This Gorgeous Game (7 page)

Tears pour down Mom’s face. The doorbell rings. “That must be Father MacKinley,” she says, and Luke goes to let him in.

“You knew, didn’t you?” I say to Mom as she dabs her eyes with a tissue. “Of course you knew.”

Mom nods her head, guilty as charged.

“Let me see that ring again,” I demand, and Greenie offers her hand. “It’s beautiful,” I say, admiring the setting.

“You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”

“Of course. I’ll wear anything you want, even if it’s hideous. Oooh! We get to go wedding dress shopping.”

“I know,” Greenie says, and her face lights up even more.

Luke reappears and we turn to greet Father MacKinley, but Luke’s alone and wearing a strange expression on his face. “Olivia,” he says, “you have a visitor. Waiting out front.”

“I’m not expecting anyone,” I say, caught off guard, still focused on the wedding planning I’m going to do with Greenie.

“It’s Father Mark Brendan,” he informs me, sounding serious. “He says he has something important for you.”

“Oh. Wow. He’s here now?” My cheeks flush.

“Yes. Standing outside.”

“Luke, you should have invited him in,” my mother says, but I can tell she’s flustered by our surprise guest.

“I did, but he said he didn’t want to intrude. I also told him that we, well, that Olivia was in the middle of celebrating a special occasion.” Luke stands there looking awkward, and I realize I need to do something to diffuse the strange feeling that has settled on the room, interrupting Greenie and Luke’s big announcement.

“I’ll go see what he wants. I’ll only be a minute and then we can get on with dinner,” I say, anxious to ease the tension.

“Well, I want to meet him,” Mom says, recovering her composure. “Maybe we should see if he wants to stay. Greenie, Luke, you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“The more the merrier,” Greenie says, being her usual generous self.

“Olivia,” Mom beckons, heading into the foyer with me stumbling behind her, trying to catch up. The front door is wide open. Father Mark stands there on our stoop, tall, imposing all in black. “Well hello, Father.” My mom rushes up. “I’m Marcela Peters, Olivia’s mother.” Mom extends her hand, which he clasps, pulling her forward to give her a kiss on the cheek, which I can tell startles her, but then she laughs.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Father Mark says, letting go. “I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but I have something for Olivia that didn’t want to wait. I meant for you to take this home when you left the coffee shop,” he says, turning to me, “but we were so lost in conversation that I forgot.”

“Hi, Father,” I say, feeling shy standing next to my mother.

He nods, opening his bag, and removes a manila envelope. “Here they are—the comments we discussed and the letter explaining the more substantial changes I suggested.”

I take the envelope from his hand. “Thank you.”

“Please, come inside. It’s sweltering.” Mom tries to coax him into the house. “We’d love for you to have dinner with us. I’ve been meaning to plan a special night to celebrate Olivia’s news, actually.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I only had a minute and thought I’d drop this by since I was in the area.”

“Are you sure?” Mom is hesitant to let him leave. “You’ll come for dinner another night then?”

“Absolutely. I look forward to it,” he replies. Father Mark is about to say something else when Father MacKinley arrives at our front steps.

“Mark,” he exclaims. “What are you doing here?” They shake hands. Father MacKinley glances from Father Mark to me and makes the connection. “Oh, that’s right. Olivia. How wonderful. Are you here for dinner, too?” he asks.

“No, I was just leaving,” Father Mark responds, turning to go. “I don’t want to keep you from your evening plans any longer.”

“Where’s the happy couple?” I hear Father MacKinley whisper to my mother.

“The dining room,” she answers, and he heads inside, calling out over his shoulder, “See you later, Mark.”

I stand there, holding the envelope, wanting to open it but knowing I have to wait, that it would be rude to take up any more of Greenie and Luke’s celebration time. “Bye, Father Mark,” I say, watching him walk toward the street and turn onto the sidewalk out front.

“Have a good night, Olivia,” he replies, stopping for a moment. “It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Peters.”

“Please, call me Marcela.”

“Marcela,” he says with a smile, and continues on his way.

When Mom shuts the door I can no longer tell if her glow is from Greenie’s announcement or from meeting Father Mark. “Well, that was lovely!” Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. “Okay,” she says, more to herself than me. “Back to the engagement dinner.” I follow her into the dining room, stashing the envelope in a stack of papers on a table in the hall. We resume our evening as if there was no interruption, as if Father Mark Brendan, the famous writer, didn’t just show up on our doorstep to give me edits, like this is something that happens all the time.

“Let’s make a toast,” Mom says, picking up the crystal glass by her place at the table. “To Greenie and Luke on your engagement.”

“To Greenie and Luke,” Father MacKinley and I echo, and everyone clinks glasses, erupting into chatter about wedding dates and plans and guest lists and how, of course, Father MacKinley will say the wedding, and I try to stay focused. But the envelope waiting for me in the hall is tugging at my consciousness, pulling on my attention. When Greenie asks if something is wrong and Luke says I seem distracted, I push thoughts of the envelope and its contents away and say, “Everything is wonderful. The best ever!” with enthusiasm, and determine to give myself over to Greenie’s happy news. For now I let it go because there will be time to read later and I have seeing Father Mark again to look forward to as well. I am sure of this now. After these last few weeks, why wouldn’t I be?

WHEN I ARRIVE AT SCHOOL THE FOLLOWING MONDAY A
package is waiting for me in the office. I tear open the brown paper, right there at the counter, and gasp. Inside are two books, slim volumes. One is
Hannah
, by Mark D. Brendan, a first edition with the inscription
To Olivia Peters, I look forward to reading your first novel and wanted you to have a special copy of mine, Yours, Mark
, on the title page. The other is
A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories
, by Flannery O’Connor, signed by the author. I pick them up, turn them around, look at them from every angle. I feel like I should handle them with gloves. The O’Connor must be worth a fortune.

