Authors: Eileen Goudge
She came with a dull white roar, only dimly aware of Matt’s coming, too. It was like a dream—mindless, wordless, nothing but this heady rush of sensation.
Matt’s face hovering above her in the dark only gradually came into focus, his broad cheekbones polished with sweat, his eyes blackened by shadow.
He rolled over onto his back. They were both drenched with sweat and breathing hard. It felt as if her heart would never stop pounding. “God in heaven, where did you learn to do that?” She hiked herself onto her elbow facing him, placing her fingertips lightly over his mouth. “No, don’t tell me. I’m not sure I want to know.”
He pulled her hand away, and she saw that he was grinning. “Look who’s talking.”
“For your information,” she informed him, “I’ve been with exactly four men in my life, counting you.”
“Does
he
know?”
But she didn’t want to think about Byron. There would be plenty of time for that later on. She laid her head on Matt’s shoulder, and he drew her close. She could hear the steady thumping of his heart, like an engine built before the days of planned obsolescence. Everything about Matt was like that: solid, dependable, built to last.
Except the wild streak that ran through him like a vein of gypsum through bedrock.
The second time was slower, like savoring dessert at the end of a meal. Matt touched and licked her all over, even down there. When she’d had her fill, she took him into her. Her climax was less explosive than before, but more satisfying somehow. They were both gasping by the time they came up for air.
After a while they roused themselves and Matt went to fetch the pizza, long since gone cold. They washed it down with beers from the fridge, and she thought she’d never tasted anything quite so good. Tomorrow would be a different story, she knew, but at this moment, seated cross-legged on the mattress across from a naked bear of a man with a slice of pizza drooping over one knee, she thought,
Lord, it doesn’t get any better than this.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
S
INCE HER ARRIVAL
the week before, Sister Clement’s presence had been felt like a sudden cold spell after an endless stretch of sunny days. A plain-faced woman whose only distinguishing feature was a port stain that covered half of one cheek, she sat in silently on community meetings and appeared to mentally take note of every confessed failing in Faults. In chapel, her sharp ears took in every rustle and cough, and during the chanting of lauds the sisters who were off-key would suddenly become conscious of the fact, their cheeks warming. She seemed to know who was quick to return from sext and whose lengthy meditations spoke of a fully examined conscience. Now, as she toured the honey house, her apparent lack of interest had the feel of a foregone conclusion: Sister Clement’s mind was already made up.
Gerry had taken her through the packing process and showed her how orders were tracked on the computer. As they headed into the next room, she felt a sense of doom settle over her, thick and pervasive as the honey sticking to every surface. It was all she could do to put on a cheerful face.
“This is where the decapping is done.” She gestured toward a large stainless tank in the center of the room, where a pink-cheeked novice held a frame from one of the hives propped on the board across the middle and was deftly running a trowel-like device over its thickly crusted comb. Beeswax peeled away in long, curly strips, sending honey dribbling into the tank.
“Rather warm in here, isn’t it?” Sister Clement fanned herself with her notebook. Her face was flushed, the stain on her cheek darker than usual.
Gerry was so used to it, she hardly noticed. “It makes the honey easier to handle,” she explained, leading the way to the corner where a pair of radial extractors stood on cinder blocks. She raised her voice to be heard over their whine. “Each one holds fifty combs. The runoff goes into a straining tank.” She pointed toward a large heated tub lined with nylon mesh. “It sits for a day or so; then whatever’s floated to the surface is skimmed off. What we’re left with is one hundred percent pure Grade-A honey.”
Sister Clement gave a perfunctory nod, scribbling something in her notebook. Gerry noted that while the rest of her was plain, even ungainly, her hands were oddly delicate, their pearly nails deeply embedded in the soft pink flesh of her fingertips. Gerry thought of a large cat, its claws sheathed.
Sister Clement looked up, surveying the room where half a dozen sisters in long aprons, their sleeves rolled up and veils neatly safety-pinned in back, worked side by side, each at her designated task: among them wiry Sister Andrew filling a fifty-gallon tin from the tap at the base of an extractor, and portly Sister Pius hefting a full one from the warming cabinet—honey that would go into the rows of sparkling jars fresh from the sterilizer.
“What’s the annual output?”
“In a good year, two thousand pounds or more.” Gerry couldn’t keep from boasting. In the years since she’d taken over as lay manager, production had more than doubled. “Though with bees, it’s hard to predict.”
“I’ve never thought of them as anything other than pests.”
“They’re fairly harmless if you know how to handle them.” Gerry had a sudden inspiration. Maybe Sister Clement would understand when she saw them in action. “Come, I’ll show you.” When they reached the door, where a row of pegs along the wall held half a dozen white canvas suits and netted hoods, she said blithely, “We won’t be needing those.” They’d be far enough away, and the bees were still a little sluggish from winter.
