Of all the ways to change the world, Frank Weston would never have picked bringing back miracles. First, he wasn’t superstitious, and in his mind a miracle was just a superstition that enough gullible people believed in. Second, and more important, he was a reporter, and journalism is a career dependent on facts. (There’s an old saying in journalism: “If your mother tells you she loves you, get a second source.”) A miracle was the opposite of a fact.
But then the possibility of miracles entered his life through a side door: death.
One day a woman stood in front of Frank’s desk.
“Excuse me,” she asked. “Are you the obituaries man?”
Frank spoke without looking up from the copy he was editing.
“Down the hallway, second door on the right. Only he’s not in. He’s out on a story.”
His lean, rangy body was sprawled in the battered lounge chair he’d dragged into the newsroom from his shambolic bachelor apartment. His face was hidden under the scooped visor of a baseball cap.
The woman wasn’t to be put off. “Can you help me then? It’s urgent.”
Frank was on a tight deadline, so he had no intention of helping her, or anyone. But he knew he should at least look up before blowing the woman off.
“Mare?” he said, suddenly surprised.
He almost hadn’t recognize her. She was swaddled up for winter. She’d pulled a woolen cap down over her forehead against the cold and wrapped a gray muffler high on her chin. Her eyes were hidden behind oversized sunglasses. But Frank remembered those eyes. He could still picture them—it didn’t matter how many years had passed.
“You look like a double agent in all that gear, but it has to be you.”
Mare took off the sunglasses, confused. Her eyes blinked in the harsh newsroom lighting. She clearly didn’t remember him.
“This is awkward,” said Frank, taking off the baseball cap so she could get a better look. “It’s Frank, from college. Brendan’s roommate?”
He had stirred a memory. “Oh, God. Brendan. We were freshmen. I only looked him up because our parish priest told me I should.”
“Really? You made quite an impression. He talked about you all the time. And now I know why.”
Being tall and self-confident, Frank had gotten into the habit of saying whatever he thought. He tried to ignore Mare’s slight flinch.
“Sorry, I meant it as a compliment.”
When she didn’t respond, he thought about apologizing again, but decided against it. Instead he said, “What’s this about an obituary?”
Her eyes, which were large and brown, betrayed anxiety. “I shouldn’t be bothering you.”
“No, it’s okay. We’re just short-staffed at the moment.”
A nasty flu had taken out two reporters, and Malcolm, the regular obituaries writer, had rushed out to follow up a lead on a breaking story.
Frank straightened up in his chair. “Do you want to submit an obit? I can pass it on. Malcolm will get to it once he’s back in the office. I can’t promise it will be today.” As he said all this, he kept wishing that Mare would remember him.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to put in an obituary. I want to take one out.”
“I’m sorry. Someone died by mistake?” He meant to be funny, but she didn’t smile.
“No. I just don’t think anybody needs to know about my aunt’s death.”
Frank flipped to a new screen on the iPad he used for writing stories. “If it was a private death notice . . .”
“It was. My mother submitted it this morning.” Mare bit her lip nervously. “You have to cancel it.”
“Like I said, all I can do is pass on the message.”
Mare’s face fell, and the corners of her mouth started to tremble. He saw how important this was to her.
“Wait, let me call down,” he said.
He got hold of the head typographer, who wasn’t thrilled. The obits page was already set. Frank did a little arm twisting. “I owe you one,” he said and hung up. He directed a triumphant smile at Mare. “Done.”
Her eyes lit up, and Frank watched the tension melt from her body, even though she was wearing a puffy down coat.
“Now maybe you can sit down?” he said.
She wavered, her eyes glancing at the door, but she took a seat on the other battered chair in the cubicle, unwrapping the gray muffler. She removed the stocking cap, and her light brunette hair fell close to her shoulders. “I think I’d better have some water,” she said.
He fetched a paper cup of water from the office cooler, surprised at how quick he was to please her. What did it mean? He didn’t know, but he wanted to find out.
Mare sipped the water and went quiet. Frank figured he had about thirty seconds before she took off again.
“I almost didn’t remember your name,” he said. “I’ve never known anyone named Mare.” He had to start somewhere besides dying relatives.
“I get that a lot. It’s short for Ann Marie,” she replied absently, glancing at her watch.
Unless Frank called on his renowned powers of invention, she’d be out of his life again. “I’d like to see you,” he blurted out. “When nobody’s dead. Or not dead.”
She sat back and crumpled the empty paper cup in her hand. She was pondering the situation, the way a hitchhiker wonders whether it’s safe to get in a car. She made a calculation in her mind, and it must have come out in his favor.
