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THE ORDINARY YOUNG man she’d come to accept as her son, in a clerics robe, looked anything but ordinary. He looked divine, Mrs. Scott thought with pride. There were a couple of new scars, a few more lines on Tommy’s face than Mrs. Scott remembered. The blue eyes looked cautiously wiser, and his hair didn’t flow wildly. Aside from that, he looked like the Tommy Mrs. Scott had come to love as a son.
Coming face to face with Tommy, Mrs. Scott couldn’t help but hug him tight and for longer than she should have, but it felt like she was touching the past and newfound future. Mrs. Scott was relieved when she drew away, and Tommy didn’t question her emotional release, but helped her out of her flannel coat, and proceeded to get to know her better.
Mrs. Scott told Tommy what she could about herself and his father without crossing the line. Francesca asked her not to. Mrs. Scott told him about owning Scott’s Garden Center and the son who used to manage it, hoping to stir a reaction. Nothing. She told him about Harry and leaving when their son was reported MIA. She didn’t see recognition in Tommy’s eyes.
Mrs. Scott nearly told Tommy how his father died broken-hearted thinking he’d lost his son to the war before she caught herself. Going deeper into his history would trip her up, and exposed Tommy to too many life stories too quickly, which may cause Tommy to withdraw further from the reality of his life. That’s what Francesca had told her that psychiatrist friend had said.
Scanning the office, Mrs. Scott noted Tommy had gotten rid of the clutter and disorder Father Albert was fond of. The once brown walls were painted white, his desk was neatly arranged. A Christmas tree, blinking with colorful lights, was propped up in the corner next to the window. It sat on a white skirt, simulating snow. A vibrantly red poinsettia sat atop the gray, metal filing cabinet.
It was an orderly office. It was Tommy’s office.
“Will I be seeing you in church this Sunday?” Father Matthew said.
“You most certainly will. I’m a devout catholic.”
“Good to know.”
On seeing the potted aloe, spider plant, and the English ivy sitting on the window ledge, Mrs. Scott said, “You like plants.”
“I do. I seem to have the ability to make them thrive. At the monastery, I was the designated gardener. I started with a small patch of land, enjoyed it so much, I tripled the garden size and grew all of our vegetables.”
Mrs. Scott’s eyes flashed with hope. Francesca had told her not to push his memory along too much, but now that he’d opened the door, she couldn’t let it pass. “That was where?” she asked with a tone of innocence.
“Sicily. I was a member of the Benedictine Monastery. They were my salvation,” Father Matthew said contemplatively, and Mrs. Scott made a mental note to pass the information on to Francesca. “I was sorry to leave it behind, but when Father Albert was offered a teaching position in Madagascar, and they were looking for his replacement St. Elizabeth’s called to me. And here I am.”
“The Lord does work in mysterious ways,” Mrs. Scott said, taking inventory of the fantastic story, which took Tommy across an ocean, changed him, and brought him back to the place of his birth as Father Matthew. He had no idea who she was, didn’t know Francesca or St. Elizabeth’s, his church until his teens when he’d strayed. He was lost amid his own life.
“He does.” Father Matthew nodded in chorus with Mrs. Scott. “Can I offer you something to drink? I’m afraid it will have to be water or tea. I can boil water.” He gestured toward the kettle on the filing cabinet. “I’m in between cooks, and it’s all I can offer you.”
Mrs. Scott smiled broadly. “I’m a great cook. You loved ... you’ll love my cooking.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense. I believe God sent me across an ocean to look after you.”
“He just may have.” Father Matthew’s voice was rich and jovial. “The church pays a modest stipend.”
“You put that stipend to better use. My husband, Harry Scott,” she spaced the words out for effect. When Father Matthew didn’t react, she went on, “May he rest in peace, left me comfortable. I’ll be telling you all about him in the coming days. He was a man you’d want to know.”
“He sounds like a good man.”
“He was.” Struck by thoughts of him, Mrs. Scott paused for a moment to collect herself. “I’m staying at the Thompson estate. I believe you’ve met Frankie.”
Guilt and shame played into Father Matthew’s eyes, and he turned to give Mrs. Scott his back. “Yes, I know Francesca,” he said, contemplating the kiss he almost made happen.
“She told me you’re a good friend and that you helped her get through a difficult time in her life. I don’t know what that was, but I do know you lifted her spirits when she needed it most. I’m grateful to you. She’s always been like a daughter to me, and if I couldn’t be there for her when she needed someone, I’m glad you were.”
Father Matthew turned to face Mrs. Scott. “She’s a wonderful woman.”
Mrs. Scott’s eyes stayed on him. “Good friends are hard to come by, needed. I know she cherishes your friendship and needs you.” She rose, picked up her purse and her coat off the rack. “Now, show me the way to the kitchen, and I’ll get busy making you lunch, which by the way, is served at noon on the nose. Not five past. On the stroke of twelve. You’ll eat dinner at six, and breakfast at...”