Outside, the mild spring air felt cool after the overheated confines of the honey house. They struck out along the narrow path, worn to a groove by decades of sandaled feet, that cut in a diagonal across the meadow. The dry brown stalks of winter had been replaced by new grass that swished about Gerry’s knees. Everywhere she looked wildflowers were in bloom—bird’s foot, blue thistle, alfalfa, sweet clover, wild licorice—the rich potpourri that gave Blessed Bee honey the distinctive flavor for which it was known. As they approached the grove of eucalyptus on the far side, she could hear the faint drone of bees, and caught sight of Sister Carmela waving a tin smoker over one of the hives, puffs of smoke drifting up into the branches overhead.
“It’s mating season.” Gerry turned to Sister Clement. “Do you know how bees mate?”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t among the courses being offered when I was at Notre Dame,” Sister Clement answered dryly. It was the closest she’d come to showing that she had a sense of humor.
Gerry knew she should quit while she was ahead, but some inner demon egged her on. “Every spring the queen embarks on her annual flight, chased by lovesick drones. As soon as one impregnates her, he explodes.”
“How charming.” Sister Clement wore a look of disgust.
Gerry knew she was only making matters worse, but thought,
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t
.
“It’s really pretty amazing when you think about it,” she persisted, maintaining a sweetly innocent tone. “The drone gives her a lifetime supply of sperm when they mate, so in her case, once is enough.”
“Fascinating,” the nun said coldly.
The sense of futility was stronger than ever. What was the use of trying to win her over? By this time tomorrow Sister Clement would be on her way back to the mother-house. After that, it would only be a matter of days, weeks at the most, before Gerry was asked to resign.
If that were her only problem, she might have been able to put it in perspective. But there was Andie, too. Yesterday, when she’d returned home from the airport, Gerry had phoned her at Mike’s. Andie had been tearful but firm—she had no intention of coming home. It had been all Gerry could do to keep from jumping in her car and roaring up the hill to her ex-husband’s. The situation had to be handled carefully, she knew. Andie was hurting.
And didn’t I ignore all the signals?
Though it killed her to do so, she’d agreed to let Andie stay put for the time being.
A favorite saying of her mother’s popped into her head:
You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
She prayed the same was true of Sister Clement. Maybe it wasn’t too late after all. If she could convince the woman she was doing more good than harm, maybe, just maybe …
They’d reached the edge of the clearing, with its rows of hives tucked amid the trees. Off in the distance she could hear the faint gurgling of the stream.
Gerry noticed Sister Clement hanging back, clearly nervous.
“Are you sure we won’t get stung?” She eyed the bees lazily circling the hives.
“Don’t worry, we won’t go any closer.”
The years of constant exposure had left Gerry fearless, but Sister Clement was eyeing the nearest hive, a good fifteen feet away, as warily as if it had been a rattlesnake coiled to strike. Nearby, one of Sister Carmela’s helpers, garbed in protective gear—white canvas jumpsuit, leather gauntlets, netted hood—was bending over a dismantled hive. Bees clung to her back and shoulders like a furry mantle.
“She’s cleaning away the propolis,” Gerry explained. “It’s a kind of resin the bees use like Spackle.” She indicated the gluey deposits being gently wiped away with turpentine. “It’s also used for embalming.”
“Embalming?”
Gerry pointed out a yellowish clump the size of a small soap bar stuck to the frame. “Probably a mouse that wandered in by accident and was stung to death.”
Sister Clement looked distinctly pale. “I … I think I’ve seen enough.” She held her notebook tightly clutched to her bosom. “I should be heading back. I’d like a word with the reverend mother before I go.”
Gerry’s heart sank. “In that case, I don’t want to keep you.” She turned but noticed Sister Clement wasn’t falling into step. She stood rooted to the spot, batting at a bee that buzzed about her head.
“It won’t sting if you hold still,” Gerry advised.
Too late. It was as if the woman were on fire. She waved her arms wildly, using her notebook to slap at the bee, which only served to attract more. With a jolt of alarm, Gerry realized the cause of all this excitement. The notebook was a dark maroon, a color that had the same effect on bees as the whirl of a matador’s cape on a bull. And Sister Clement’s frantic movements weren’t helping any. A small swarm had gathered now. A bee landed on her arm, and she let out a shriek.
“Oww, owww, owwwwwww
…”
More bees fastened themselves to her arms and back, and one resembling a large mole clung to the port stain on her cheek. “Don’t just stand there!” she squealed. “Do something!” She slapped at it, letting out a high, injured yelp.
Gerry approached her slowly so as not to excite the bees further. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “Do exactly as I tell you and you won’t get hurt.
You’ve got to hold perfectly still.’”
