Chapter 6

SUBJECT: Booked my plane tix!

As she opened the email from Mom, Sarah’s breath caught. Dear God, she really was coming. Sarah skimmed the email. Seven days. Not too long, but… wait.

All right if I stay with you?

She nearly fell off her wooden chair. In no way was Mom bunking with her in this tiny room. She sent a quick reply, snuffing the idea then snapping shut her laptop. She flipped the pages on the calendar and wrote “MOM” on the third week in December, then shuffled the pages back to August. She paused on October, where she had circled in bright red pen the sixth-month marker of her marriage separation—the date the divorce papers would most likely arrive.

A tightness grew in her chest again. The minute hand on the wall clock tripped over the six with a thunk, and Sarah let go of a breath. With a shaky hand, she returned the calendar to its current month. She had thirty minutes left of designated “work time”—thirty minutes before she could return to the city where she could bask in the mellow melody of splashing water from fountains and the tickling of the breeze off the Tiber. She had thirty minutes until she could drown out the looming divorce with the pleasures of Rome.

Her feet ached, and charcoal tinged her fingers, but a broad smile spilled over her sunburned cheeks. The past few days touring the city and recording the sights in her sketchbook had left her invigorated. She strummed her fingers on the desk. Thirty minutes really wasn’t enough time to get another project done—best end early. She packed her laptop in its case.

“Buon pomeriggio.”

Sarah jumped at the stern voice, banging her knee against the desk.

Sister Maria stood in the doorway.

“Sister…I mean, Suor Maria, buon pomeriggio.”

Hands clasped, Sister Maria stepped into the classroom. She rattled off words in Italian and glided to the bulletin boards on the far wall.

Scuola; giorni; preparato—the comprehensible words came infrequently. The final words left Sister Maria’s mouth with the traditional inflection of a question. When she turned, she had one eyebrow raised so high it nearly touched her headdress. Sarah’s jaw tightened. “Mi dispiace,” she stuttered. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

Frowning, Sister Maria stepped toward the desk.

Did she expect Sarah to be fluent in Italian overnight? Sarah shifted her hands to behind her back. Hopefully, Sister Maria wasn’t the type to rap knuckles.

“What are your plans for instruction?”

“Well, as I explained during our interview, the instruction will be done through immersion. This method is what we utilized in the US, and how we taught in my ESL classroom.” Well, technically it hadn’t been her ESL classroom. She’d only covered for the teacher while she was on maternity leave. Sister Maria looked unimpressed.

“And the parents?”

Sarah grasped the handout she’d printed that afternoon. “I’ve got them covered, too. I’ve prepared this handout.” She handed Sister Maria the sheet. “It explains the benefits of immersion.”

Scanning the paper, Sister Maria nodded. “And what about the open house?”

Stumbling back, Sarah gasped. “Open house?”

The head of school handed back the paper. “I’m sure Sister Angelica mentioned it. Monday night.”

“Monday?” Her voice quavered.

“Anna didn’t tell you either?”

Sarah shook her head. Her pulse quickened, and she dropped her hands to her side. If Anna could stop pestering her about Marco, perhaps the topic would have come up. Monday. Parents. Oh, crud. She’d need more materials to share—daily schedules, sample lessons—and she’d have to be ready to converse.

Oh no. She drummed her fingers against her thigh. What if they expected her to speak Italian fluently, too?

As Sister Maria stepped away from the desk, she ran a hand over a book jacket stapled to the bulletin board. “I’m sure they will appreciate the effort you’ve put into decorating the classroom.”

“Thank you.” She stared at the small Italian-English dictionary on her desk. Unless she grew a second brain overnight, she was screwed—absolutely screwed.

“Most of the parents do speak English, Ms. Miller.”

Heart still racing, Sarah heaved a sigh and realized she’d been holding her breath.

Sister Maria raised her upper lip slightly.

Was she smiling?

“Most,” she repeated. “Not all.”

Sarah nodded. Please let “most” be more like all but one—the one who happens to miss the open house.

“But the whole school meeting will be in Italian. I expect you to introduce yourself accordingly.”

“Yes, of course.” She could manage…well, could with a lot of cramming.

Sister Maria clutched her rosary. “I also wanted to invite you to mass.”

Sarah lifted a brow. “Oh. I…I’m not Catholic.”

Softening her expression, Sister Maria fingered the red beads. “All are welcome.”

Dropping her gaze, Sarah nodded. Even heathens who didn’t know the difference between Saint Francis and Santa Claus? Not likely.

Sister Maria headed toward the door then stopped, wheeled around, and gave Sarah a once-over. “What size shoes do you wear?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Shoes.” She pointed toward Sarah’s feet.

