Hildy turned to Father John. ‘‘Father, you need to do something for me—it’s terribly important. I need you to hold that bottle I threw to you—it’s . . . it’s filled with holy water—and recite this prayer.’’ She handed him a piece of notepaper. ‘‘It’s a matter of life and death!’’
The bus swayed and lurched. Jimmy the Bug smashed into its rear again.
Father John remained unruffled. ‘‘Of course, my child. In fact, let me ask the entire bus to recite it with me.’’ He began to read.
‘‘In the spirit of goodness, mercy, and love . . .’’ Father John paused for the members of St. Vlad’s to repeat his words.
‘‘In the spirit of goodness, mercy, and love,’’ they chanted in unison.
‘‘I wish—are you sure you want me to use the word
wish
?’’
‘‘Yes, Father, please, hurry, it’s very important.’’
‘‘All right then. I wish that the criminal named James Torelli, also known as Jimmy the Bug—’’
The bus of elderly people solemnly repeated the words. As if he could hear their words, Jimmy the Bug began ramming the back of the bus repeatedly, his fury evident. The bumping and jolting sorely tested the bus driver’s skills, but he stayed the course.
‘‘—be struck with remorse, repentance, and an overwhelming desire to make amends.’’
‘‘—be struck with remorse, repentance, and an overwhelming desire to make amends,’’ the parishioners intoned.
Father John continued, ‘‘Specifically, he must guarantee the safe return of Corrine Gannon—’’
The parishioners nodded enthusiastically and echoed the words. Jimmy the Bug smashed into the bus again.
‘‘He must become a vegan and be unable to harm a living soul,
not even a bug
. He must right the wrongs he has perpetrated, and spend the rest of his days in meditation and prayer, in a monastery, in some faraway mountains, for the rest of his born days. Amen.’’
The banging of the Cadillac hitting the bus abruptly ceased.
‘‘Is that it, my dear?’’ Father John asked and went to hand the bottle back.
‘‘Actually, I would like you to make one more wish—I mean prayer. Would you mind?’’
‘‘Prayer has been a bedrock of my calling for sixty years. Why would I mind?’’ he asked, his eyes twinkling.
‘‘All right, Father. This one is for you.’’ She looked out at the bus full of gray-haired passengers. ‘‘All of you.’’
‘‘All of us?’’ Irene Samuels asked.
‘‘You bet,’’ Hildy said and handed another slip of paper to Father John. He began to read aloud:
‘‘In the spirit of goodness, mercy, and love, I wish that the St. Vladimir’s dome shine as brightly and beautifully as it did when it was first built a hundred years ago, gilded with real gold, and should this miracle be granted, that people come from far and wide to see and believe . . . and that the Roman saint named Antonius Eugenius—I’ve never heard of that one, my dear,’’ he whispered, ‘‘—be remembered for this miracle. Amen.’’
After he had finished, Father John turned kindly eyes to Hildy, an odd look on his face. He handed her back the bottle, and this time she took it.
‘‘The dome will be golden again when we get back, won’t it?’’ he said quietly to her.
‘‘Yes, Father, I believe it will.’’
‘‘And people will hear of the miracle?’’
‘‘Yes, Father, I’m sure they will.’’
‘‘And they will come to St. Vlad’s to worship?’’
‘‘You’ll need a huge shrine to accommodate them, I’m sure.’’
‘‘And the church will be saved?’’
‘‘Yes, Father, I believe it will.’’
‘‘Then I say again that God moves in mysterious ways.’’
‘‘Amen to that,’’ Hildy said. And she knew without a doubt that the Cadillac CTS that had been closing in on the lumbering St. Vlad’s bus was gone, that her sister was safe, and that all was right in her world.
After asking the bus driver to pull over and retrieving her cat carrier from Annie, Hildy got off the bus. She waved to everyone and walked back to the blue Chevy Suburban that had followed the Cadillac that was following the bus.
Mike was already out of the SUV, waiting to embrace her. He hugged her hard, gave her a quick kiss, and took the cat carrier from her hands. Then he opened the back gate of the Chevy and put the protesting cats inside. Hildy began to climb into the backseat.
Mike stopped her. ‘‘No, not there. Jake, would you mind switching seats with my bride-to-be?’’
‘‘No problem,’’ he said and exited the passenger seat. He got in the back. Hildy got in the front, but she left the bottle next to Jake.
‘‘Would you pull out that cork, please?’’ she asked once everyone was in and Mike prepared to drive off.
Jake looked a little uneasy, but he opened the bottle. A tendril of bright white smoke began to emerge.
‘‘Now I think,’’ she said, ‘‘that Tony G. wants to discuss something with you.’’
‘‘Yeah, what’s that?’’ Jake asked.
‘‘A job.’’
Mike held the steering wheel with his left hand and pulled Hildy close with his right, just like he used to.
He looked at her and said, ‘‘If I may quote—’’
‘‘You may,’’ she said and kissed his cheek.
‘‘As Shakespeare also said, ‘‘ ‘All’s well that ends well.’ ’’
And so it did.
