by Nicki Elson
“Will you have to confess to playing hookie when you go back into the office tomorrow?” Sharon asked.
Maggie shook her head. “Father Tom’s great, and he knows I’ve been working my tail off. He’s more than happy to let me have an easy day once in a while.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you say there’s a new sheriff in town?”
“The monsignor.”
“Good God. Sounds like the name of a horror film—The Monsignor, mwahahahah!”
“Stop it,” Maggie laughed. “Though I’ll admit that he’s sort of stiff, and there’s just something…I don’t know…cold about him, he’s nice enough. And efficient. He doesn’t mess around, gets things done. I admire that about him. As much as I adore Father Tom, it’s nice to have a bit more discipline around the place.”
“Sounds like the two of you were made for each other.”
Maggie’s only response was to scrunch her nose. She wished she’d get some credit for lightening up considerably over the last couple of years, but she also recognized that order and clarity would be something she always strived for. It was just how she was made.
“Any more sexy guys come to visit you in your dreams?” Sharon asked. “Or better yet—in person?”
Maggie shook her head. “Nothing new to report in that department.” It wasn’t a total lie. She truly did have nothing to report—but only because she didn’t want to talk about it. The angel hadn’t returned since the night she’d so vividly dreamed of him touching her and filling her with such sweet peace. But that didn’t mean she’d stopped thinking about him. In fact, he’d been entering her waking thoughts more prominently ever since that night. Whenever she felt her blood pressure rise from anxiety or irritation, she’d daydream about him standing with her, stroking the side of her face, and all other thought would vanish, restoring her equilibrium. But that wasn’t exactly something she could explain to someone else even if she’d wanted to.
“So how about you? How’s Reggie?” Maggie asked.
“He’s fine. We celebrate our twentieth next month.”
“You do? Sharon, that’s great! Holy cow, twenty years.”
“I know. Hard to believe I got married when I was only three, huh?”
They’d taken the short loop and found themselves once again at the main artery of the connecting paths. Continuing around to the other side of the pool, Sharon told Maggie about her plans for an anniversary weekend in Galena while the rolling lawn of the English landscape garden emerged on their left, taking them from the familiarity of their everyday surroundings to a foreign, almost imaginary world. Bordered by groves of evergreens, the rich green carpet swept around an oblong pond, and pockets of forsythias punched their vibrant tint into the otherwise serene palette. Half hidden by a stand of cypress was a narrow, round structure encircled by stone columns. It was a replica of a classic Greek tholos. Maggie stopped and stared at it.
“Thinking about getting one of those for your yard?” Sharon joked.
“Looks more appropriate for my tombstone.” Maggie stepped off the gravel path and onto the lawn toward the structure.
“What are you doing? Are we even allowed to walk on the grass?”
“I think so. Yes. Look—there are people over there.” Maggie gestured toward a couple walking hand in hand near the opposite stand of trees.
“Well…is it soggy? It rained last night and I just bought these shoes.”
Maggie looked down and pressed the toe of her shoe into the grass. A small pool of water squished out of the dirt. “A little bit. You don’t have to come. I’ll just take a quick peek, and we can meet back at the greenhouse.”
“Okay…but, why are you going?”
Maggie had already turned and resumed her trek. “I don’t know.” There was nothing inside the structure from what Maggie could see, and she had no particular interest in getting a closer look at the trees or pond. Yet she was compelled forward. The bottom edges of her jeans were getting soaked, but she didn’t let that stop her from climbing the modest incline to where the tholos stood at the highest point of the garden. She stepped onto its dry surface and slipped between two pillars to discover that something actually was in there—a stone urn. It was partially filled with rain water and crumpled leaves that must’ve blown into the deep bowl during the past fall.
She turned and peered between the pillars, down upon the expanse of earth spread before her. When she moved to the edge of the circle, she looked upon the rose garden, and to the right she caught a glimpse of the prairie. Between them, set back, were the formal Japanese gardens leading to the mansion. Her lips spread into a smile when she imagined the large house belonging to her, and all the gardens her personal playground.
She pictured her children playing croquet on the lawn with their friends. Her parents would live with her and host tea parties in the rose garden. Everyone would be abundantly happy. There would be no more endless new projects at the church, no more jealousy or nagging sense of failure tickling the edges of her consciousness—just Maggie in her gardens. Anyone who visited her here would be free of the worries of this world.
A cloud drifted through the April sky and temporarily blotted out the sun. As the grounds darkened, Maggie’s longing for the bright vision intensified. The urn. She had an urge to look into it again. She turned and went to the center of the structure to stare down at the murky water, searching for…something; she didn’t know what. Leaning to grip the edges of the urn, she felt a force coming from inside it. Calling to her. Her knees bent with the desire to kneel and ask for the sunny vision to become reality.
The cloud passed and Maggie bolted up straight.
“What the hell?” She shifted her eyes back and forth, checking to make sure no other park visitors were close enough to have witnessed her temporary hallucination. Or whatever it had been. She spotted someone standing in the trees, about fifteen feet away.
