The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (17 page)

“Wait here.” Sister Catherine touched her elbow, then vanished down a narrower hall. She reappeared several minutes later to announce in a hushed voice, “Reverend Mother will see you now.”

Mother Ignatius rose to greet Sam as she entered, a woman as plain and spare as her office. “Samantha, what a lovely surprise.” A firm, dry hand gripped hers.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“I was just going over the monthly budget, and I can’t think of a more welcome intrusion.” She gestured toward the straight-backed chair facing her desk. “Sit down, please. What can I do for you?”

Sam sank into the chair, which was as uncomfortable as it looked. She felt sick with what she was about to report. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

Mother Ignatius cast her a curious glance before settling back in behind her desk. “Well, I’m delighted to see you in any event. I’ll have Sister Catherine bring us some tea.” She pressed the intercom on her phone.

“Tea would be lovely,” Sam said.

“Chamomile. Good for the nerves.”

The older woman smiled, a smile that lent her plain, some might say homely face—a cross between Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt—a kind of stark dignity. Sam remembered when they’d first met. Her daughters had been caught trespassing, and Mother Ignatius, newly appointed as mother superior, had personally escorted them home.

“I’m told
People
is knocking at your door,” Sam began in an effort to put off the inevitable. “You won’t be able to hide out much longer, you know. You’re too good a story.”

The older woman rolled her eyes. “Your friend Gerry has other ideas, I know, but I have a morbid fear of us becoming just another novelty act. Like Sister Wendy, or the singing nuns.”

Sam smiled. “I don’t think there’s much danger of that.”

Mother Ignatius withdrew a box of chocolates from a deep drawer in her desk and offered it to Sam. “Perugina. My sister sends them.”

“I didn’t know you were allowed,” Sam teased, helping herself to one.

“Oh, we have our vices.” She tipped Sam a wink as she settled back in her chair, folding her hands in front of her on the desk. “Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

Sam cleared her throat. “I’m here about Sister Agnes.”

The mother superior sat silent, waiting.

“She comes into the shop from time to time,” Sam went on, her face warming.

“Yes, I know.” Mother Ignatius wore a look of weary patience. “She loves looking at beautiful things. Always has.”

“I hate being the one to tell you this…” Sam felt as if she were confessing to a crime of her own, “but she does more than look.”

Mother Ignatius’s expression grew puzzled. “What are you saying?”

“She…takes things.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the faint buzzing of a fly against the window. At last, Mother Ignatius asked softly, “How long has this been going on?”

“A few months. I didn’t want to say anything at first…until I was absolutely sure.” Sam felt terrible. “I was hoping it would go away on its own.”

“I take it you haven’t said anything to Sister Agnes.”

“No.” Sam fixed her gaze on the plain wooden crucifix on the wall above the desk. Like many of the ones at Our Lady of the Wayside, it bore no corpus—a reminder that Christ’s burden wasn’t to be borne by Him alone. “I thought it would be best if you spoke with her instead.”

They were interrupted by a timid knock at the door. “Come in,” Mother Ignatius called somewhat abruptly.

Sister Catherine’s anxious pink face appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Reverend Mother. It’s Sister Beatrice. She says it’s urgent.”

The older woman frowned. “It’s always urgent with Sister Beatrice.” She sounded irritated. “Tell her I’ll speak with her after evening prayers.”

The young novice bowed her head. “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

She was easing the door shut when Mother Ignatius asked pointedly, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Sister?”

Sister Catherine stared at her blankly a moment before squeaking, “Your tea! Oh yes…it’s ready.”

“We’ll take it in the parlor.”

When they were once more alone, Sam asked nervously, “What will happen to Sister Agnes?”

All at once Mother Ignatius looked every bit her age: an old woman long past retirement. “Send me a list of the stolen items and I’ll see that they’re returned.” Her face creased in a weary smile. “As for the state of Sister Agnes’s soul, I’m afraid that’s for a higher authority than me to decide.”

She led the way to the sitting room, furnished in simple but blessedly comfortable chairs and a heavy Jacobean-style breakfront. Over tea and honey cakes, they spoke of ordinary things: repairs to the chapel roof, the parish’s newly appointed bishop—an old friend of Mother Ignatius’s—and the recent media interest in their honey. When the bell signaling evening prayers began to peal, Sam rose to her feet.

