The fire crackled and popped, making the shadows in the dark room dance. Kyrie lay curled up on a braided rug in front of the hearth. Outside, snow fell in big, fluffy snowflakes, eight inches so far, and several more to come. Lauren sat cross-legged in an armchair facing the fire, her eyes closed, her lips moving as she prayed the rosary.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tua in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria…” With each repetition of the prayers, her fingers slipped over worn mother-of-pearl beads.
So focused was she on her prayer that she didn’t hear Gail’s soft padded footsteps as she descended the stairs in thick socks. Nor did she hear the pause at the bottom when Gail saw her and hesitated before going to the kitchen to get a pot of coffee brewing.
She finished the fifth decade of the rosary and made the sign of the cross. Only then did Lauren become aware of faint sounds coming from the kitchen and the aroma of fresh coffee. A moment later, Gail appeared, carrying two mugs. She paused until Lauren turned.
“I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” Lauren said, setting the rosary on the table.
Gail handed her a steaming cup and took the other armchair. “Didn’t feel like an arctic trek to the gazebo this morning?”
Lauren smiled, cradling the hot mug in her hands. “No. A soft chair in front of a fire sounded much more appealing.”
“Smart woman.” Gail reached for the rosary, holding it to the light. “This is beautiful. Looks like real silver and mother-of-pearl. Old?”
“It is. Very old. It was a First Communion gift to an old nun who died a few years ago. She gave it to Mickey before she passed.”
“Oh.” Gail puddled the delicate beads on the table. “It’s funny how many cultures use prayer beads of some kind.”
“I find it helps me. I don’t always focus on the specific prayers as I do the rosary, but saying them channels my mind.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping their coffee and watching the fire.
“I had a phone call last evening,” Gail said at last. “From Scott, the other priest at my parish. I have to go back.”
Lauren watched her, saw the tensing of the jaw muscles, the cords in Gail’s neck. “Are you ready?”
Gail gave a mirthless half-laugh. “I don’t think that matters.” She took a sip, struggled to swallow. “I have responsibilities, and I’ve already had more than a month. A blessed six weeks to myself, to try and work through things. Thanks to you.”
She turned and met Lauren’s eyes. For long seconds, they sat staring at each other. Kyrie jumped into Gail’s lap with a small meow, breaking the spell.
Lauren’s heart thumped as she diverted her eyes to the fire. “This snow may prevent you leaving for a day or two. The landscaper I hired to plow gets to me when he can.”
“Told him that.” Kyrie purred under Gail’s strokes. “Said I’d be there for Sunday services.”
Lauren nodded. “We’ll see if we can bring things to a place where you can continue on your own.”
“About that…” Gail cleared her throat. “Lauren, you’ve been such a blessing to me. When I showed up on Mother Theodora’s doorstep, unannounced, mistakenly thinking the retreat house was open to anyone, I had no idea this would bring you into my life.”
“I… this has been a mutual surprise.”
“Do you think, I mean, would you mind if we stayed in touch?”
Lauren kept her eyes lowered. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Gail released a pent-up breath. “Belgian waffles.”
“What?”
Gail got to her feet. “I have a great recipe for Belgian waffles.”
Lauren followed her to the kitchen. “Très bien.”
Second only to the Chapel, the vaulted airy space of the vestment room gave one room to breathe. Overhead, timber beams and posts supported the roof—all new construction from when the fire damage was repaired. Large windows let in welcome light. Scattered all around the room were looms ranging from tiny tabletop versions to huge looms large enough to make tapestries that could cover a wall. Worktables were covered with partially completed projects, waiting for finish work or fine embroidery to bring them to life. The nuns who worked here became specialists, the only place in the abbey that didn’t rotate workers due to the amount of training and skill required for this work.
Mother Theodora carefully pushed open the door, taking in the hive-like industry of the room, the low hum of voices, and the rhythmic clack of a couple of the looms. Carefully, she descended the wooden stairs—having no desire to repeat the tumble she’d taken down them years earlier.
Sister Catherine saw her and hurried over. “Mother, we weren’t expecting you. Is something wrong? Is there anything you need?”
All work in the room ceased as the nuns realized the abbess was there. They all stood, looking at one another apprehensively.
“No, no, Sister.” Mother waved for the others to resume. Slowly the looms picked up again. “It’s been a while since I visited to see how all of you are doing.”
She wandered among the tables. “I get to see the figures from the sales you generate for us, but I so rarely get to see the beautiful things you create.”
Sister Catherine led her to where Sister Paula was working one of the medium-sized looms. “This will be an Easter banner for a church in Michigan.”
“How beautiful,” Mother leaned nearer to the deep blue and violet-hued cloth taking shape. She kept her hands tucked into her sleeves, knowing how easily some textiles, especially silk, could be damaged by hands not trained to handle the delicate stuff.
