by Lily Miles
“You should know,” she whispers under her breath, giggling again before heading off down the hall.
Catherine watches Eva leave, her shoulders tense, before she turns towards me. Her face is pinched with irritation. “What is she talking about?”
I rush over to Catherine, throwing my arms around her neck and hanging on as tears sting the corners of my eyes. Cat squeezes me, her heart fluttering against her chest. Though it’s nice to be in my best friend’s arms, I feel nowhere near as safe with her as I did with Trevor.
Why does my heart long for him so much, when it’s so wrong? Why can’t I be a good girl and obey the Church’s doctrine? And why is it that when I think of him, heat pulses between my thighs and makes those naughty cravings ignite inside of me?
“What’s going on, Mags?” Catherine presses earnestly. “What’d that bitch do to you?”
I'm so frazzled I don’t even bother to correct her crude language, not that I have any right after all I’ve done in the past few days: I deserve this harsh cloister. In fact, I may be the only nun in this convent who appreciates it right now, since it’s preventing my temptation to run back to Trevor again, this time perhaps for good.
I already miss him so much, it’s like my soul has been stolen away and it will only be returned to me when I taste his lips again. So how can I devote my entire heart to my faith, when Trevor owns it already?
“Trevor and I kissed,” I whisper hurriedly, body starting to tremble. I didn't even take a moment to look around and see if anyone else was listening. “Eva caught me.”
Catherine exhales sharply, sitting down on a window sill and shaking her head. After a second she reaches out and pulls me towards her, hands grasping mine.
“How was it?” she whispers, biting her lip with excitement and even a slight envy in her eyes.
“It felt like I was outside of my body, tethered to the earth only by his hands on me …” I murmur, forgetting my fear for a moment and reliving the way his muscled arms cradled me lovingly and protectively, nearly crushing me against his chest. It would’ve been so easy for me to wrap my legs around his waist—now I wish I had.
Again I shiver, rubbing my tingling arms as if I were still standing in the cold rain. His body had been so hot against my own, his taste addictive, his hands strong and rough.
Catherine nods and then nibbles her thumbnail in pensive thought. “Well … the bad news is that Eva is going to tell Mother Antonia, probably sooner rather than later, no matter what she says about holding it over your head. The good news is that it’s her word against yours and there’s no way she can prove it.”
I settle beside her, slumping over slightly. “But Mother Antonia will believe her; like you always say, Eva is her puppet. Besides, Mother Antonia dislikes me to begin with. We know from me getting punished for something I didn’t do, she just has it in for me.”
“Well, Mother Antonia dislikes everyone. Even Sister Eva.” Catherine shrugs and then looks over at me, her brow furrowing again.
She tilts her head, her head against the glass of the window, and gazes at me silently, studying my eyes.
“Was it worth it?” she asks softly, searching for something in my expression that I’m uncertain of.
My throat goes tight, hands clammy. Involuntarily, my fingertips brush over my lower lip where Trevor’s tongue had traced the curve.
“It was,” I answer honestly. “Every second.”
Catherine interlaces her fingers with my own, holding my hand against her chest and squeezing it hard. “I'm only going to say this once, Mags. You don’t have to lock yourself away here. You don’t have to live like a bird in a cage longing for the sky.”
“But I made a vow!” I exclaim, yanking my hand from her own.
Eyes narrowing, Catherine continues to stare at me piercingly. “Do you think your God would want you to suffer through a broken heart? Deny you the opportunity for life-long happiness? Do you think He requires that great of a sacrifice?”
“Everyone has a cross to bear, and this, apparently, is mine,” I murmur, startled by the sudden feebleness of my tone.
Catherine doesn’t even blink. “It doesn’t have to be that way. You can have your faith and have Trevor, too. All you need to do is to leave this place for that. You’re the best person I know—that I’ve ever known—Mags. I don’t know if I even believe in God, but He would see that in you, too.”
