An Unlit Candle

By Caren J. Werlinger

The long-awaited follow-up to In This Small Spot

Patricia Horrigan is the eldest daughter of a family determined to gain entry into the upper echelons of Rochester society as the 1950s give way to the turbulence of the 60s. Born of an Irish father and a French-Canadian mother, Pip inherited the stubborn pride and fierce determination of both. With her life in the family business all planned out, she is most definitely not interested in throwing it all away to become a nun. But some calls will not be ignored, no matter how hard she tries. Fifty years later, she can’t help but wonder if her choices and sacrifices were worth it.
In present time, Lauren Thackeray has managed to put her life back together—in a manner of speaking. She has her weaving, her home, her chosen family, and she has the monastery and the lasting friendship of the nuns there. The one thing she doesn’t have, she doesn’t want. She won’t open her heart again after she barely survived the last time.
Gail Bauer is questioning her own vocation as an Episcopal priest. How can she minister to others when she’s not sure she believes anymore? In desperation, she flees, hoping to find answers.
In the shadow of St. Bridget’s Abbey, three very different women will need one another—to come to terms with their demons, to heal, and to rekindle the light that life has all but snuffed out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caren J. Werlinger
• Release date: Sep 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953070043

Caren J. Werlinger

Bestselling author Caren Werlinger published her first award-winning novel, Looking Through Windows, in 2008. Since then, she has published seventeen more novels, winning several more awards. In 2021, she was awarded the Alice B Medal for her body of work. Influenced by a diverse array of authors, including Rumer Godden, J.R.R. Tolkein, Ursula LeGuin, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Willa Cather and the Brontë sisters, Caren writes literary fiction that features the struggles and joys of characters readers can identify with. Her stories cover a wide range of genres: historical fiction, contemporary drama, and the award-winning Dragonmage Saga, a fantasy trilogy set in ancient Ireland. She has lived in Virginia for over thirty years where she practices physical therapy, teaches anatomy and lives with her wife and their canine fur-children.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The heavy weight of yards of velvet swirled as Pip tried to take a peek over her shoulder.

Now, Miss Patricia, you stand still.

Oh, Felicia, why am I doing this? A bunch of people playing dress-up to try and impress each other.

Felicia tutted from where she was kneeling, smoothing out the folds of the voluminous skirt. They may be playing at dressing up, but they can’t help but be impressed when they see you. Mark my words, the men’s jaws will drop when you walk in, and all the ladies will be so jealous.

She winced as she tried to get to her feet.

Pip bent to help her up. That’s not going to happen. Can I look now?

Felicia tilted her head, giving her creation one last inspection. Finally, with a nod of approval, she said, Okay.

Pip turned and couldn’t suppress a pleased gasp.

Told you, Felicia said proudly.

The reflection in the mirror was someone Pip almost didn’t recognize—her nearly black hair and dark eyes striking above the deep red velvet of her gown, the bodice tucked and molded against her curves. An embarrassed flush added color to her cheeks, contrasting with the luminous curve of ivory skin from neck to bared shoulders, accentuated even more by the upswept hair Felicia had agonized over.

It’s too much, Pip said, touching her fingers to the swell of her breasts above the plunging neckline. Or not enough.

It’s perfect.

She raised her eyes to see her father standing behind her in the mirror.

He stepped forward to share the reflection. You’ll be the most beautiful one there, Pip.

Dad—

I know. You think this is silly.

She turned to face him directly. "This is silly."

It might also be your ticket in. You know what these people are like.

A frown creased her forehead. I do know. And I don’t want in.

He raised a finger to smooth the crease. You say that now. But this is what we’ve been working for. Ever since my grandda worked his way over to America—

I know, I know, Pip said, rolling her eyes. With only an extra shirt and the family Bible, he got a job as a cook’s mate on a ship.

That’s right, her father said. And from there, worked his way across New York to start his own mill here in Rochester.

Pip, it’s time—oh…

Pip’s mother stood, her hands clasped to her mouth. "Dieu, you look just like your grandmother. Doesn’t she, Patrick?"

Aye, Marie. She does.

Pip opened her mouth to correct father’s Irishism, as she liked to call them, but changed her mind. Between both her parents, there was never a chance she’d forget where she came from. A nervous tingle ran down her spine as Felicia gave the gown a last few swipes to remove imaginary bits of dust.

