by Ann Warner
“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I can’t disturb Clen.” Although the voice was light and wavering, the click disconnecting them was decisive. Still, he’d found her.
Going after her would be neither easy, nor would it be cheap, but what the hell. If money couldn’t be used to secure the heart’s desire, what good was it?
Chapter Twenty-seven
Resurrection Abbey - Stowe, Vermont
When Clen arrived at Resurrection, the portress, Sister Kevin, opened the door, gave a happy cry, and hugged her. “Mary John will be so glad to see you, dear.”
“I’ll be glad to see her too. You’ll tell her I’m here?”
“Of course. You’re staying with us?”
“If I can?”
Kevin smiled. “Your old room is free. Now isn’t that lucky?”
The small room welcomed Clen as if she’d been gone five minutes rather than nearly five months. The narrow bed with its white coverlet, the straight-backed chair, the fresh flowers in the vase on the simple desk—a stem of chrysanthemums signaling autumn was on the way. In winter, flowers would be replaced by sprigs of ivy or holly, and her sitting here, waiting through that season until daffodils, the first heralds of spring, appeared. Woven through it all, the nuns’ chanting, the routine, the quiet days. With no emotions, no drama, no more losses. Still, this time, peace would be harder to come by.
She’d had only a few weeks with Gerrum, but it would be a long time before she managed to banish the memory of his hands touching her, his lips kissing her, his body moving in synchrony with hers. An even longer time until she forgot the comfort of knowing Gerrum was nearby. Solid, steady. A foundation upon which she’d begun to rebuild her life.
She shook her head, trying to shake free of the memories. Memories she intended to push away until, eventually, a day might come when she wouldn’t think of him at all.
The Vigils chant awakened Clen at three fifteen. She lay listening as the peaceful notes faded and the silence returned.
After breakfast, she walked into the garden. With a faint rustling of skirts, Sister Mary John joined her.
“The Lord be with you, Clen.”
“And also with you, Mary John.”
The nun, solid. Like Gerrum in that way. With eyes that saw inside you—discovering a speck of memory here, an old worn-out theory that should be discarded there.
“Come, Clen. We’d better sit.” Her hand settled on Clen’s arm, steering her firmly.
Funny how they always chose the same bench. Territorial. People as territorial as any animal. Or it was just a habit...sitting in this spot with Mary John, who rubbed her hands to warm them that other time, too.
“I c-can’t bear it.” So cold.
“Can’t bear what?” Mary John, determined, calm.
“They. He.” She stopped, took a breath. “You see, I...I fell in love with a man. And I thought he loved me. But he...and another woman...” There hadn’t been enough time yet. It was still impossible to say it.
“He was unfaithful.”
It wasn’t a question, but Clen answered anyway. “Yes.”
“You’d better tell me about it.”
It took awhile to pull together the words. While she did, Mary John waited.
“His name is Gerrum Kirsey. He used to be an attorney. In Seattle. Now he’s a fishing guide in Alaska, and he writes mysteries.” All the surface, unimportant bits, but they were all she could manage.
Someday none of this would matter. Not today, though. “A few weeks ago, his boat was sabotaged, and he was missing for two days. That’s when I knew...I loved him.” She was like an engine winding down. Pretty soon she would stop, and maybe she wouldn’t be able to start again. “Being with him was...” But if she stopped, Mary John would just start rubbing again. “Until three days ago, I thought he was the most loyal, honest, and loving person I’d ever met and that I could trust him with my heart as well as my life. And I thought Hailey—” Clen never cried. Well, hardly ever. Which was why it was hard to stop once she started.
Mary John didn’t seem to mind, though. “That’s the other woman. This Hailey? You know her?”
The calm in Mary John’s voice steadied Clen. Propped her up. “She runs an art gallery in Wrangell, and she’s so...beautiful.” A completely inadequate word to describe Hailey, with her perfect skin and tawny hair. Her poise and elegance. Her intelligence and wit. Why would any man choose her if he could be with Hailey? “I liked her, but she was always...”
“What?” Mary John prompted.
“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.” Nothing mattered beyond the one fact. The fact of Hailey and Gerrum.
“How did you find out about them?”
“I went to his house, unexpectedly, and they were there. In the hall. In each other’s arms.”
“Did you ask Gerrum to explain?”
“He doesn’t know I saw them.”
More quiet after that. Mary John used quiet the way most people used words. In that quiet, the thought drifted in. She should have had it out with him. Right then. Or at least the next morning. But he could have made an effort. Come to see her. To explain what was going on. But he didn’t...
“Please, stay here.” Mary John released Clen’s hand. “I want to say a prayer.” She walked over to the nearby statue and stood before it with head bowed.