I turn away from her, mind reeling and suddenly feeling very heavy. The stress of these endless conflicting ideas in me battling each other is exhausting. We sit in silence for a while before she stands up, pressing one hand comfortingly to my shoulder before leaving me to brood over all of this.
How can I have this doubt, anyway? How can one person entering my life suddenly make me question all of it, past and present? Isn’t my faith everything to me, and hasn’t it always been that way? And if it were true faith, how could it be shaken so easily by a pair of green eyes gazing lovingly into mine, and rippling biceps I only wanted to crush me forever in embrace?
But, come to think of it, there really isn’t any conflict at all when I ask this final question: Why does the thought of being with Trevor make me feel happier than anything about this convent ever has?
26
Trevor
Carrying the half dozen boxes of breakfast back to the apartment building, I kick open the door and set everything down on the kitchen table. A few more men have woken by now and are getting ready to go to work.
Cliff stands at the stove, a plate of perfectly stacked blueberry pancakes resting next to him. He glances over, grinning. He’s in a much better mood than he was before, but now I'm the one that’s gotten grumpy.
“Oh,” the doctor announces casually, “I forgot I sent you out there, Trevor. You took so long, I figured you just went straight to the garden beds.”
Grease leaks out from the boxes, staining the cracks in the wooden table. It’s all over my hands and arms, too. I grab a paper towel to start cleaning myself off, meanwhile glaring at the gray-eyed man humming and flipping pancakes. Though he has a bunch of them on the plate ready to be eaten, no one else has touched them yet. This doesn’t seem to bother Cliff in the slightest.
Henry walks by, silently snagging one box from the lopsided pile I’d carried all the way back from the kitchen. Dr. Cliff glances over his shoulder, a frown tugging at his mouth. I look on silently, still trying to pat away the grease on my arms.
“You planning on sharing that, Henry?” Cliff chuckles, trying a little too hard to sound friendly.
My eyes shift immediately to Henry, curious of his reaction. I’ve never seen anyone else interact with the older gardener. I get the vibe most people aren’t friendly with Henry, and go out of their way to avoid him when possible. I know I do, at least.
Henry doesn’t even seem to register that the doctor said his name, and heads to his room to eat alone. I can’t even begin to pretend to understand the head gardener.
Cliff just rolls his eyes and returns to his cooking. He attempts to offer me a pancake, but I hold up my hands and try not to grimace. He eyes me, still frowning, and I mutter that I'm not a fan of blueberries, even though I frequently ate blueberry yogurt at lunch.
I pop open one of the boxes and help myself to a thick slab of bacon. Chef Erik may be gruff, but his food is delicious; cooking clearly brings out his best.
“Is Henry always like that?” I ask, through a mouthful of breakfast.
Cliff nods. He’s put on a shirt now, but his biceps strain against the fabric. Even though he’s locked in his medical clinic all day long treating the nuns, staff, and nearby locals, he makes an effort to take care of himself as well. I’ve often seen him in the weight room, and besides that, Cliff runs several miles after work. In a few minutes he’ll open his clinic doors. His white coat is tossed over the back of one of the kitchen table chairs.
“Yes. He’s a prickly, old dude,” Cliff sighs, back to feeling rather prickly himself now. The
bad mood spreading over the grounds must be contagious. He devours three pancakes, then stares at the stack of leftovers with a slight frown before wrapping it in tin foil and chucking it into the fridge. Swiping some bacon from the kitchen boxes, he remarks, “I have to go into work earlier than I expected. There are a lot of patients today and the mother superior still isn’t letting the sister that was helping me return to be my assistant.”
I nod and watch him, eyes drifting out through the window. I have to get back to work, too. Though I can’t imagine pretending to focus on the task at hand, when all I can think about is the way Maggie felt in my arms, and the fact that I have to leave her all too soon.
Even though I knew from the start that nothing could ever come of the attraction between us, somehow it ending like this feels even worse than anything I could’ve imagined.