You look so grown up, Miss Patricia. Felicia dabbed at her eyes and sniffed.

Patrick offered his arm, and Pip couldn’t help but laugh as she took it, enjoying the way her skirt swept the stairs as they descended to the marble-floored foyer.

Garrett, your sister’s ready, Marie called, trailing behind them.

About time. A lanky young man unfolded himself from the sofa in the den where a gaily decorated ten-foot Norway spruce filled the bay window.

Loud footsteps echoed from the direction of the kitchen, and a girl skated around the corner, one hand clutching a spoon thickly covered with fudge. I still don’t see why I can’t go.

Pip smiled at her little sister, her cheek smeared with fudge. She reached out to steal a bit of chocolate off the spoon and popped it into her mouth. Believe me, Josie, you’ll have more fun here than we will. Save me some fudge, will you?

"One day, you’ll be invited to all the balls, ma petite," Marie said.

Felicia fussed some more as she straightened Garrett’s bowtie and smoothed the wrinkled back of his tuxedo jacket. I could steam this right quick.

We’re already late, he protested. If we don’t get there soon, there’s no point in going.

Marie ran her hand over his glossy black hair to brush it off his forehead. This ball will not get started on time. You’ll be fine.

He scowled and squirmed out of his mother’s reach. Well, let’s go. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish of his arm. If you’re ready, princess.

Pip gave him a punch in the arm. Felicia wrapped a lustrous black silk shawl over Pip’s shoulders and joined Patrick and Marie on the front porch to see them off. Garrett helped Pip into the Thunderbird idling in the driveway, making sure to tuck her skirt in before closing the door.

Rochester hadn’t had any recent snow, so the streets and sidewalks were dry. Streetlamps glowed, golden orbs in the inky darkness as the T-bird rumbled its way toward Mount Hope Avenue, where the grand houses were all decorated, each more beautiful than the last. The house with all the traffic—their destination—was the grandest of all, with garlands of pine twined in gold and silver hung suspended between porch pillars, and glowing candles in every window. A brightly-lit tree sat on the porch to welcome guests.

I feel like a fraud, Pip admitted.

Garrett reached for her hand. If I weren’t your brother, I’d be asking for the first dance.

She squeezed his hand. Thanks, Garrett. She took a deep breath as he pulled into a semi-circular driveway, joining a queue of other cars. He came around to get her door for her, and a pimple-faced valet appeared.

Garrett handed him a folded bill. No dents, no scratches.

The valet’s face lit up. Yes, sir.

They joined the gaggle of young people entering the house—it was more a mansion than a house, Pip would tell Josie later. An air of anticipation washed over everyone. When the Wassermans had sent out their Yule Ball invitation list, all of Rochester had buzzed with who was included—and who isn’t, they whispered.

When Patricia and Garrett Horrigan’s names were included for the first time, Marie and Patrick had been elated. Not so, Pip.

This is 1959 in America, not Jane Austen’s England, she’d insisted. I am not going to be presented. They’re not royalty.

In Rochester, they are. All the best matches are made by those invited to this ball. Marie’s nostrils had flared in a foretelling that she would not be denied.

Let’s just go and have a good time, Garrett had wheedled. It could be fun.

Now, standing in line, ascending the mansion’s stairs to the lights and voices and music spilling through the enormous front doors, Pip whispered, Still think this is going to be fun?

Garrett snorted. Just pretend we’re in one of the plays you used to make me put on with you.

When at last they stepped inside, Pip forgot to pretend. It might have been 1859. The grand double stairs swept up to a balcony, the banister wrapped in garland and tinsel and red holly berries. In the center of the foyer stood another Christmas tree that must have been twenty feet tall. Servants in uniform were waiting to take coats and hats, while others glided by, holding trays with flutes of champagne and exotic hors d’oeuvres. Women in elegant gowns were accompanied by men in tuxedos, promenading about before wandering into one of the many rooms that opened off the foyer. To the right, couples were dancing to the strains of what sounded like an entire orchestra. To the left, a richly paneled library held several men, smoking and talking. Another room, definitely more feminine in its décor, held long tables groaning under the weight of the food just being set out by yet more servants.

Pip’s head swiveled as she tried to take it all in. She was startled when Garrett said, Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Wasserman. Garrett Horrigan. May I present my sister, Patricia?