“That’s quite a gift,” Sister June says over my shoulder. “May I have a look?”

“Of course,” I say, making room for her at the counter.

She opens each one and then reads the dedication inside
Han
nah
, and for some reason my cheeks begin to burn. “You’ve made quite an impression on Father Mark.” There is kindness in her eyes, but something else, too, something I can’t quite put my finger on. She hands the books back. “Take good care of these,” she says, and walks into her office, shutting the door behind her.

A note slips out from between the pages of the O’Connor.

He’s thanking
me
? This strikes me as incredible. And this gift is not small at all.

The note is signed:

By now I know that
next time
means soon, maybe even today, and so when Father Mark is waiting outside the school entrance after the final bell, wanting to see if I like the books—yes, of course I do, I tell him—and asking do I also want to go for coffee? I am not that surprised by the invitation or his presence and say yes. And then, there is not only this next time for coffee but another next time for dinner later in the week and another next time for lunch the following weekend. Soon there are too many next times to count and each new day has me waking up wondering,
What else will he bring me, give me, ask me to do now?
A letter tucked inside my locker, a card slipped under our front door, an envelope filled with poems by Stephen Dunn—
Do you know him?
Father Mark’s note inquires—left at the school reception desk and my name called over the intercom, “Olivia Peters, would you please come to the office? You have another package.”

Another package.

By the beginning of June I’ve learned to walk to the rhythm Father Mark sets without too much thought. I just follow along, the harmony to his melody. He is a warm weather Secret Santa who showers me with possibilities, commentary, invitations, literature. When, before I can blink, the school year is almost at an end and his attention still shows no sign of abating, I don’t know what to make of it, what to think of it, so I don’t think at all.

I just do, do,
do.

One day I return home to find my mother drinking her afternoon chamomile tea in the living room, like always, but then, not at all like always because she is drinking her tea and chatting with Father Mark and not Father MacKinley.

Another impromptu visit to our house, not that I am keeping count.

“Olivia!” she says, smiling, when she sees me hovering in the hall, trying to get over my surprise at seeing her and Father Mark talking like old friends. “I told Father you’d be home soon.”

“Hello,” Father Mark says, leaning forward, his teacup clinking against the saucer, his eyes sparkling.

“Hey,” I say, and walk over to the couch, sitting down on the opposite end from my mother.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks.

“Sure,” I respond because I figure, why not? Why not have afternoon tea with Father Mark and my mother in our living room as if it is something we do together every day?

“Father Mark and I were just discussing his seminar,” Mom says, seeming pleased by this. She gets up to grab another cup and saucer from the china cabinet and pours me some tea and another cup for herself.

“I can’t wait for the class to start,” I say, and Father Mark nods, smiles, because it is his class that I am referring to again as
the
class as if there is no other. “The end of June feels so far away, though. I still have to get through my last week of school.”

“You’ll make it.” My mother sinks back onto the couch, getting comfortable, and the three of us spend the next hour chatting about this and that, Greenie’s wedding, my story, Mom’s novels—Father Mark presses her to reveal her pseudonym—she doesn’t, but is clearly flattered by his interest and even engages him in a discussion about building suspense when writing a mystery.

Eventually we say our goodbyes—“See you soon, Olivia,” he says, like always, before leaving, and I nod yes, like always, because we have a pattern now, after so many exchanges—then go upstairs, my mind racing, working overtime, thinking about how I never say no to Father Mark. I go to everything he invites me to, do everything he asks of me, read everything he recommends, as if it’s my new full-time occupation, becoming all mentored and improved and approved by him, so much so that lately I almost can’t find time to do anything else, see anyone else. I tear around my bedroom, gathering everything tangible—the notes, the books, the articles torn from magazines and the newspaper, the ticket stubs, manuscript drafts—and pile them together on my coffee table, the spoils of so much obedience. I am tempted to count everything, wishing that I could add the phone calls, the e-mails, and the texts to the pile, too—who knew that priests sent text messages?—as if somehow everything before me can quantify my worth, my potential,
all that he sees in me.
Instead I sift through the remnants of the last six weeks to remind myself that it is real.

I glow and bask and shine. So much I might burst.

Sitting cross-legged on my couch, I open my laptop and let my fingers fly. I am inspired. My thoughts are flickers of fire that become words on the screen and a new story and I type, type, type until I have emptied all the words streaming through my mind, until there are none left, and then set the screen to Sleep.

I call the story “Lucky.”

I will show “Lucky” to Father Mark tomorrow.

I hope he likes it.

Then my thoughts flicker to Jamie. If only Jamie would be in touch like he promised then life would be perfect. Jada says to be patient, but it’s been ages since that day we exchanged info. I close my laptop and set it down next to me and sigh, telling myself I really have nothing to complain about.

Piece by piece, I move the pile on the coffee table to the corner of my room, between the couch and the window, with letters and notes in one neat, tall stack, articles in another, again feeling pleased to have such a wealth of keepsakes, to be made so rich by someone who, I have to admit, I’ve noticed barely gives others the time of day. Well, unless they are somehow related to me.

Later that night, after I shut off the light and get into bed, I thank God for sending me yet another Father, the best, most interesting, supportive one a girl could ask for. The gratitude, the grace I feel from having Father Mark in my life stays with me, comforts me, as I drift off to sleep and dreams.