Prayer wasn’t going to help. Besides, Clen had gone a long time without it, the words dried up and blown away with Josh. Even when Gerrum was missing, she hadn’t prayed. And she especially disliked praying to statues. What did people see in them anyway? All exposed hearts, insipid expressions, and garishly painted robes.
Not this one, though. Not garishly painted. In fact, not painted at all, its curves likely as cool and smooth to the touch as the snow they resembled. She’d forgotten until this moment she’d stared at this particular statue before, while talking about Josh. Did she notice then the way light glanced off a cheek and shadows pooled under the eyes of the two figures depicted—a woman holding a man’s body on her lap? Pain frozen in stone.
Mary John finished her prayer and came to sit beside Clen. “I want you to think about something, Clen. I want you to consider other explanations for what you saw.”
“What I saw was clear.”
Mary John patted her arm and nodded toward the statue. “What do you see?”
Easy enough to figure out what Mary John was suggesting. That there were many kinds of embraces. But Mary John hadn’t seen what Clen saw. Mary John gave her shoulder a squeeze, then went inside. Restless, Clen wandered from the organized tidiness of the garden into the green and gold disorder of the woods surrounding Resurrection. Anger accompanied her. Anger at Gerrum and Hailey but also anger at herself.
For running away. Again.
The word “abbey” had evoked an image of a stone castle-like building, perhaps with ivy-covered walls, so the simple brick structure set among trees beginning to turn gold was not what Gerrum was expecting.
He stepped onto the porch and rang the bell. More than a minute passed without a response. He was about to ring again, when an elderly nun dressed in a traditional black and white habit opened the door and greeted him in the soft voice he’d last heard when he’d telephoned.
She bowed. “The Lord be with you. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m here to see Clen McClendon.”
The nun pursed her lips, examining him, then without speaking, motioned him to follow her to what they no doubt called their parlor. It was roughly the size of his Wrangell living room and furnished with several straight-backed chairs and two formal settees. Lounging not encouraged, apparently.
“Please, wait here. That is, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nodded and she backed out, pulling the door closed.
For fifteen minutes, he alternated pacing with staring out the window, his frustration growing. Finally, the door opened and another nun, also in traditional garb, walked in. This one was middle-aged and round-figured. A comfortable, moth
erly sort of person, or so he thought until he looked in her eyes. Those eyes were nothing like the gentle, inquiring eyes of the nun who’d answered the door. Instead, these were the eyes of the person one called when someone came to disturb a “retreatant” who was choosing not to be disturbed.
“I’m Sister Mary John.” She extended a blunt hand almost as work-roughened as his.
“Gerrum Kirsey.”
“Sister Kevin tells me you have asked to see Clen McClendon.” She folded her hands into the wide sleeves of her habit and stood perfectly still, staring at him with careful eyes.
“Yes.”
“And that it’s not exactly a family emergency.”
To counter his discomfort, he employed one of the tactics he’d found to be successful when he was practicing law. He nodded without speaking and waited for what she would say next.
She gestured toward the settees. “Please. Have a seat, Mr. Kirsey.”
Willing himself to patience, he waited for her to sit, then took the settee facing her across a small patch of faded rug.
“Clen was quite disturbed when she arrived here. Do you know why that might be?”
“I have an idea. But I don’t know for certain.”
“What is your idea?”
Ordinarily such a conversation would either annoy him or make him uncomfortable, but knowing Clen was nearby, he now felt calm. “I think Clen saw something she misinterpreted and it upset her.”
“And there was no reason for her to be upset by what she saw?”
“No.”
Mary John sat motionless and silent after his “no,” and he had the impression she was prepared to continue to remain that way indefinitely. Further, he suspected she wasn’t going to let him see Clen unless he did a better job of explaining himself.
“Clen may have seen me comforting a friend...a woman who’s been going through a difficult time. What Clen saw...well, she could have thought...the woman and I...but it wasn’t...”
He had no idea how long the silence lasted after he stumbled to a stop. Mary John continued to sit, her hands once again tucked into her sleeves.
“Please. You have to let me see her. I need to tell her—” His throat convulsed, cutting off speech. He swallowed, took a breath, then another, fighting his way back to control. Finally, he raised his eyes to the nun’s face.
“I’m extremely sorry to tell you, Mr. Kirsey. A short time ago, Clen left without saying where she was going.”
“You put me through the third degree, and she’s not even here?”
She had the grace to wince. “I do apologize. I wanted to assure myself of your sincerity in the event Clen was in touch.”
He swallowed, trying to get his voice under control. He really needed to stop yelling at middle-aged women. “And you have no idea where she might have gone?”