Maggie gasped. It was him. The angel, or rather the guy she’d seen in the coffee shop who resembled the angel. He stared earnestly back at her with that same questioning eyebrow slanted just as it had been in her dream. No—at Starbucks. Except he hadn’t had a questioning look at Starbucks. It had definitely been in her dream. He turned and hurried away, and Maggie noticed that he was wearing all white.
“Wait!” She hopped down from the circular pavilion and followed him. He picked up his pace, and she picked up hers, trailing him deeper into the trees and out the other side into the grove of fruit trees. Without even glancing back at her, he dashed into a long tunnel covered with thick, woody vines. Maggie didn’t want to look like a lunatic, so she didn’t scream for him to stop or run at full speed like she suddenly wanted to.
Brushing past the fading blossoms of the cherry and apple trees, she entered the tunnel to find a handful of visitors dappled in spots of sunlight. He wasn’t among them. Figuring he must’ve sprinted through the tunnel, she too threw off decorum and ran the rest of the way, halting once outside to scan the grove. No sign of him. She rushed to go around the high boxwood hedge that blocked her view of the main path, but just before she cleared it, a diminutive figure in black stepped out from the other side of the hedge.
“Monsignor Sarto,” Maggie said, stopping in time to avoid slamming into him.
“Good afternoon, Magdelyn. Enjoying your…jog?”
“Oh.” Maggie gave a dismissive chuckle and stopped her eyes from flicking around the path, where she didn’t see him anyhow. The chase was over. “I thought I saw an old friend and was trying to catch up. Instead I—literally—ran into a new one.”
Sarto’s thin lips pressed into a small smile. “I’m glad you think of me as a friend. Has Father Reardon spoken to you about his upcoming presentation?”
“Not in the last couple of weeks.” It struck Maggie how odd it was to be looking straight across at the monsignor. Typically she was seated at her desk with him hovering and intimidating above her, but somehow he was able to evoke a faint sense of unease even at equal lev
el.
“You should speak with him as soon as possible,” he said. “There are a few changes.”
Sarto had already put the kibosh on hosting the Biblical archeology talk anywhere other than St. John’s, and now it sounded like he was making changes to the presentation itself. Maggie felt a wave of indignation on behalf of Father Tom. “I’ll stop in to see him tonight after I drop off the flowers,” she promised. “Enjoy the rest of your stroll—it’s the perfect day to be here.”
The line of his mouth stretched into a wider smile. “That it is. Be sure to talk with Father Reardon.”
Maggie headed in the opposite direction of the priest to meet Sharon in the greenhouse. After loading the potted plants into the back of her minivan, Maggie enlightened her friend. “You’re not going to believe who I ran into out there.”
“Who?”
“Mwahahahah!” She didn’t tell her about the other visitor or the odd occurrence at the urn.
After running Kirsten and Liam to their various appointments, fixing dinner, and getting the kids settled down to do their homework, Maggie drove to St. John’s to arrange the plants on the altar. Father Dominic helped her carry them in from her car.
Inside the church, a couple of people prayed in the adoration chapel, and a few parishioners knelt at the regular pews, silently reciting their penance. It was the designated evening hour for the sacrament of reconciliation, so an additional four people stood along the far wall while waiting for their turn in the confessional. Both lights were on above the doors, so Maggie surmised that the monsignor and the pastor were each taking confessions.
Up at the altar, Maggie kept her voice low and asked Father Dominic if he knew anything about changes to Father Tom’s presentation. “Monsignor told me to talk to him about it.”
Father Dominic set the last plant down. “What’s that they say in Proverbs? Rushing into a quarrel that is not my own would be like grabbing a stray dog by the ears.”
“Prefer chickens to dogs, do you?” Maggie asked with a teasing twist to her lips. “Probably a wise move though, in your position.”
“Glad to hear you agree. Do you need any more help with anything?”
“Nope. I’m all good here. Thanks for meeting me.”
“You’re welcome—I’m always happy to help. Have a blessed evening.”
“You too.” Maggie tended to her work as inconspicuously as she could, sheathing the plain plastic containers in clay pots and arranging them on the altar. When she finished, she stepped back and imprinted the precise layout into her memory. She wanted to be able to pinpoint exactly which aspects of her design Sarto had rejected when she’d undoubtedly find the plants rearranged within the next day or two. A peek at her watch told her Father Tom would be occupied with confessions for another fifteen minutes, so she went to one of the pews and prayed until the door of the confessionals opened for the last time and the lights above them went out.
When the pastor exited the confessional from his side and stepped through the sacristy into the narthex, he found Maggie waiting for him. “Do you have a minute?” she asked.
“Of course. Let’s go talk in the usher’s room.”
She followed him to the side room, located just before the doors leading into the church. Although the lounge also served as a pre-ceremony gathering place for brides and their bridesmaids, the décor was distinctly masculine with rich brown carpeting and furniture. The room was situated in the center of the building and had no windows. Rather than flipping on florescent lighting to wash away the blackness, Father Tom turned on a single table lamp. He then pulled a key from his pocket and fitted it into a cabinet at the back of the room over a narrow counter and small sink.