Cliff grabs his coat and stuffs his muscled arms into the sleeves before his eyes lock on me. “Be careful with him,” he whispers, chin jutting towards Henry’s closed door and then back at me. Before I can question him, Cliff hurries out the door and slams it behind him. I stare after him dully, a frown tugging at my lips.
Whatever. I wasn’t exactly planning on being best friends with Henry, anyway.
Turning, I go to grab my bag to head out to the garden, only to realize that the backpack was nowhere to be seen. I turn in a slow circle, eyes skimming over the short journey I made from the front door to the kitchen table, before my heart drops like a lead weight straight into my stomach: the kitchen. The convent kitchen. I put my bag down while I was waiting for the food, and in my hurry to return with all those take-out boxes, I must’ve forgotten to pick it back up.
Oh, hell, my notebook!
I take off like a rocket out of the building, passing Cliff and sprinting over the grass towards the convent looming up towards the sky.
When I burst into the kitchen, Erik is wiping down a counter. The side passageway is now closed off, and the rest of the staff is walking in and out of the dining hall, serving the nuns eating breakfast there.
Erik’s patent scowl forms like a storm cloud over his face, his head shaking back and forth.
“You’ve got to be out of your damn mind,” he growls. “You’re not coming into my kitchen and begging me for seconds!”
“I'm not here for food,” I gasp, one hand on my chest over my racing heart as I look wildly around.
The chef’s brow furrows over his strong nose, head tilting to the side like a foulmouthed puppy. He almost looks offended that I hadn't come in here to ask for more food.
“Really?” he asks, a pout on his chiseled jaw, but I don’t hear the question.
My bag, now toppled over, still sits at the base of the counter where I’d abandoned it. I breathe a sigh of relief and bend down to rifle quickly through it. I poke past some crumpled papers, a half-empty water bottle and some granola bars, only to realize with a sickening dread that the notebook is gone.
Erik leans over the counter, his buff arm resting on the shining wood; he notes my stricken face and reads my mind. “If you’re looking for something that’s gone missing, then that rascal Sister Monica is the one to track down. That girl is pretty, but she sure loves to get up to no good. She’ll give it back though, usually, once she’s bored of it.”
“No, I need it back right now,” I exclaim, dragging a hand through my hair. “I'm leaving the convent tomorrow morning and I have to have it.”
Even though I’d considered leaving the drawing with Maggie, I know I’m going to need it. There’s no way I’ll ever forget every perfect inch of her divine face, yet I want to keep that drawing of her with me always as a memento of our too-brief encounter. But how will I get it back before I'm set to leave the convent? Anita made it clear I only have ’til tomorrow.
“That’s a shame,” Erik says with a flippant shrug. “Guess you’re shit out of luck.”
27
Sister Catherine leans back against the outside wall of the kitchen just beside the door that’s ajar, her throat going tight. She can easily hear the voices of the gardener and the tattooed head chef coming from inside. She tilts her head to the side, peering artfully in through the small window of the door, just to be sure.
Trevor stands there, tall and tan and pensive. Catherine’s eyes wander down his body before she shakes her head and reminds herself that he belongs to her best friend. Then she concentrates on what to do now, pondering what she’d just heard and Maggie’s tearful confession.
Trevor is leaving. This isn’t good, Catherine thinks. Nor is it good that Monica has pilfered his naughty notebook.
Catherine already knew what was in the book. Because Catherine knew most things. Like Mother Antonia, she had her ways of finding out. Catherine could be charming when she wanted with either sex, and she knew how to flirt and flatter and bat her eyelashes with ease. Men were especially susceptible to her feminine wiles and she enjoyed that influence over them, especially when she snuck them a peek of her fishnet stockings under her habit. She had a string of cooks and laundry boys and townies who did whatever she wanted. She kept her flock small, though. The more people she had wrapped around her little finger, the more chance one would spring free and spill her secrets to Mother Antonia.
