And Then There Were Nuns Read online

  Sister Helene shrugged. “No one’s ever said. As far as I can see, it must have been because of that article in the New York Times recently. You might not have read it.”

  I had, and now that she mentioned it, I remember being impressed with the details of the story. “It was about American nuns and how they’re involved in social justice programs.”

  “Each in our own way,” Sister Helene said. “Like I said, charism. After it was announced that we’d be awarded those grants, that’s when the New York Times reporter interviewed each of us and wrote about the work we do. This week is our chance to learn from each other, to see how each of our own programs works, and according to the email schedule we all got, we’re going to get started . . .” She pulled a smart phone from her pocket and checked the time. “We’re supposed to have our first get-together in just a couple minutes. Any idea if Richard Ward Parker is here yet?”

  I hadn’t a clue, but after all the good things Sister Helene said about him, I was anxious to meet the week’s retreat facilitator, too, and I didn’t have much time. I had guests checking into the B and B that day and because of not-so-set-in-stone schedules, no idea what time they might be arriving. The nuns had come over from the mainland on the first ferry; I needed to get home before the second one docked. Fortunately, at this time of year—unlike during tourist season—the ferry ran infrequently and I had a few minutes to try to catch a glimpse of Richard Ward Parker, so I followed the Sister downstairs to the spacious living room where a few of the other Sisters had already gathered. The room had a marble fireplace that was taller than me and comfortable seating groups: a couch and three chairs in front of the hearth, another couch with chairs on either side of it over near the far wall, a few more comfortable easy chairs scattered around, a table near the windows that would be perfect for reading.

  “We’ve got a couple minutes,” Sister Liliosa pointed out, and in that time, the nuns who had been in their rooms drifted downstairs and got settled.

  As someone had already mentioned, there were ten of them in all, three in traditional long habits and veils that covered their heads and ears completely, three in short dresses and half-veils, and the rest wearing street clothes that made me think that had I met them under any other circumstances, I never would have known they were nuns. As Sister Helene had explained, they all did different work. In addition to the English-as-a-second-language teacher, the death row missionary, the two music ministers, Sister Liliosa who was committed to nonviolence, and Sister Catherine Lang who ran the homeless shelter, Sister Mary Jean ran a food pantry in Lexington; Sister Francelle was the CEO of a company that produced religious-themed calendars, note cards, and gifts; Sister Gabriel (the young nun who was on my porch that morning) specialized in liturgy; and old Sister Margaret administered an urban garden in Pittsburgh and was committed to environmental sustainability.

  The retreat hadn’t even officially started and already, I was impressed by the experience and dedication of the women in the room.

  As far as I knew, no one had appointed anyone to be in charge—not officially, anyway—but it was clear from the start that Sister Liliosa just naturally fit the role. Considering the scope of the programs each of these women ran and their experience, that said a great deal about Sister Liliosa.

  “Well, it’s time to get started,” she said, and when she stepped in front of the fireplace, the conversations around the room stopped. “Since there’s no sign of Mr. Parker—”

  Sister Liliosa’s words were cut off when her cell phone beeped.

  She reached into the folds of her habit and brought out the phone. “It’s him,” she told the group. “Or at least it’s a text message from him.”

  “He’s probably been delayed,” one of the other nuns suggested.

  “Or he’s gotten lost trying to find the place.”

  Sister Liliosa checked the message and held up a hand. “Listen to this,” she said, and she read the message.

  “‘Pick up your voicemail,’” it said. “‘Put it on speaker.’”

  She followed the directions and the next thing we knew, a man’s voice—it must have been Richard Ward Parker—filled the living room.

  “Good morning, Sisters! I hope you had a good journey to Water’s Edge. I know you’ve had some time to look around the facility and I expect you’re as impressed by what you’ve seen as I was when I visited there briefly earlier in the year. It’s a wonderful place. I only wish I could be there to share the excitement of the week with you.”

  A murmur of surprise went around the room and apparently, Mr. Parker had expected this, because he paused for a moment.

  “I’m sorry to pull the rug out from under you like this. I was looking forward to meeting each and every one of you. But you see, me not being there was part of the plan from the beginning.”

  Another buzz of conversation and surprise filled the room and someone had to warn the Sisters to “Shush!” so they could hear the rest of the message.

  “You see, Sisters, rather than have me there to oversee each day and each retreat activity, the real purpose of this week is for you to design your own retreat. That’s the whole point! You are intelligent, capable, and impressive women, and I know that working together, you’ll come up with dynamic programming that will speak to your own individual needs much more effectively than anything I could come up with ever would. So I leave you with this—work together, form teams, plan and carry out the ideal retreat. Relax, enjoy, and feel renewed. Blessings to you all!”

  For a few seconds after the message ended, the nuns sat in stunned silence.

  But like I said, they weren’t exactly wallflowers, and it is hard to keep a room filled with accomplished and efficient women down. It was time to leave them to it, but even before I was out of the room, Sister Liliosa was already looking over the assembly and I swear, I could just about see the wheels turning inside her wimple.