“No. I’m sorry. But if she is in touch, I will urge her to contact you.” She stood and bowed slightly. “The Lord be with you, Mr. Kirsey.”
There must be a set response to that, but he had no idea what it might be, although the habit of courtesy was strong enough he stood and bowed in return. Then he returned to Stowe where he rented a room for the night. Calls to Clen’s parents and her brother went unanswered.
He had no idea what to do next.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Marymead College - Mead, Kansas
From a distance, Marymead looked exactly as it had the first day Clen saw it twenty-three years ago. She pulled into the parking lot, puzzled that it was empty. Surely fall semester should have started? She stepped out of the car into the heat and humidity of a late summer Kansas day and walked up the steps of the Administration Building. There she found a NO TRESPASSING sign affixed to the door.
She turned to look over the campus, noticing for the first time that the grass surrounding the two dormitories and the Fine Arts Building was dry and overgrown and the flower beds were filled with weeds.
It looked desolate and it made her feel like she’d been transported to some indefinite future time—a feeling so real, she glanced at her hands to see if they were gnarled and spotted with age. Maxine would know what happened, of course, and would no doubt have shared that information if Clen had bothered keeping in touch.
A spasm shivered through her, reminding her of the horrible shaking attacks she’d suffered through most of her junior year. She’d known they’d been caused by grief and guilt and had only stopped because, eventually, she’d been too worn out to feel anything.
If Thomasina hadn’t gone away, Clen would have confessed to her, but by the time the nun returned, Clen had buried that time so deeply, she thought she could live her life as if it never occurred. But the last few days had made it clear that was folly.
Clen drove downtown and parked near Mead’s tiny library. Inside, a young woman who looked about twelve sat at the main desk chewing gum and reading a magazine. She looked up with a bright smile when Clen entered.
“I wonder if you can tell me what happened to Marymead College.”
“It was closed a year ago.”
“But why?”
“Bishop decided it cost too much.”
“Just like that?”
“Pretty much. Bummer. I was hoping to go to school there.”
“What about the sisters?”
“Hmm. Well, I don’t know much about that. There’s a nun who comes in here occasionally. She should know. She lives right over there.” She pointed out the door. “You could see if she’s home.”
Clen thanked the girl and walked across the street to the small apartment building the girl had indicated. The mailbox for apartment 1B was labeled, Sr. S. Moriarity. Clen found the right door and knocked.
The woman who answered was a sturdy redhead with freckles across her nose.
“Sister Moriarity?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Clen McClendon. I was a student at Marymead. I came to visit and discovered it’s been closed.”
“Ah, yes. A terrible thing for the entire town.” Her voice carried a hint of the brogue promised by her name and her coloring. “Would you like to come in?” She gestured for Clen to take one of two chairs in the sparsely furnished front room. “When did you graduate, dear?”
“Nineteen sixty-six.”
“Ah, before my time, I’m afraid. I didn’t arrive until seventy-three.”
“Do you know Sister Thomasina?”
“Oh, my goodness. Of course. Marymead’s last president. Installed right before the bishop decided to shut us down. She fought the good fight. Well, you know what a fighter she was. But only a miracle would have saved us.” She sighed.
“Where is she now?”
“Oh dear. Is that who you came to visit?”
Clen nodded.
“I’m so sorry. She died, you see. Last spring.” Her brogue thickened and her eyes welled. “She was a great favorite of mine. Such a bonny person.”
“How...what happened?”
“A heart attack. I saw her afterward. She said it should be no surprise since her heart had been giving her great difficulties for years. She was speaking metaphorically, of course. We thought she was going to be fine, then...”
“Where...” Clen stopped to clear her throat. “Could you tell me where she’s buried?”
“Why at the Motherhouse in Lawrence. Do you think you might go there?”
“I...I don’t know. Maybe.”
“If you go, would you put a rose on her grave for me? Thomasina loved roses. Said they brought her comfort on her darkest days. There was a bush at Marymead she was partial to. She told me once it was a Gladys rose.” Sr. Moriarity went over to the small desk, pulled something out, then turned and handed Clen a five-dollar bill.
Clen waived the money away. “I’d be happy to put a rose on Thomasina’s grave for you, but I won’t take money for it.”
“It’s a great kindness you do me. I loved her, and I can see you did, too.”
“I...I need to get goi
ng.” Clen stumbled to her feet.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry I didn’t have better news for you.”
“Thank you for talking to me.” She was done. She couldn’t handle any more. With the barest civility, she nodded at the nun then got out of there.
She’d come back to Marymead looking for Thomasina, expecting the nun to somehow magically fix her after all that had gone wrong in her life—Josh, Saint, Paul, Gerrum. The litany of mistakes and estrangements that shaped her. But now that possibility was yet another dead end.