But Sister Clement was beyond all reasoning. Ignoring Gerry, she bolted down the path, shrieking at the top of her lungs. The bees, in a frenzy now, swarmed after her.
With, a groan Gerry took off in pursuit. A dozen or so yards ahead, Sister Clement was zigzagging like a crazed buffalo amid the tall grass, arms flapping and veil flying. It might have been comical if Gerry hadn’t seen it for what it was: the sealing of her fate.
She’d chased Sister Clement halfway across the meadow before the nun tripped on her hem and went sprawling facedown on the ground. Gerry caught up with her and dropped onto her haunches, ignoring the few bees that hadn’t tired of the chase.
“Are you all right?” She seized Sister Clement by the arm, hauling her upright.
The woman was trembling all over, her eyes wide and staring. The port stain on her cheek had begun to swell, resembling a large purple contusion.
“You did this on purpose!”
she cried, flecks of spittle spraying from her contorted mouth.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea—” Gerry stopped, realizing anything she said right now would fall on deaf ears. “Would you like me to take you to the infirmary?”
Sister Clement ignored Gerry’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzgerald, but I won’t be needing
your
assistance.” Her veil was awry and a clump of gray hair poked from under her starched wimple. With what little dignity she had left, she reached up to adjust it before stalking off in the direction of the road.
Gerry stood there, flooded with hopelessness.
This is a joke,
she thought. A cruel joke God was playing on her. She began to laugh hysterically, plunking down amid the sweet clover and timothy grass. She laughed until her stomach hurt and tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“For the love of God, what’s gotten into you?”
Gerry looked up to find her old friend Sister Carmela gazing down at her with concern. “I’ve just screwed myself out of a job, that’s what,” she said, pulling herself to her feet.
Sister Carmela’s expression didn’t alter. No doubt she’d heard saltier language growing up in one of L.A.’s worst neighborhoods. “So I see.” She glanced at the distant figure trudging up the road, her mouth stretching in a smile as if she believed Sister Clement had gotten exactly what she deserved.
Gerry felt a rush of affection. “Oh, Sister, I’m going to miss you.”
“Now, now. I won’t be hearing any such talk. You haven’t been fired yet.” The older woman patted her arm. “Perhaps if I put in a good word with Sister Clement …”
Gerry shook her head. “Thanks, but it wouldn’t do any good.” She gazed out over the meadow, where larks sang and hummingbirds caught the sunlight in flashes of iridescence. “I’ll be okay. Don’t I always land on my feet?” She smiled bravely, hoping that saying it out loud would make it so.
Making her way across the meadow, she glanced over her shoulder to find Sister Carmela standing motionless amid the tall grass, her creased brown face that of a mother anxiously watching her child cross a busy street. Gerry’s gloom lifted. She had friends here,
good
friends. In the months to come those friendships would sustain her.
Minutes later she was back in her office, listlessly sorting through the morning mail, when she heard a knock at the door. Mother Ignatius poked her head in.
“Do you have a moment?”
One look and Gerry knew she’d gotten an earful from Sister Clement. Her heart sank. “You’ve heard, I see.” She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk, but the reverend mother chose to remain standing. A bad sign.
She didn’t mince words. “I had someone take her to the infirmary. Let’s hope she isn’t allergic. But that’s not what concerns me. It seems Sister Clement is under the impression you purposely put her in harm’s way.” Mother Ignatius’s eyes were wintry.
“Is that what she told you?” Gerry grew warm with indignance before remembering there was more than her own future at stake here. “I suppose I should have been more careful, but I certainly didn’t mean her any harm,” she said.
“I told her as much.” The stern lines in the mother superior’s face relaxed. “Though I don’t suppose it made any difference. I believe Sister Clement has—what do they call it nowadays—an agenda?”
“I didn’t do anything to help, that’s for sure.”
“I won’t disagree with that.”
“Well, she can take her report and—” Gerry stopped, ashamed of what she’d been about to say. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not just my job on the line.”
A weary smile touched the reverend mother’s lips, and she suddenly looked every day of her age. Without a scrap of self-pity, she said, “Whatever happens, the needs of our community come first.”
“How soon will we know?”
“They’ll call a council. After that, it should go fairly swiftly.”
Gerry appreciated her directness. Mother Ignatius had never been anything less than honest, if at times brutally so. “I just wish there was something we could do.” Clearly her heart-to-heart with Jim Gallagher hadn’t helped.
The reverend mother started for the door, then turned with a smile of such illuminating sweetness her austere face was at once transformed. “It wouldn’t hurt to pray.”
Yes,
Gerry thought.
And where would it get me?
These days God’s presence was like a distant bell she could no longer hear. All her life, even in her darkest hours, she’d been comforted by the knowledge that He was looking over her. But now all she felt was alone.