  “Sister Francelle, Sister Margaret, Sister Mary Jean . . . you are all involved in sustainability and nourishment, not just of the body, but of the artistic soul. Why don’t you three get together and see where your combined experience takes you, programwise. Sister Gabriel, I’m sure you can take care of our daily prayers.” She glanced around the room. “Sister Catherine and Sister Paul and Sister Grace, you are out in the community daily, so I think your experience with social programs and social justice will come in handy with organizing the agenda. If no one has an objection, I’ll grab my laptop and get the daily schedule down and be the point person. That leaves . . .” Her gaze roamed the room and stopped on Sister Helene, who was seated near the fireplace, then skimmed over to Sister Sheila, who was standing in the doorway that led out to the hallway.

  “We’ve got to have music,” Sister Liliosa said. “And we’ve got two of the best in the country who can be in charge of that.”

  “In charge of music? With Sister Sheila?” Sister Helene’s voice was so sharp, I stopped in my tracks just as I was about to head out of the living room and into the hallway. I guess I wasn’t the only one who realized how bitter she sounded because just as I looked back over my shoulder at Sister Helene, I saw color flood her cheeks. Her lips worked silently. Her eyes narrowed. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and got to her feet, her arms close to her sides, her chin high, and her smile so tight, I waited for it to shatter. “Actually, I was hoping to learn new skills at this retreat,” she said. “So I think I’ll leave the music up to Sister Sheila and join the social justice crowd.”

  No one objected.

  But if you ask me, no one in the room believed that bull about learning new skills, either.

  Especially Sister Sheila because Sister Sheila . . .

  Well, from where I was standing it was impossible to see clearly. But I swear, just as I looked her way, Sister Sheila’s hands curled into fists.

  * * *

  I got back home just in time.
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br />   Not for my guests, for the two dozen red roses that arrived along with a card signed by Levi that said Yes, let’s talk. Tonight at the bar. Considering that there wasn’t any place on the island that sold flowers at that time of the year, I could only imagine he’d called over to the mainland and had someone with a boat make the very special delivery. I hope he gave the fellow a whopping tip.

  I divided up the flowers in vases and put them in the parlor, the dining room, and each of the four guest rooms that would be occupied that night. No, none in my own private suite. But then, I didn’t need flowers to remind me of what Levi and I had shared the night before. No more than I needed the quick stab of conscience that jabbed me every time I thought about the conversation there was no way I could avoid.

  Let’s talk. Tonight at the bar.

  My heart in my throat, I practiced what to say a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

  With a laugh, like the whole thing was a big joke and didn’t Levi think it was as funny as I did?

  With my expression serious and grim. (I tried it out in front of the mirror just to be sure.) Surely, he would understand if I tugged at his heartstrings.

  I tried to go for down-to-earth and hard-nosed, too. Lay it on the line. Tell it like it is. After all, he’d understand if I just told the truth.

  Right?

  Lucky for me and the worry that pounded in my brain, I’d just gone through the scenario for time one thousand and one when my front doorbell rang.

  I opened the door to find a middle-aged man of middle height and middle weight standing on the porch.

  “Joe Roscoe.” Since he had a beat-up briefcase in one hand, a stack of file folders in the other, and a two-foot-long cardboard tube tucked under his right arm, he nodded by way of introduction. Roscoe had nondescript brown eyes, hair the color of the stones along the beach across the street, and a face that was as bland as the khakis and beige jacket he wore. He juggled the file folders so he could wedge the tube under his left arm and shake my hand. “You’ve got a room for me.”

  “I do.” I ushered him into the front hallway. “Suitcases?” I asked.

  “In the car.” Joe set down the briefcase along with that cardboard tube. He held on to the folders. “Lots of other stuff in the car. Books and more files and such. You said there was a desk in my room. There’s plenty of space to work, right?”

  I nodded. “A desk in your room, and depending on what you’re doing and how much space you need, there’s a table down here in the parlor. The light’s good and you can work in front of the fire.” I pointed to the room directly to the right of the front door. “As long as you clean up when you’re done.”

  Something told me this would not be a problem for Joe Roscoe. Though there was nothing flashy about him, there was nothing that struck me as haphazard about his appearance, either. His hair was neatly combed. His brown shoes were polished and the bows tied in precise, matching knots. That beige jacket of his was pristine, as if it had just come off the hanger at the department store.

  “Family history,” he said, confirming my opinion with an explanation that was quick and as efficient as I imagined Joe himself was. “I’m researching my genealogy and I’ve got ancestors who lived here on the island. I thought it would be better to do my research before the tourists showed up for the summer. You know, so I can get a better sense of what island life was like when my ancestors lived here.”

  “That sounds fascinating.” I wasn’t just blowing smoke because he was a paying customer; I’d always loved research. “And we’ve got some lifelong islanders around here who may be able to help. Chandra Morrisey is one of them.” I pointed out the window and to the left at the house next door, although I’d bet a dime to a donut Joe had noticed the house when he pulled his car into the driveway. But then, it’s hard not to notice Chandra’s single-story, very purple house with its teal blue garage door, its yellow trim, and its orange doors.

  And yes, just for the record, Chandra is just as colorful as her house.