It had been a few days now since Catherine had found Trevor’s notebook and then snuck it back to the doctor, whom Catherine trusted. Trevor was careless with his notebook, which irritated Catherine. She was always careful with her forbidden items, and life was always easier when others did the same. The sisters all had their own secrets, even Eva, perhaps most of all, and Catherine frequently found herself in the position of helping them remain hidden. She didn’t consider herself a particularly good person for that, but she did consider Mother Antonia a bad person. Most of the sisters were Catherine’s friends and she was happy to help them out from time to time. Plus, when you help someone, even without their knowledge, they’re in your debt. At least that’s how Catherine saw it, and so her list of debtors was a long one.
Maggie was perhaps the only girl for whom Catherine didn't keep a running tally, and right now Catherine has to try and clean up this mess before Mother Antonia gets a whiff of it. Maggie is already in enough trouble as it is, with Eva having seen the kiss the nun and the gardener shared.
Catherine throws open the kitchen door and storms inside. Trevor and Erik look at her, Trevor going pale and Erik faintly smirking.
Erik, with his steely blue stare, may be coarse as sandpaper, but he has a soft spot for the sisters. Or at least a few of them. He sees a lot of himself in feisty Sister Catherine and mischievous Sister Monica.
Earlier, Erik had seen Monica the second she crept into the kitchen, and had even pushed the bowl of berries to the edge so she could snatch it more easily. But then when he saw that pale hand and those long fingers emerge from behind the counter, he couldn’t help himself. He’d just wanted to know if her hand was as silky as it looked.
It was.
Catherine notes that the side passage of the kitchen, with the door designed to be hidden among the patterns of the wallpaper, was closed while the kitchen staff was serving breakfast. This period of the day was the busiest at the convent and the best time for her to visit Erik, which she did almost daily. She hadn't expected to encounter Trevor as well.
Catherine was a frequent visitor to that concealed passage. She even had a key, one Erik had given to her himself. It made visiting her upstairs vantage point easier at times.
She supposes there could be worse things than Monica having Trevor’s notebook with its seductive drawing of Maggie inside. Monica, at least, knew how to keep her mouth shut when it was important. She may be prone to tricks and pranks but she was trustworthy—most other people in this nunnery weren’t.
“Paper,” Catherine demands from Erik, who blinks surprised eyes.
“Excuse me?” the chef says.
When she repeats her request, this time holding out an expectant palm, Erik glowers, then rips a paper t
owel off a nearby holder before pushing it towards her. She wrinkles her nose but then shrugs and leans over to take it, along with a pen that was already on the counter.
“Show him to the room, Erik,” she says, also a command. She doesn’t look at him, focused on writing something on the paper towel instead. “You know the one,” she adds, with a pointed jerk of her head towards the side door.
“I'm not your damn slave, woman,” the chef mutters irritably.
Trevor just looks on, surprised to see that anyone could boss the head chef around in such a way.
“It’s important,” Catherine murmurs, her tone so sincere that both men give pause. She finishes writing and tucks the paper inside her habit above her breast.
Erik looks over at Trevor, frowning, and then shrugs. “Fine.”
Catherine gives a sigh and then looks back at Trevor. “Where are you going?” she asks quietly. “Somewhere far?”
Trevor gives a faint nod and the strawberry blonde nun bites the corner of her mouth.
“Good,” she murmurs after a moment of deep thought. “Go up to where Erik shows you and wait for me there.”
The handsome gardener frowns, offended that Catherine would say it was good that he was going far away, but by then Erik has already cracked open the side passage door and is beckoning Trevor towards it.
Erik knew the little side passage led to a few different places in the convent, though only two mattered now. There was the upstairs path leading to a locked room high in the convent, and there was the path that went to the mother superior’s office. That doorway was hidden behind a grotesque statue of a crucifix.
“You’re going to head straight towards some stairs,” Erik instructs. “Be quiet. Go all the way to the top and you’ll see a small door with a lock on it. Use this key to get in. Got it?”
When Trevor nods, Catherine turns and races back into the convent, unwilling to waste any more time. It was easy to find Sister Monica where she was now kneeling with Sister Grace, doing her prayers.
