Nolan Trilogy (48 page)

“Concussion and a broken arm.”  The ghoul shook her head, blowing smoke like letting off steam from between her lips.  “Stupid girl.  But her baby is just fine.  Now we just have to hope it isn’t as retarded as she is, hm?” 

“I think our time is up.”  Leah stood—it was getting harder and harder to go from a sitting to standing position, the bigger she got—looking at the woman sitting across the desk.  Leah knew she had made mistakes in her life.  She was far from perfect.  But she thought there had to be a special place in hell for women like Joan Goulden, self-righteous, self-proclaimed saints who claimed to do God’s work—with a vengeance—who just liked to play God, like moving pawns around on a chess board.  It made them feel superior.  “I’m not feeling well.  I’m going to go lie down.” 

“I have to get back.”  Patty Wendt stood, tucking her pocketbook under her arm.  “Are we done here?” 

“That’s up to your daughter.  Are we settled then, Lily dear?”  The ghoul didn’t look up from scribbling in Leah’s growing file.  “You’re staying at Magdalene House?” 

“Yes,” Leah whispered, tears stinging her eyes, head down, defeated.

“And you’re giving your baby a good start in life by signing the adoption papers when he’s born, yes?”  the ghoul inquired.

Leah gritted her teeth.  “Yes.” 

“Good.  See you next time, Lily dear!” 

The ghoul and her mother shook hands, a deal done.

Leah shuffled out, leaving all hope behind.

It started innocently enough, meeting Father Michael for coffee at the Mayflower every morning before school.  They had to put their heads together, compare notes, and plan strategies, after all.  She had enlisted his help in discovering more about the Mary Magdalenes, and he seemed willing enough to do so, but she didn’t dare tell him she’d been invited into the inner sanctum.  When he asked about her meeting with Father Patrick, she had lied, telling him he’d been right all along, Father Patrick wanted her to head up a project for him, a secret celebration for Mother Superior’s fiftieth anniversary of entering the nunnery.  Erica had overheard Father Patrick’s secretary, Mrs. Ketchum, talking about her work on the surprise party, and had simply usurped it for her own use.

“So that explains the secret,” Father Michael had said, nodding.  “I thought so.  Do you still want to pursue the secret society bit?” 

Erica should have let him off the hook, but since he’d agreed, she kind of liked having him dangling there, so instead of doing the smart thing and telling him she had dropped it, she urged him to continue digging.  She had been impressed, so far, with his reporting skills.  He had found two former alumni who had been willing to speak to him anonymously, sources protected, about the Mary Magdalenes.  But as Erica listened to the details he relayed, she knew, now that she was a full initiate herself, the information his sources were giving him only skimmed the surface of who and what the Mary Magdalenes really were.

The truth was, Erica was in the thick of it, and she was way in over her head.  She wanted to tell father Michael the truth, but her reporter instincts kept her from it.  Besides, she loved having an excuse to sit across from him every day, watching him sip black coffee and smile at her across the table.  She knew it was crazy, falling for a priest.  Maybe it was genetic.  Her mother had done the same, before Erica was even born or conceived.  She found herself anticipating those far too early morning visits with schoolgirl excitement.

“So, Sherlock,” Father Michael greeted her as she slid into the booth seat across from him.  “How’s sleuthing?” 

“Nothing new.”  She started dumping sugar and cream into her coffee.  He had ordered for her already.  That made her smile.

“I got you a treat.”  Father Michael slid a cinnamon roll across the table, its circumference nearly eclipsing the plate it was resting on.  It was covered in sticky, gooey icing.  “Your favorite.” 

“Yum!”  Erica began picking at it with her fingers, moaning softly as the sweetness melted on her tongue.  She spoke to him with her mouth full.  “Oh my God.  This is heaven!” 

Father Michael smiled around the rim of his coffee mug.  “I’m sure there are unlimited amounts of cinnamon rolls in heaven, although God might deny them to bad girls who take his name in vain.” 

“So worth it.”  Erica sucked cinnamon sugar off her sticky fingers.  Father Michael watched her with interest.  “Did I tell you what I found in my mother’s journal?” 

She still hadn’t managed to get into the rest of the locked boxes hidden under her bed.  She hadn’t told Father Michael what she’d read about her mother and Father Patrick.  She’d held it back, seeing how he idolized the older priest.  She told herself broaching the subject now was simply a strategic move, but even she couldn’t hide the truth.  It was total feminine manipulation on her part.  She wanted to know if the road she was traveling on was one-way.

“Some of it.  Just that she was part of the Mary Magdalenes and it was some sort of secret society.” 

“Well there’s more… although I’m afraid to tell you.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m afraid you won’t approve...” 

“How often have you known me to judge?”  He gave her a one-raised-eyebrow look.  It made him look boyish, which wasn’t that difficult to do, given his baby face features.

“Well apparently… my mother had a crush on Father Patrick.  Way back when.  It was before she met my dad.” 

“Is that so?”  Father Michael digested this information, putting his coffee cup down on its saucer.  “Interesting.  What did she say?” 

“Actually I think it was mutual.”  Erica watched his face for a reaction. 

“How do you know?” 

“I don’t know how far things went,” she said, peeling back layers of her cinnamon roll.  “But I do know they kissed.” 