“I have a secret, and I need to tell somebody. Not a complete stranger, I mean.”
So she did remember him, however vaguely. When his roommate had aroused Frank’s curiosity, he had wangled a seat behind her in a psych class. There were two hundred students in the room, but Frank must have made an impression.
“You can’t trust a stranger,” Frank said.
Mare nodded nervously. “But I have to talk to somebody. My family wouldn’t understand. They’d probably call the police.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“No, it’s not like a crime or anything.”
She looked ready to take back her decision to trust him. Frank kept quiet. He had been a reporter long enough to know he couldn’t press her.
She took a deep breath. “My aunt left a cardboard box behind when she died. It was sealed with packing tape and addressed to me. What I found inside is disturbing.”
Her pale hands fiddled with the dangling ends of her muffler. She bit her lip again, an unconscious tic, he figured.
“I’m pretty sure it must be stolen. That’s why I don’t want to announce her death. Not until I find out.”
“What is it?”
“A church. Or maybe a cathedral. I can’t tell which.”
Mare saw the look on his face and caught herself. “A miniature church, I mean.” Her hands made a shape in the air about nine inches around. “It looks old, and it seems to be made of gold.”
“Wow.”
“It’s quite lovely, actually.” Mare leaned forward, lowering her voice. “My aunt had no money. But in a way, I wasn’t surprised. She was a nun.”
“An order of nuns is into stealing?” Frank smiled indulgently.
Mare didn’t smile back. “No, she was a Carmelite, but rebellious. She left the order very suddenly, probably under a cloud—at least I think so. We weren’t close.”
She was on the verge of telling him more, but something stopped her. “Why am I saying this to a reporter?”
“Because I’m the first person you actually know. Sort of know,” said Frank.
“Maybe.” But Mare wasn’t reassured. Just the opposite. Her mental image of Frank was vague, a face in a crowded classroom that only stood out because he wore bright red suspenders. It took cockiness to do that. The last thing she needed right now was a cocky boy pretending to be a responsible adult.
She stood up, holding out a gloved hand. “Never mind. It’s not your problem.”
Frank didn’t take her hand. “You have to go?” It was obvious the scales had swung against his favor.
“I’m late already. Thanks for keeping the death notice out of the paper.”
Frank frowned. “I might be out of line, but you could be in real trouble. I don’t have to be a reporter, you know. I can just be somebody who’s ready to help. And I can keep a secret,” he added.
“Really?” A smile crept into Mare’s voice, despite her anxiety. The way Frank looked at her wasn’t subtle. “Is this about wanting to see me again?”
“Is that so bad?” He made as if to straighten the necktie he wasn’t wearing. “I’m presentable.”
She took a moment to think about this. “Maybe we could go out for coffee. Now, if you can take a break. I’d be more comfortable someplace else.”
Frank followed her eyes across the surrounding cubicles. There were about five reporters in the newsroom, where once there had been twice as many. The firing squad hadn’t picked Frank off yet, but anyone could be next. After five-thirty, he and a few coworkers would grab a drink and complain about how they hadn’t gotten a raise in two years, even though none of them dared to ask for one.
Frank snapped the cover on his iPad. “Now is perfect,” he said, mentally kissing his deadline good-bye.
After throwing on his peacoat and leading Mare outside, Frank saw that it was snowing hard. The city was no stranger to the Arctic vortex, even before it became famous. The wind howled from the northeast, and the new snowfall added a layer of white frosting to the brown old snow piled up at the curb. He took Mare’s arm, and they crossed the slippery street to the diner where Frank ate half his meals. For the first time that day, he felt good.
A minute later they were settled in a booth at the back of the diner. Mare scanned the menu silently, and then ordered a Greek yogurt with fruit salad. Frank ordered coffee, black.
When the waitress was gone, Mare smiled, looking directly at Frank. Confessing seemed to have calmed her nerves. Her eyes were like still pools no longer ruffled by the wind. They are the most beautiful thing about her, Frank thought, distracted for a moment.
“I’ll tell you the whole story,” Mare said, “and then I can show you what my aunt gave me. I tucked it in the laundry hamper in my closet. I really hope it’s not stolen, but it must be.”
“Maybe she was just guarding it,” Frank suggested. “The Catholic Church has a lot of treasures.”
“Maybe.”
Mare lost her smile. But she didn’t object when Frank took out a spiral notebook and began taking notes. Her story was as strange as promised. He ordered two refills of coffee before she finished telling it. Halfway through, he had already decided that her aunt was either a saint or a nut who needed to be put on stronger meds. Either way, Frank was pretty certain he could rule out archcriminal.