Pip wondered briefly if she should curtsy but settled for an extended hand. Your home is lovely. Thank you so much for inviting us.

Mr. Wasserman looked rather like an overstuffed penguin, a bored smile pasted on his bearded face as he nodded vacantly, propped dutifully beside his wife to receive their guests.

Mrs. Wasserman, regal in a silver lamé gown that perfectly matched the silver of her hair, said, Your father has become one of the city’s most important businessmen, my dear. We’re so pleased you could come. Enjoy yourselves.

Garrett squired her away.

Holy moly, Pip murmured. Have you ever?

Josie would give her eyeteeth to see this, Garrett said with a chuckle.

Before Pip could reply, another young man bounded forward. Hey Garr, Pip. Isn’t this crazy?

Hi, Andy, Garrett said. Any more of our gang here?

Yeah, Andy said, his eyes glued on Pip. Wow, you look so…

Watch it, Garrett warned. And keep your eyes on her face.

Andy’s plump cheeks, already pink from excitement—and a bowtie that threatened to strangle him, Pip thought—turned a more brilliant scarlet.

May I have this dance?

Pip turned around to find herself staring into the handsome face of another of their friends, John Baldwin. Why not?

With a wave to Garrett and Andy, Pip allowed John to escort her onto the dance floor, joining the other couples dancing to a waltz. They swept around the room, twirling like figures atop an old-fashioned music box.

Who knew those cotillion lessons would ever come in handy, huh? John asked with a dazzling smile.

I was just thinking the same thing, Pip said, giggling.

The music had barely faded before another young man had asked Pip to dance. For the next two hours, she didn’t sit out a dance. John came back for four more. At last, breathless and warm, she begged off.

I have got to sit for a few minutes.

John escorted her to a line of chairs at the edge of the room. I’ll get us something to drink. Be right back.

Pip felt glances being cast in her direction from a clutch of women of mixed ages. She smiled and nodded in their direction, but they turned their backs and continued to whisper with their heads together.

The miller’s daughter.

To them, that’s all she would ever be. No matter that all of them, regardless of where their family’s money had originated, were the recipients of some ancestor’s hard work and dreams.

She needed air. Wandering from room to room, she found her way to one with a door out to a dark balcony. She slipped outside into the welcome cold air, taking a few deep breaths. A set of stairs led down to what seemed to be a small garden, barren now. She descended and walked along a gravel path. Turning to look back toward the house, its windows spilling light down upon the garden where she stood, she thought again this was all like something out of a Regency novel.

She rounded a turn in the path and was startled to find she wasn’t alone. A sudden cloud of cigar smoke enveloped her, and she coughed.

Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. Mr. Wasserman waved one hand in a futile attempt to waft away the smoke, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth.

It’s okay, she said. I didn’t mean to disturb you.

Not at all. He gestured toward a bench behind him. Won’t you join me?

She sat down.

He held up the cigar. Do you mind?

She shook her head, but he took the precaution of sitting on her downwind side. She noticed his bowtie was undone, and his shirt collar was unbuttoned.

Got a little stuffy in there, didn’t it? she said.

Stuffy. He gave her a sideways glance. Yes, it’s stuffy.

Pip started to laugh but choked it back, afraid she was being rude, but Mr. Wasserman let out a belly laugh and shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket. He puffed on his cigar and eyed her.

You’re… the Horrigan girl.

Yes, sir.

He nodded and puffed some more. Here looking for a husband, I suppose, like all the others.

Oh, gosh no. It burst out before Pip thought about what she was saying. I mean, I may get married someday, but I want to work, live my life before that.

He frowned as he flicked some ash off the end of his cigar into the decorative ashtray beside the bench. You say that as if your life will be over once you marry.

Won’t it? Again, she sought to pull her words back. It’s just, I watched the girls ahead of me in school, smarter than most of the boys. Either they didn’t go on to college at all, or they did but never finished or just never used their degrees. They got married and had children and never did anything for themselves.

He shifted to look at her more closely. And what do you want to do? Work for your father?

She tipped her head to think. I could, I suppose, after I graduate in June. Garrett, my brother, already is. The mill will need to be updated to stay competitive. But we don’t need the canal or rivers for transport anymore, not like my great-grandfather did. I think my father should buy a bakery, make our own brand of bread and rolls, control the entire thing, practically from field to stores.