Father Michael didn’t say anything, looking down at his cup.  She wondered if he was thinking about their kiss, the brief, forbidden touch of their lips.  She hadn’t intended to kiss him.  She hadn’t planned it.  It had just happened, but she couldn’t get it out of her head.  It had stayed with her, and she needed to know if it had stayed with him too.

“I think they may have had an affair.  I haven’t read any more to find out.  I’m not sure I want to know.”  That was a lie.  Of course Erica wanted to know.  Father Michael looked at her, and she saw on his face he knew she was lying.  “Have you ever been with a woman, Father Michael?” 

“I shouldn’t answer that question.”  Father Michael moved his cup around on the saucer, spinning it slowly in the opposite direction.  “To tell you the truth, I shouldn’t be meeting with you here like this at all.” 

“Why not?”  Erica sucked her sticky fingers into her mouth, licking off all the sweetness.

“I think you know why.”  He sat back, just looking at her.  His eyes were a bright, cloudless blue, although the depths of them were more ocean than sky.  She found herself lost in his eyes more often than not.

“I’m just curious.”  She shrugged, taking a sip of her overly sweet coffee.  “I didn’t know it was a crime to ask.” 

“It isn’t a crime.  But it’s also not appropriate.”  He sighed.  “I drove you home that night, and it was an act of charity.  But this… meeting for coffee, what we’re doing here… this is stepping over the line.” 

Erica inclined her head, catching his gaze.  “Do you want to stop?” 

“Honestly?  No.”  The look in his eyes, the longing there, made her feel weak.

“I know.”  She sighed, glancing as the bell over the door jangled, seeing Buddy Crenshaw in the doorway.  She hadn’t seen him since the night at the drive-in, and seeing him now, out of the blue, was like stepping into quicksand.  She was drowning, unable to save herself.

“Are you okay?”  Father Michael put his hand over hers. 

“Fine.”  Erica shook her head, looking down at the table.

“Buddy Crenshaw?”  A dark look passed over Father Michael’s face as he glimpsed the boy who had just come into the shop.  “Was it him?” 

Erica just nodded, staring into the beige liquid sludge at the bottom of her coffee cup.

“Excuse me.”  Father Michael stood, leaning on his cane.

Erica panicked, grabbing his arm.  “What are you going to do?” 

“Stay here.” 

She watched as Father Michael confronted Buddy, pulling him off to the side, away from the line of customers waiting to make an order.  She held her breath, straining to hear them, but Father Michael kept his voice down.  She could only hear a murmur of it.  But Buddy Crenshaw was hearing it full blast, his face red, gaze dropping downward, and the more Father Michael talked, the smaller Buddy Crenshaw seemed to get it.  He actually appeared to be shrinking, cowering in the corner of the donut counter, trapped there by Father Michael’s anger.

Erica blinked up at Father Michael as he returned to the table.  Buddy Crenshaw slinked by them, not bothering with whatever he had come into the Mayflower for in the first place.  She hardly noticed him, looking up at Father Michael, seeing him not as a priest, although he was wearing his cassock and collar, he always was, but as a man.  She had broached the subject, asking him those questions, because she wanted to know how he felt.  Now all she had to do was look at his face.

“We better go.”  Father Michael leaned on his cane, the same cane he had lifted in a threatening stance as he dressed down Buddy Crenshaw, an act she was sure no priest should ever contemplate let alone follow through with.  He had rescued her that night when he found her walking home from the drive-in as a priest, but just now, he had protected her like a man.  She saw it on his face, in his eyes.  He cared as much as she did, and he was just as confused and conflicted about it as she was.

“My cinnamon roll,” Erica protested.  She grabbed the last bit of it, popping into her mouth, and using her fingers to get the stray icing off the plate.

They walked outside, side by side, toward the church.  There would be mass, and Father Michael and Father Patrick would lead, and Erica would sit and kneel in the pews like a good girl, but no rule, no religion, nothing could stop her feelings for him.  She knew it was true.  And she thought he knew it too.  They walked in silence, up the block, neither of them knowing what to say to the other.

When they got close to the church, Father Michael took Erica’s hand in his, stopping her.  She looked up at him, waiting.  She knew he was going to end things.  She knew it.  She didn’t want to hear it; she wanted to run away so she wouldn’t hear the words.  Instead, she waited patiently for him to say it.

“Erica...”  He sighed heavily, looking down at her hand in his. 

Here it comes
.

He cleared his throat, his voice hoarse.  “See you tomorrow?  Same time?” 

She could barely breathe, let alone speak, so instead she just nodded, a slow smile spreading across her face. 

Erica tried bobby pins, keys, hammers, and screwdrivers, and still those little metal boxes stayed locked.  She almost asked her father if he knew where the key might be, but thought better of it.  She didn’t want him to know she had them.  She was sure he wouldn’t approve.  But her curious nature was driving her to madness.  She had to know the rest of the story.  Had father Patrick and her mother consummated their relationship? 

She was far enough into the Mary Magdalenes to understand her mother’s experience in the order.  They were doing a ritual—Erica’s first—for All Saints’ Day, the day after Halloween.  She had delicious fantasies about writing an exposé on the Mary Magdalenes, citing her mother’s journals as proof of their existence, and her own experience as a journalist, living the story from the inside.  The only hitch in her plan was her fear of what Father Michael would say when he found out she had sacrificed herself in such a way.