They were making their way along the sheltered walkway outside when a nun came hurrying toward them. She was thin and pale, and appeared to glide an inch or so off the ground. Rosary beads clattered softly at her waist. As she drew closer, Sam noticed the prayer book in one hand—so worn its gilt lettering was unreadable.

“Sister Beatrice.” The reverend mother’s greeting was tinged with a note of resignation. It seemed appropriate somehow that they stood before the bas relief depicting the seventh Station of the Cross: Christ stumbling under the weight of his burden. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak earlier.”

Sister Beatrice glanced briefly at Sam. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize you had company.”

“Can it wait until after prayers?” Mother Ignatius asked.

“Certainly.”

“Is this about Sister Ruth again?”

Color crept into Sister Beatrice’s pale cheeks. “She was late again for choir practice. And when I reprimanded her, she snapped that just because I was choir mistress—” She broke off suddenly, darting a look at Sam. “Forgive me, Reverend Mother. We’ll speak at your convenience. Until then, I’ll pray and meditate on the matter.” She glided off, leaving Mother Ignatius to gaze wearily after her.

There’s one in every bunch,
Sam thought. Sister Beatrice, despite the fact that they looked nothing alike, reminded her of Marguerite Moore.

When they reached the chapel, Mother Ignatius unexpectedly leaned forward and kissed Sam’s cheek. “Take care, Samantha dear,” she murmured. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you these past few years. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.” With that she disappeared inside, leaving Sam to wonder precisely what she’d meant.

She was setting off down the path when she caught sight of Gerry, walking briskly ahead of her, a package tucked under one arm. Sam called to her, and Gerry spun about with a delighted grin.

“Sam! What on earth are you doing here?”

Sam shot a meaningful glance over her shoulder. Gerry was the only one besides Laura who knew about Sister Agnes, and they’d been friends for so long the slightest gesture or facial expression was enough to communicate what was on their minds.

Gerry made a face, saying in a loud voice for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, “Come on. I have to drop this off at the honey house. You can keep me company while I tell you about the latest addition to our line.”

“Which is?” Sam caught up with her, and they continued along the path.

“Blessed Bee moisturizer. It was Sister Paul’s idea. Who’d have thought a degree in biochemistry would be so useful in a nun?” When they were well out of earshot, Gerry asked in a low voice, “Okay, how did it go?”

“Reverend Mother wasn’t too happy when I told her.”

“She’ll survive. So will Sister Agnes.” Gerry turned onto a narrower path that brought them to a gated side entrance. She pushed it open, and they stepped out onto a dirt road that sloped down to a wide meadow sheltered on one side by eucalyptus trees. “It’s
you
I’m worried about. Andie told me what happened at the Tree House.”

“Marguerite, you mean?”

Gerry nodded. “Apparently, she was furious. After you left Andie heard her going on and on to Reverend Grigsby about how sad it was that you’d sunk so low. And you know how that voice of hers carries.” She cupped a hand around her mouth to bellow,
“Attention, everyone! Shuffleboard on the Lido deck in fifteen minutes!”

Sam laughed in spite of herself. “Marguerite can stow it for the time being. I just saw him off at the airport.”

“I see.”

Gerry seemed to be waiting for her to say more, but Sam didn’t know what to tell her. Nothing had been decided, yet she was as crazy about him as ever. She kept her eyes on the road ahead. The sun was setting, and the golden light had set fire to the meadow’s tall grass, leaving the trees deep in shadow. Here and there Sam could make out the boxy white shape of a hive. There were dozens, she knew, each precisely placed to avoid confusion among the colonies.

Sam recalled the story of Blessed Bee’s origins, one that had been told so often it was now legend. In the early thirties a nun of this order by the name of Sister Benedicta had been sent here to recuperate from a bout of tuberculosis. She thrived in the dry, sunny climate, and soon the other nuns began to notice her uncanny ability to commune with wildlife. It was said that sparrows would alight on her shoulders and deer would eat from her hand. But most astonishing of all were the bees: She could walk among them, even reach barehanded into their hives inside hollow tree trunks and not get stung. Soon the convent was in abundant supply of honey. Word of its delicate flavor and supposed curative powers quickly spread.