Now that she’d been sitting still for several minutes, she shivered in the cold. He noticed and reached for his jacket.

Here, he said, draping it around her shoulders.

Thank you.

Why a mill?

What do you mean? She pulled the lapels of the jacket together and settled back against the bench.

Why did your great-grandfather start a mill?

He was only twelve, the last of his family to survive the Hunger. When he buried his last baby brother, he left his home in Connemara, worked his way to Belfast, and got a job on a ship.

She turned to Mr. Wasserman. Are you sure you want to hear this?

He nodded, and she continued.

The ship’s cook was German and took my great-grandfather on as his mate, taught him all kinds of things, but what my great-granddad loved best was baking. The flour on the ships was riddled with bugs and had lots of chaff—the leftovers after the fine flour went to rich people. Eventually, on one of his voyages to America, he decided to stay. He worked his way across New York, mostly on the barges, but when he got to Rochester, the mills here were producing such good flour that he hired on, eventually became a manager, saved every penny he could, until he had enough to buy one of the smaller mills. And that was that.

From somewhere behind them came the sound of raised voices. They both got up and hurried to find the source of the commotion. Rounding the corner of the house, where the kitchen apparently was, one of the uniformed servers had a Negro woman by the arm as she struggled to pull free.

What’s going on here? Mr. Wasserman demanded.

Caught this one going through our cans, the waiter said.

Pip spied a small girl and an even smaller boy, hiding behind a hedge, watching everything. The woman herself was wearing dirty, stained clothing, her eyes large and terrified.

Call the police, Mr. Wasserman said, turning to leave.

Wait, said Pip. Please. She’s just hungry.

The kitchen door opened, and another server emerged, carrying a tray with half-eaten food scraped from the plates of the guests inside. He paused at the strange sight before him.

Look at all the food going to waste, Pip said. They weren’t stealing anything.

They? They who? Mr. Wasserman asked, looking around.

Pip pointed at the hedge, where the children’s frightened faces could be seen peeping through the branches. This is all being thrown away. Please.

Mr. Wasserman’s whiskers bristled as his jaw worked back and forth for a moment. Bag it up.

Sir? said the first server, still holding the woman’s arm tightly.

I said, bag up everything on that tray. Mr. Wasserman pointed his cigar at the second waiter. Give it to her. But, he turned to jab a finger at the woman, I want you to take it and leave, hear? Don’t go telling your friends they can all show up here for a free handout.

The woman gave a tiny nod.

The second server went back inside while the first let go of the woman’s arm. A couple of minutes later, the second man returned, carrying a large paper bag and handed it to the woman.

Thank you, sir, she squeaked and backed away. Her children scurried to her, and they all disappeared into the darkness.

A few more heads had appeared in the kitchen doorway, wondering what all the commotion was.

Back to work, all of you, Mr. Wasserman said.

He led Pip back into the garden.

Thank you, Pip said.

He tried to puff on his cigar again, but it had gone out. Blast. He tossed the stub of the cigar into the ashtray and sighed. Best get back in there, or there’ll be hell to pay.

He buttoned his collar and fumbled with his bowtie. Blast.

May I? Pip stepped closer and tugged the two ends to get them even. I always tie my father’s ties for him.

She slipped out of the jacket and handed it back. He frowned at her as he donned it.

Don’t you go telling everyone about that, either, he said, jerking his head toward the kitchen.

She hid a smile. No, sir.

As she stepped back into the lights and music and conversation, she thought she heard him mutter something that sounded like baby brother and ship’s cook, but when she turned around, Mr. Wasserman had disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter 2

The windows in the round tower office offered a glorious view of the trees on the abbey grounds. In the distance, hills rose, all of them brilliant with autumn colors, promising the invigorating bite of cooler air filled with the sharp tang of falling leaves and apples. But inside the office, the atmosphere was heavy with melancholy.

This is how Mickey used to feel at this time of year.

Mother Theodora sat at her desk, her pen poised above a half-filled page as she stared at the scenes beyond. Her mind was filled with a kaleidoscope of images and memories—scenes that followed no pattern or chronology. She’d found herself lost in those thoughts more and more lately. Things she hadn’t thought about for decades.