Chapter 32
High in the mountains of the Himalayas, the country of Nepal sits at the very top of the world. There the Jainist monk known as Brother James began his morning prayers. A small circle of followers and admirers gathered to listen and be near the holy man, so revered by so many.
Brother James, also known as Brother James of the Bug, had dedicated his life to the protection of all creatures with an exoskeleton. He was unfailingly kind to insects, and was particularly fond of a pet cricket he called Jennifer, although he didn’t know why he had named it that.
Some of the faithful called him the Jainist version of St. Francis, a saint for modern times.
The stone floor of the chapel was cold. His feet were bare. His robes were not very warm. But his needs were simple, and he didn’t mind. Brother James began his chants. He prayed for repentance, he expressed remorse, he asked for forgiveness for every wrong he had ever done. He couldn’t remember exactly what wrongs they were, but sometimes he dreamed that long ago and far away he had been a bad, bad man.
Epilogue
‘‘‘The frost is on the punkin,’’’ Hildy quoted, and shivered when she and Mike arrived at Gus Genetti’s Hotel and Conference Center in Wilkes-Barre for Lake Lehman High School’s tenth class reunion.
‘‘Frost? It feels like there’s snow in the air,’’ Mike observed as he helped Hildy climb out of the Prius. Hildy wore her copper-colored Donna Karan original and strappy sandals—and she was freezing as they dashed across the street hand in hand from the parking lot. Laughing and in high spirits, they ducked into the building right off the old-fashioned town square in the center of the aging city built a century ago by railroads and coal.
Hildy and Mike were Jerseyites now and both had overlooked how quickly the temperatures could plummet at the end of October in northeast Pennsylvania. In fact, a few shining snowflakes drifted down and briefly settled on Hildy’s hair.
Once inside, warm and snug, Hildy with Mike right behind her stopped at a long table to collect their name tags, which included their yearbook picture, so people would remember how they looked
then.
As she pinned hers on, Hildy surveyed the crowded room where men and women stood around sipping wine or drinking beer. She waved at a few of her former classmates, noticing that the biggest change for the women of her class was the added pounds. For the men, it was the loss of hair. But all in all, she recognized everyone right away.
After an hour of squealing, hugging, and reminiscing with old friends, Hildy was herded into a line of former classmates waiting to go into the banquet room for dinner. As each person entered, he or she was introduced with some wit and great enthusiasm by Jay, who had gone from class clown to class celebrity after he had become the last fashion designer standing on a reality television show.
When Hildy reached the door, with Mike at her side, the DJ changed the music from Queen’s ‘‘We Will Rock You’’ to Erasure’s rendition of ‘‘Magic Moments.’’
‘‘And now,’’ Jay said from the raised stage at the end of the room, wielding the microphone like the MC at a wedding, ‘‘here comes the prom king and queen, back in each other’s arms—Mike Amante and his new bride, Hildy Caldwell Amante! Let’s hear it for the lovers!’’
With their arms around each other, Hildy and Mike walked into the room to the sound of applause. The lights dimmed and a shower of silver glitter fell from someplace near the ceiling like a thousand tiny stars. Undulating waves of sparkling light danced and spun around the couple as those watching oohed and aahed at the spectacle.
‘‘Wow!’’ Jay yelled into the microphone. ‘‘We always said you two were so hot that you lit up the place.’’ Then he twisted his head around and said to a thin, brittle woman behind him on the stage, ‘‘Nice touch, Darla!’’
Darla—who had never ever gotten back with her high school sweetheart Frank the fullback—had headed the decoration committee for the reunion. She had been busy shooting dirty looks at Frank’s very pregnant wife when the twinkling stars began to fall on Genetti’s. ‘‘I didn’t order
that
,’’ she hissed to Jay. ‘‘I bet Hildy paid somebody to throw glitter all over the place. She’ll have to pay for the cleanup too.’’
But the glitter had gone as quickly as it came, fading away softly into a rose glow before vanishing without a trace—just as the genie’s laughter went unheard, like the sound of one hand clapping, lost in the music and the din of the applause.
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my deep gratitude to two friends who inspired me to write this book—
A big thank you to Hildy Morgan, who told me how it was to grow up being named Hildegard. She generously allowed me to use her name for my heroine, as well as the story of how she came to be called Hildy. I admit to giving my character some of her spunk, generous spirit, and compassion too.
Another huge thank you goes to Brynda Huntley, who met her high school sweetheart, Mike, after
forty years
—and yes, they fell in love all over again. When she told me what had happened— and Mike later shared with me how he adored her then and now—I felt I had to write a romance about a woman who reunites with her first love, her true love, again across years and miles. Hildy Caldwell and Mike Amante’s story is my fictional version of Brynda and Mike’s real-life dream come true.
I would also like to remember Mrs. Benson, my high school Latin teacher, long dead but not forgotten. Her passion for language and Roman history instilled a lifelong enthusiasm in me for them too. I could not have imagined Antonius Eugenius without my four years in her class.
And so, dear readers,
amo, amas, amat
—‘‘I love, you love, he or she loves.’’ After all, what else is really important in life?
Hugs and kisses to you all,
Lucy Finn