Requests began to pour in, and Sister Benedicta was put in charge of constructing an apiary. Within a few years Blessed Bee honey was being peddled throughout the valley, with the money going to a variety of charitable causes. All was prosperous and good until Sister Benedicta once again fell ill. This time, despite the doctor’s best efforts, she didn’t improve. Weeks later she was laid to rest in the tiny graveyard on the hill.

The handful of nuns still alive to tell of it always spoke in hushed tones about what happened next. The morning after Sister Benedicta was buried a swarm of bees gathered on her headstone. It was February, a time when bees normally hibernate. Even more unusual was that they resisted all efforts to dislodge them. As the weather grew colder they began to die off, one by one, dropping onto the grave like fallen blossoms. When spring came, all that was left of the hive was a sprinkling of dry husks from which a glorious burst of wildflowers had sprung. Those who came to pay their respects swore that if you listened closely you could hear a faint hum in the air.

Sam loved the tale. It embodied everything she cherished most about this valley—its history and lore, at times interchangeable. Its people, too. A few bad apples—Marguerite Moore came to mind—weren’t enough to spoil the whole barrel.

The road ended in a graveled turnabout, at the edge of which sat a long corrugated shed with a Ford pickup parked out front. Gerry unlocked the door, and they stepped into a large sunlit room. White canvas jumpsuits and netted hoods hung from pegs along one wall. On the opposite wall were shelves lined with jars of honey. A workbench stacked with boxes and packing supplies stood in the center.

Sam followed her friend into a larger room filled with stainless steel extractors, settling tanks, and metal troughs into which frames of uncapped honeycomb were draining. In the converted storeroom in back—Sister Paul’s laboratory—Gerry dumped her package on a narrow workbench jumbled with vials and beakers. Jars of dried flowers and other, more mysterious-looking ingredients lined the shelf above it.

She unscrewed the lid from a small unlabeled jar and held it out for Sam to smell. “Get a whiff of this.” Sam caught the scent of lavender and beeswax, maybe even a touch of honey. “Sister Paul would have been a world-class perfumer if the call to Jesus hadn’t been greater.”

“You’re definitely on to something.” Sam feigned an interest she didn’t quite feel; her head was too filled with thoughts of Ian. “I’ll take a dozen to start with. If it doesn’t sell, I’ll have the smoothest skin this side of the Rockies.”

“Then Marguerite can hate you even more.”

Sam indulged in a wicked smile. “You know, I think you’re right. I think she
is
secretly jealous.”

Gerry laughed lustily. “What she needs is a good
schtupping
of her own.”

Sam shuddered at the thought. Marguerite, divorced for some years, probably hadn’t had sex since Nixon was in office. “That wouldn’t solve everything.”

“I take it you’re referring to your daughters.”

Sam nodded. “They’re pretty upset.”

“Naturally. You’re messing with the status quo.” Gerry, who loved the girls like an aunt, didn’t sound the least bit sympathetic. “Listen.” She seized Sam by the shoulders, looking her squarely in the eye. “Ian Carpenter is cute, smart, and sexy as hell. He’s also the best thing that’s happened to you since—” She broke off.

She didn’t have to say it:
since Martin died.

Sam sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m a package deal.”

“Your daughters are grown women with lives of their own. They’ll come around.” Gerry gave her a little shake. “It’s
your
turn now.”

“I feel as if I’m being selfish.”

“It’s about time!”

“It’s worse than they think. I may be in love with him.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

“Yes. No.” She drew away from Gerry, turning toward the window. A dead bee lay on the sill. She picked it up, holding it delicately pinched between thumb and forefinger. “The truth is, I don’t know. It’s all so complicated.” She stared at the bee, its wings glimmering like spun gold. “He wants me to visit him in New York.”

“You told him yes, I hope.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“Book the damned flight,” Gerry growled. “If you don’t, I’ll book it for you.” This was the same Gerry Fitzgerald who’d shamed old Father Kinney, their former parish priest, into rehab.

Sam felt a rush of affection as she turned to smile at her friend. “Whatever comes of this, it’s nice to know there’ll be at least one person still speaking to me.”