“I ran into Monsignor Sarto at the greenhouse today,” Maggie said. “He said I should talk to you about some changes to the archeology presentation.”
Glass clinked as Father Tom pulled two tumblers and a decanter from the cabinet. “I’m afraid it’s no longer an archeology presentation.”
“What? He changed the whole thing?”
Father Tom filled one of the glasses half way with a tawny liquid. “Don’t get yourself worked up. We’ll reschedule my original presentation for the summer. And the new topic is not an unworthy one.”
“But what about all the information we’ve put out there about an archeological talk? Aren’t people going to notice if the topic’s completely changed?”
“Thus far no one outside the parish has registered, so a simple announcement of the change at the end of Masses and a blurb in the bulletin should be just fine.” He tilted the decanter toward the other glass.
“None for me,” Maggie said, remembering how her throat had burned after the last time she’d accepted a drink from Father Tom. “But thank you. So what’s the new topic?”
“The armor of God. Monsignor Sarto seems to think we could all use a refresher on steeling ourselves against Satan.” Father Tom sighed, and Maggie didn’t like the forlorn sound of it. He settled into the leather armchair with his glass not leaving his hand, but not touching his lips either. The drink took on a reddish cast directly under the dim blaze of the lamp. “You have something else you’d like to talk about,” he stated.
“Yes. But it can wait.”
“Sit down, Maggie.” He tilted his head toward the overstuffed leather chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. Maggie lowered herself into the seat, but stayed on the edge with her legs tensed. “What’s on your mind, dear?”
“I’ve been thinking about an annulment again.”
Father Tom nodded and tapped his finger on the edge of his glass. “What’s changed since last year when you decided against pursuing it?”
“Nothing…and everything. I still can’t see ever getting remarried myself, but Carl’s been seeing someone, and it seems serious. I know he doesn’t buy into the Church’s position on divorce and adultery—he’s satisfied that a civil divorce was enough to free us both to remarry and doesn’t see the need for a decree of nullity. But I guess I buy into it enough to think I should reconsider setting him free in the eyes of the Church too, should that become important to him down the road.”
“Nullifying a marriage is more than just a matter of wanting it. As we discussed before, the tribunal would need proof that at least one of you entered into the marriage without proper intention to either stay faithful or procreate.”
This was the point on which Maggie had stumbled and given up last time. She hadn’t wanted to face the possibility that her marriage had never been what it had seemed. “I think a case could be made that Carl never intended to stay faithful, or, at least, was ambivalent about it on our wedding day.”
Father Tom set his glass down and folded his fingers together, resting his joined hands on his portly stomach. “You were married for twelve years before his indiscretion.”
“Before he confessed to indiscretion. Who knows how many others there may have been?”
“He told you there’ve been none. Do you not believe him?”
She hesitated before answering. “I do.” But she’d also believed him when he’d told her he was working late, or that he was going on a fishing weekend with the guys. Even if she could’ve brought herself to forgive him, she knew she’d never forget. Every time he was out of her sight, she’d have doubts about what he was really doing. She couldn’t have lived that way. That’s why she hadn’t even considered counseling or the crisis-marriage retreat Carl had begged her to try. “The vows state until death, not a decade plus. If he’d intended to stay faithful to me for our whole marriage, he sure didn’t try very hard.”
“You’ve told me he was remorseful afterward. And he confessed without provocation. That would imply it was something that happened without prior forethought. A mistake he deeply regretted. Had he never intended to stay faithful, why would he feel such strong regret?”
In a strange way, Carl’s willing confession was something she resented. She didn’t understand why he couldn’t have gone o
n living with the guilt of his nasty secret instead of burdening her with it. “Well, the regret obviously hit too late. He probably didn’t realize how horrible it would feel to look at his kids and kiss his wife afterward. That doesn’t mean that on our wedding day he didn’t fully expect that one day he’d stray into another field when his own pasture wasn’t looking so green anymore.”
Father Tom stayed silent and watched her. She knew he was waiting for her to work it out for herself.
“I wasn’t exactly happy in our marriage at the time either. I know I wasn’t the model wife, but I never considered going to someone else’s bed, and I just don’t see how he could’ve done it so easily—not unless he’d always kept it in mind as an option.” She shook her head and swiped at an angry tear. She hated how much pain she still felt at her husband’s betrayal. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“There’s no need to apologize. But I think you see how this process will reopen old wounds. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“Obviously not.”
“Well, when and if you decide you are, I’d be happy to speak with Carl about it, if you like.”
“Okay. Thanks.” The priest smiled kindly at her, and she suddenly felt very selfish. “How are you doing? With all the changes going on around here?”
He separated his hands and waved one to brush away the question. “I’m doing just fine. It’s all part of the territory—once you get too comfortable, something comes along to wiggle the rug a little.” He picked up his glass and swirled it, staring at the turbulent motion within.
“He’ll be gone next month, and then that rug will stop wiggling.”