“Did you ever work here, Mother?” Sister Catherine asked.
“Me?” Mother Theodora straightened. “Good gracious, no. I’m afraid I haven’t the talent for this work.”
Sister Catherine chuckled. “Most of it isn’t talent so much as determination.”
She walked Mother toward the stairs.
“You’re too modest, Sister. You all create some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I’ve ever created anything in my life. If you don’t count bread.”
“Bread?”
Mother shook her head. “Nothing. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Mother Theodora, as she climbed the stairs and left, didn’t notice the puzzled glances the other nuns shared.
Knowing she couldn’t put the moment off any longer, Gail resolutely packed. It didn’t take long. She hadn’t brought that much, having taken off from Binghamton with no real plan, no idea how long she’d be gone. She certainly hadn’t expected this. Thanks to Lauren’s further generosity in offering the use of her washer and dryer, all of Gail’s clothes were freshly laundered.
Gail smiled, wondering if Lauren thought this baggy old fleece and her faded jeans were the only things she owned. Then again, a woman who’d worn a habit for twenty-ish years wasn’t likely to judge anyone else’s style choices.
Funny, though. Now that she thought about it, Lauren always looked put together. Her blonde hair was usually pulled back in a loose braid, and she favored tailored clothing in earthy hues. Nothing flashy, no bright colors. But they accentuated her willowy limbs, hugged her curves—“Stop!”
Gail closed her eyes, leaning on her suitcase. “You cannot do this. She has been nothing but kind to you. Don’t read anything more into it.”
She checked the closet and drawers one last time and then zipped her bag. She lugged it and her backpack down the stairs, leaving them near the front door, and found Lauren in the kitchen.
“All packed?” Lauren wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.
“Yeah. Can’t put it off any longer. Lauren, there are no words to thank you for all you’ve done. I still don’t have the answers I came here searching for, but I’m going back—” Her voice caught. “I’m going back. And that’s mostly thanks to you.”
“You did all the hard work. All you needed was a guide.” Lauren reached into her pocket and took Gail’s hand, placing something in her palm.
“The rosary?” Gail shook her head. “You can’t give me this. It means too much to you, its connection to Mickey and the other nun—”
“They would both want you to have it. Think of—” Lauren lowered her eyes. “Let it help to guide your prayer.”
Gail felt a profound disappointment when Lauren released her hand. She didn’t trust herself to say anything more, but she flung her arms around Lauren and held her tightly for a long embrace. Afraid she might not let go, she released her just as quickly and grabbed her bags to take them out to her waiting car, which had been scraped clean of snow the day before.
Lauren stood on the porch, one hand raised in farewell. Gail forced a smile and a wave, but tears pricked her eyes as she put the car in gear.
Back to Binghamton, back to her life and her responsibilities, back to all she’d run from. But she had one stop to make first.
St. Bridget’s long drive had been plowed, as had the parking lot, though there were no other cars. Sister Lucille was waiting for her and ushered her to Mother Theodora’s office.
“Venite,” came the response to Sister Lucille’s rap.
“Pax tecum.” Sister Lucille opened the door and ushered Gail in.
“Et cum spiritu tuo.” Mother rose from her desk and extended a hand.
“Thank you for making the time to see me again. I did at least offer the courtesy of making an appointment this time, rather than just dropping in on you out of nowhere.”
“No need to thank me.” Mother’s sharp eyes probed. “How are you?”
She gestured to one of the chairs, taking the other, the folds of her habit falling gracefully into place. Gail noticed the way the wimple framed her face, hiding nearly everything one usually notices about a woman, except those eyes.
“I’m… better.” Gail gave her a wry smile. “Better than I was when I stumbled in here, blubbering to a woman I’d never met.”
“This office has seen just about every emotion known to humankind. I’m glad Lauren was able to help you. And I have something for you.”
She reached for something on her desk and handed Gail a small earthenware pot, no larger than her palm. The vessel was cracked in several places, only the cracks had been filled with veins of gold.
Gail stared at Mother. “Did she tell you?”
“You know better than that,” Mother chided gently.
Gail’s cheeks burned. “I’m sorry. You’re right. But how did you—?”
“Just a hunch.” Mother Theodora looked at the little pot. “That was given to me many years ago.”
“It’s beautiful. Too beautiful, Mother Theodora. I can’t accept this.”
Gail tried to give the pot back, but Mother shook her head.
“It helped me, during a time when I was feeling broken. Shattered. The Japanese have a name for this technique—kintsugi—the art of celebrating the cracks, the defects. Precious scars, they call them.”
Gail swiped a hand over her eyes. “Dammit, I wasn’t going to cry again.” She cradled the small pot, running her finger over the veins and quoted, “‘My grace is enough for you; my power is at its best in weakness.’”
She met Mother Theodora’s eyes and knew she understood.
“Exactly.”