Things I hadn’t let myself think about… things best left where they were.

So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the first soft knock. A second, more insistent knock snapped her back to the present.

"Venite."

The door opened and a black-veiled head appeared hesitantly. "Pax tecum, Mother."

"Et cum spiritu tuo. Mother sat back. Come in, Sister Barbara."

Are you ready, Mother? Sister Barbara looked at her worriedly. I hope I’m not interrupting.

Mother Theodora sighed heavily, looking down at the paper before her. You’re not interrupting. And I’m as ready as I’m going to be.

She set the letter aside so that she could finish later. Scattered scraps of paper—mostly the reverse side of other correspondence—held lists of things she needed to attend to. The mandate not to waste anything that could be used or reused had been ingrained decades ago.

Rising, she accompanied Sister Barbara down the corridor and out the abbey’s front door, along the drive, and around the stone wall that demarcated the abbey’s enclosure—space reserved only for the nuns.

The gravel path they followed wound through a grove of old oak trees, the ground underneath littered with acorns. Squirrels chattered indignantly at the intrusion of humans in the midst of their harvest.

If they’re any kind of harbinger, we’re in for a harsh winter, Sister Barbara said conversationally.

Hmmm? Mother Theodora glanced around. Oh, yes.

Beyond the grove sat a new building, constructed to match the abbey’s architecture as much as frugality would permit. The choice of veneer versus real stone had been a source of much debate.

But we have the money! some of the nuns had argued.

But we also saw how exorbitant the costs are of reproducing what we have here after the fire seven years ago, others recalled. We shouldn’t waste money where we can save.

In the end, the cost savings of veneer won out, and Mother Theodora had been pleased with the end result. The new retreat center looked in keeping with the overall sense of peace that St. Bridget’s exuded. But it was more than peace to her mind. It was solidity, stability, safety.

None of which most of these women and girls have ever known, she’d said when proposing the idea to the community. We can offer what the nuns working in poor, inner-city communities can’t.

When Sister Barbara opened the door to usher them in, the first thing they both noticed was the noise.

Well, noise is relative, don’t you think? the chaperones would have pointed out. Voices speaking in normal tones, not screaming and yelling and being cussed at. This is quiet for them.

An athletic-looking woman dressed in ragged jeans and a SUNY Buffalo sweatshirt hurried to greet them. Hiya. She gave both nuns’ hands a vigorous shake. This place is so cool. Oh, I’m Sister Alicia Menendez.

I’m Sister Barbara, and this is Mother Theodora.

Sister Alicia grinned at Mother. We hear it’s you who made this possible. She waved toward the large room behind her. We really can’t thank you enough. None of these girls have ever had an experience like this.

She led the way into the room where about a dozen young women were gathered. Mother was pleased to see that the group was racially diverse, all of them appearing to be between fifteen and twenty-two, though she was guessing. One girl wore a pink hijab.

The chatter among the group stopped suddenly upon the nuns’ entrance.

This, said Sister Alicia, is Mother Theodora, the abbess of this convent, and Sister Barbara. They are our hosts for the week.

Mother smiled at the curious expressions as the girls looked them up and down.

Sister Barbara must have seen the same thing, because she lifted the yoke of her habit and said, We look a little different from Sister Alicia, don’t we?

Why do you wear those? asked one of the girls.

Who here has ever had someone make fun of you because of something you wore? Sister Barbara asked. That it was old or out of style or ripped or dirty?

Slowly, nearly every one of them raised a hand.

And how much time do you spend on your hair? Sister Barbara asked.

Sister Alicia laughed out loud at that one. Too much! I had to chase them out of the bathroom! But I’m not one to talk. She lifted the soft curls springing around her head.

Precisely. Sister Barbara tucked her hands into her sleeves. We wear the same thing every day. No fussing. No thinking someone else is dressed better than I am. No messing with our hair.

The girl in the hijab sat a little taller.

Are you gonna make us wear those? one girl asked.

Mother chuckled. No. We work for a long time to earn this. We don’t just give them out.

Like a uniform? asked another.

Mother nodded. Like a uniform. We have to pass basic training before we get to wear a habit.

She reached for two chairs and slid one toward Sister Barbara. Let’s sit and talk about why you’re here.

Sister Alicia joined the girls on the floor, most of them sitting on a variety of large pillows scattered about.