“Oh—an eleven. I mean, a forty-two in European sizing.”

“I figured as much. I have some old ones you can have.” She motioned to Sarah’s sneakers. “You won’t want to wear those all the time.”

Sarah looked down at her perfectly comfortable and presentable sneakers and slumped her shoulders. Couldn’t she get anything right? She’d failed the Italian test, and now she couldn’t dress to their standards either.

Once Sister Maria left, Sarah returned to her chair and plopped down. The hard wood smacked the back of her legs. So much for an easy year. She eyed the clock. Twenty minutes left. And so much for leaving early.

****

On Sunday, the dormitory students crowded the school’s chapel, their chatter bouncing off the stone walls.

Sarah arched her back away from the stiff wooden pew. She’d spent two hours under Anna’s tutelage the day before, and she still couldn’t tell a rolled ‘r’ from a flipped one. Anna’s translations of the mass would have been helpful. Unfortunately, Anna attending a sunrise service was as unlikely as Sarah understanding a complete sentence in Italian.

The priest chanted a foreign melody, and Sarah sighed. Great—Latin now, too? Resigning herself to her language ignorance, she relaxed into the back pew and wiggled her toes in Sister Maria’s black leather flats. Sister Angelica delivered them to her the previous evening. They weren’t all that different from a pair she’d brought from home, but the cork foot-bed offered more support for her high arches than the sneakers. Who knew?

As the priest continued the Latin incantation, the hypnotic rhythm softened Sarah’s annoyance at her inability to comprehend it. No wonder so many people attended church—the service was quite therapeutic. Even if she had no idea what they were saying. When was the last time she’d been in church, anyway?

Sarah stiffened, the memory resurfacing of Philip’s church—or rather, his mother’s—for their wedding. They’d wanted to be married by a justice of the peace, but Philip’s mom convinced them to use her church instead. Since she footed the bill for the reception, they’d felt obligated to accede to her request.

At the altar, the priest lit a candle.

This candle was a simple white taper, not like the braided unity one she and Philip chose. The blue and gold of the intertwined wax melded when they read their vows.

“Joined forever,” the wedding official said.

“My soulmate,” Philip called her.

His eyes alight with passion, he beckoned her with his husky voice. She’d never doubted his sentiment.

Perhaps, back then, he didn’t either.

Bitterness clipped Sarah’s tongue, and she gripped the edge of the pew, digging her fingernails into the wood. Sarah looked away from the candle.

Two men in ornate robes walked down the aisle with ornate metal containers steaming incense. A woodsy, balsam scent wafted in the air.

Sarah peered through the haze to the swooshing robes. The cream fabric of the robes was the same shade as her wedding dress—an off-white satin, empire-waist gown, specially made to fit her five-foot, ten-inch frame. Philip told her she’d never looked more beautiful than she did in that dress, and she’d felt good—elegant, graceful, confident in her appearance.

Sarah examined her current outfit—a washed-out shirt and black slacks. They were both a size larger than her wedding dress and both as simple as the tapered candle on the altar. She loosened her grip on the bench and slumped her shoulders. Kneeling boards opened with a thud, and Sarah sprang up in her seat.

Around her, men and women lowered to the padded planks and bowed their heads in prayer.

As the congregation prayed, Sarah hesitated, and then joined them. She clasped her hands, closed her eyes, and attempted to empty her thoughts. But her mind was restless—a board squeaked, a person sneezed, a paper rustled. When she finally tuned out the surrounding noise, the result was worse. Memories streamed in like flowing water: her father walking her down the aisle, Mom dancing with Philip, and her carefully manicured bouquet of white and blue hydrangeas.

Sarah opened her eyes, and tears welled. A knot wedged in her throat, and her clasped hands shook.

At the front of the church, Sister Maria, eyes closed, mouthed a silent prayer.

All around were unfamiliar faces—calm faces, quiet faces, faces of people who knew nothing of her past. Steadying her hands, she dabbed at her eyes. This change was what she had wanted—a fresh start. This move was the best way to move on, to figure out what to do next…right?

Again, she lowered her eyelids and diverted her thoughts from the past and toward the future—her future. God…Holy Mother…whoever it is up there. If anyone is listening, I just want to ask for some guidance. Where do I go from here?

The priest chanted “amen,” and the congregation echoed.

Sarah opened her eyes to the rustling sleeves of attendants crossing themselves. She started to stand but stopped. One request remained unasked. Dropping back to the kneeling board, she squeezed her eyes shut. And if it’s not too much to ask, please let me figure out this tongue-twister of a language…preferably before Monday.