  “She and Kate Wilder there across the street . . .” I pointed toward Kate’s house, catty-corner from mine. “I bet they’d love to help you. And there’s Luella Zak, too. Luella knows all of the old-timers. Maybe some of them even know the people you’re asking about.”

  “I doubt that.” Joe hoisted his briefcase. “The family I’m looking for was here more than a hundred years ago. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to put out some feelers, would it? Always good to make connections. Connections, that’s what it’s all about when it comes to genealogy.”

  I grabbed the key to Joe’s room and led him up the stairs. “There’s the historical society, too,” I suggested.

  When I threw open the door to his suite, he stepped in and looked around. He didn’t so much smile as bow his head, as if to indicate that yes, this would do just fine. “I’ve talked to the historical society people,” he said, setting his briefcase on the bed. “Any number of times. They’ve been great. I’m eager to get settled and get to work, and this . . .” Joe set the cardboard tube on the desk in front of the windows that overlooked the side of the house facing Chandra’s. “Perfect,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of room to spread out. Breakfast—”

  “Is at nine,” I told him. “Tea is laid out in the dining room at three. The rest of the day, you’re on your own.”

  Joe rubbed his hands together. “On my own. I like the sound of that. I can’t tell you how anxious I’ve been to get here and get started.”

  I left him to it and got back downstairs just as the doorbell rang again.

  My second guest had arrived, a thirty-something named Tyler Stevens. Tyler was short, broad, and had hair the color of a newly minted penny. Tyler’s blue eyes were set close together and his cheeks were pudgy. A redheaded Pillsbury Doughboy with a smile to match.

  Unlike buttoned-up Joe, Tyler was dressed more casually: jeans, sneakers, a blue sweatshirt with a drawing of a cardinal on it. The cardinal was the state bird of Ohio. I could see that Tyler—who’d told me that he was from Massachusetts when he called for his reservation—had come prepared. Like Joe, he had his hands full. This time with camera equipment.

  “Birds,” Tyler said as if he was reading my mind and answering the question I hadn’t had time to ask. “I hear this is a stellar place for birding. Say, you haven’t seen any Kentucky warblers yet this spring, have you? It’s a little early in the year, I know, but I’ve heard from fellow birders that there have been some seen in the area and I’m really anxious to get pictures of Kentucky warblers.”

  My blank expression must have been all the answer he needed because Tyler raced right on. “Small songbird, yellow underparts with an olive green back. It’s got black sideburns down the side of its face and throat and a yellow stripe all around its eyes, like glasses. Its song sounds like cheery, cheery, cheery.”

  “No warblers,” I was sorry to tell him.

  “Scarlet tanagers?” Excited expectation wavered through his question.

  “Sorry.”

  “Well . . .” His sigh was enough to tell me that, disappointed or not, Tyler would soldier on and continue his quest for warblers and tanagers. “I can’t wait to get started and it’s early in the day and the weather is perfect and the light is good. I’ll get my bags unpacked and then I’ll head out.”

  I showed him to his room, gave him all the same instructions about tea and breakfast that I’d given Joe, and left him to it, congratulating myself as I headed back downstairs. I might have to have “The Talk” with Levi later that day, but until then, there was no use fretting about it. I could prepare dinner for the Sisters at Water’s Edge and take heart in the fact that the B and B I’d opened just a year earlier was thriving. I’d followed my dream and made a success of it, and no matter what happened with Levi, no one could take that away from me.

  I headed into the kitchen to gather the ingredients that Me
g—the woman who did most of my cooking and who also happened to be Luella’s daughter—would use to prepare muffins for the Sisters’ breakfast tomorrow, and while I was at it, I got to work on dinner for the nuns. I’d already decided on individual meatloaves, garlic mashed potatoes, grilled veggies, and brownies for dessert and I’d just gotten the little metal meatloaf pans out of the cupboard and set them on the kitchen counter and counted them just to be sure there were ten of them when out of nowhere, a chill like the icy fingers of death snaked across my shoulders. I flinched, my hand slapped one of the meatloaf pans, and it went flying and landed on the floor with a clatter.

  As I retrieved and rinsed the pan, I reminded myself that feelings of dread had no place at Bea & Bees and certainly nothing to do with Water’s Edge and the nuns who were staying there. It was early spring. I was bound to feel a chill now and then, I told myself. There was nothing to worry about.

  Good advice, right?

  At least I thought so at the time.

  Too bad I listened.

  Because when it comes to a little spring chill versus apprehension, I should have learned by now.

  Dread always wins out in the end.

  3

  Of course, at the time, I wasn’t thinking about any dread but the dread I was feeling at the thought of the upcoming conversation I had to have with Levi.

  But even that had to take a backseat to the tasks that kept me busy the rest of that Saturday afternoon. I had more guests checking in, librarians from the mainland, all of them friends of our island librarian, Marianne Littlejohn.

  The four women, all in their mid-fifties (Marianne’s age), arrived by the three o’clock ferry, each of them with stacks of books they wanted to read and share, notes on books they’d already read that they wanted to discuss with one another, and lists they wanted to exchange: favorite books, favorite authors, favorite series. Marianne had told them about our book discussion group and, of course, they were plenty interested.