her eye. Her heart palpitated.
“Sam, Sam, Sam!” she shouted. “Oh my gosh, Sam. This is it.”
He came running to her side and looked over her shoulder, eager to learn about her discovery.
She held open a page and pointed to a drawing. It was a circle with a plus. It resembled the one in Emma’s notebook, only it was much thicker. The drawing in the Irish book looked nothing like a crosshair. Amy flipped the page. A similar drawing, only this one included a Christian cross instead of a plus sign. She returned to the original drawing.
“It’s a Celtic cross,” Amy explained. “Look.” She grabbed the notebook copy out of her pocket and flipped it open to the first page. “Do you have a pencil?” He stared at the book but didn’t make a move to find a writing utensil.
Amy ran to her purse and returned with a pencil. She held it against the drawing in Emma’s notebook and lengthened the line on the bottom.
“Guess who turned the Celtic cross into a Christian cross?”
Sam touched the new line Amy had drawn but made no reply.
“Saint Patrick,” she said.
“You’re kidding.” He stared into space for a moment as he digested the information. Then his eyes flew open wide. “The realm of Pat.” He held the notebook to his chest. “My Celtic sister went to Ireland. Why didn’t I think of it before?”
Amy flipped through the Irish book. “Where is it?” she mumbled. She turned to the index and found the page she needed. “There’s actually a place called Saint Patrick’s Well.” She stood up and showed him a picture. “Look. There’s even a Celtic cross at the well. The place is beautiful. Serene. And now all the rest of the clues make sense. You’re right. It was simple. We were trying too hard.”
“Celtic cross,” Sam said, holding up the notebook. He flipped the page and pointed at the drawing of a well. “A well. His peaceful spring is Saint Patrick’s Well. The trinity knot.” He placed a hand on his head. “And, of course, a clover.” He reread the poem. “The eternal love could still be a religious vocation.”
“Or maybe the love of her life followed her there.”
“I would have known about a love of her life.”
“Really? And yet you didn’t know she was being threatened by the Richardsons and keeping terrible secrets.”
Sam frowned.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said, ashamed. “That was out of line.”
“Actually, it wasn’t, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“Except follow the clues.” Amy shifted gears. “We’ve got everything covered. We’re down to the moons that grow and the math problem, which could either be September or the first of spring the following year.”
“We’ve already missed that meeting time.” Sam’s expression suddenly melted into sadness.
“What?”
“I can see her standing there at this Saint Patrick’s Well, waiting for me on the appointed day. How will we find her now?”
“Maybe there’s a town nearby. We’ll just have to canvas neighborhoods, maybe churches, with her picture.”
“Of course.” He looked over his shoulder. “Damn. The pasta’s boiling over.” He ran to the kitchen and Amy followed him. While he dealt with the mess on the stove, she took the opportunity to find the Jack Daniels and pour two glasses.
“Celebrate.” She raised one glass and handed him the other.
“To my Celtic sister,” he said, beaming.
***
After dinner, they settled down at Sam’s computer to do some research on Ireland and Saint Patrick’s Well, in addition to searching for flights and lodging. Sam sat at the desk while Amy stood behind his chair. After thirty minutes, he had filled two pages with notes.
“Here is the best address I can find for a Saint Patrick’s Well. West of Clonmel, off the N24, Two miles from Town Centre, Clonmel, Ireland.”
“That’s an address?” Amy asked, baffled.
“A lot of the addresses look like this. And I can’t get any two maps of this Saint Patrick�
�s Well to match. We’re going to need to buy a detailed map.” He searched for maps to purchase. “Oh, here’s one that marks wells and stones. I wonder what stones are.”
“Rocks?” Amy suggested.
He turned around and gave her a fake punch in the arm. Then he thought about it and typed in a search for stones in Ireland.
“Huh, I guess so,” he said. “Standing stones. That could be fun.”
“Let’s buy that map and start looking at flights.”
“I’ll have it shipped Next Day Air.”
“Good idea. Saturday delivery,” she reminded him.
After placing the order, Sam began searching for flights to Dublin. It was the closest major airport to Clonmel, and it was the most centrally located. Sam changed the dates several times to compare prices. “Oh,” he muttered. “How are we going to afford this? I don’t have a job right now. I was working on a construction crew, but we finished three weeks ago.”
“You do construction?”
“My first job, actually. My dad owns a construction company. But I only worked for him as a teenager. Later it became one of the many careers I had during the—”
“—during the lost decade.”
“Right.” He winked. “But I enjoy it. I take a job when I can get one.” He returned his attention to the computer. “Although I’m still somewhat lost. And definitely broke.”
Amy remembered the money she had taken from the fire safe and hidden in the Bible. Because everyone else was buying her food and clothing, she hadn’t touched it. “I have a few thousand dollars.”
“That will cover you,” he mumbled as he continued to search.
“Seriously?” She took a large gulp of whiskey.
“Unless we book it for the fall when no one is going. Last-minute tickets are bad enough.”
“Do you want to go alone? You can borrow my money. We’ll work it out later.”
He turned and took her hand. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’ve been instrumental in this treasure hunt.”
Is that the only reason you want me to go? she wondered. She tried to breathe in another direction because she knew she smelled like a distillery.
Celtic Sister Page 13