How many of you pray? Mother asked.

Timidly, a few of the girls raised a hand, including the girl in the hijab.

We pray nearly all the time, Sister Barbara said.

All the time? one girl asked incredulously as the others whispered to one another.

Nearly. We have eight periods of prayer each day, in addition to Mass, and other times of reading and praying. Prayer is our job.

I couldn’t think of that many things to ask for, said the same girl.

The others laughed nervously.

But is that the only time you pray? Sister Barbara asked. When you want something for yourself?

A few of the girls exchanged puzzled glances. Why else would we pray? one asked.

How about to praise God? Mother said. To give thanks for all the blessings we have. She waved a hand to the windows around the room. The beauty of the world, the night sky, the mountains and the seas, even the cities.

One girl shook her head. You ain’t seen our city. Think God done forgot us.

The others laughed.

But God didn’t do that, people did. Mother glanced from girl to girl. If things are run-down now, what are you doing to make it better? Sister Alicia started this program to help you see a different side of yourself, to make a difference through you. So what are you going to do with it?

The girls avoided looking at one another, no one willing to speak up.

Maybe that’s one of the things you could pray and think about this week. Mother nodded in Sister Alicia’s direction. I’m sure Sister Alicia will have lots of ideas of things you can do to help your communities.

Another of the girls raised a hand. Is that why there’s no TV here? You’re kind of closed off, like in a castle, apart from everyone else.

We do have a television, said Sister Barbara. In the abbey. But we only use it for urgent news. Most of our news we get from newspapers. That way we can keep up with what’s happening in the world, but without so many distractions.

But you got all this, said the same girl. Why would you worry about what’s going on out there?

We don’t want to close ourselves off, Sister Barbara said. Because that’s the other part of our job, praying for the world.

The world? The girl’s mouth gaped open as she tried to grasp this concept.

Have you ever watched the news, Mother said, and seen something bad happening somewhere else, to other people, and wished you could do something to help them? We can. We pray for them. We pray for people all over the world.

She couldn’t help chuckling at the skeptical frown on one girl’s face. You don’t believe that?

I believe you do it, the girl admitted, but there’s a lot of bad shit— She immediately looked contrite after a sharp glance from Sister Alicia. Sorry. There’s a lot of bad stuff happening to people. How do you know if it worked?

Good question. Sister Barbara folded her hands. We don’t always. Most often as a matter of fact. Sometimes, we get letters later, telling us that things got better for someone, but most of the time we don’t know.

Then why do you do it?

Because we have faith that God hears our prayers, that they do help. Even if not the way we think they should. Sometimes the answer from God is not the same answer we would choose.

There were more bewildered frowns at this.

And to help us pray, Mother Theodora said, we are silent most of the time.

She fought to keep from laughing at the open-mouthed confusion on their faces.

Are… One of the girls whispered. Are we allowed to talk?

You are, Sister Barbara said with a smile. But we encourage you to be quieter than normal. You’ll be surprised at how it opens up room in your mind for other thoughts and feelings. You can hear them better when there’s not so much noise.

Sister Alicia twisted around. That’s what I was trying to explain. When you can find a quiet place in your head, no matter what else is going on around you, no matter how crazy it all gets, you have something no one can take away from you.

The girl in the hijab shyly raised her hand. Am I allowed to be here?

We’re delighted you’re here, Mother Theodora assured her. She stood. We’ll leave you in Sister Alicia’s capable hands.

She and Sister Barbara moved toward the door, where Mother Theodora paused, adding, And we’ll pray for all of you.

Outside, Mother’s head was bowed as they retraced their steps to the abbey enclosure.

They asked good questions, she said quietly. How do we know?

Mother?

How do we know what we do in here has any effect out there? She raised her gaze to the hills.

Mother, are you all right? Sister Barbara asked.

Mother gave her a tight smile. Don’t mind me.

A hard nighttime frost shimmered on blades of grass growing along the edges of the boards that demarcated a path, snaking its way up the hill behind the house. Overhead, the sky was only beginning to lighten in the east, the clouds tinted with a faint rose hue. Lauren’s breath puffed before her in clouds as she climbed the trail toward the screened gazebo perched on top of the hill. She carried a covered mug of coffee to ward off the morning chill.

A few trees were mostly bare of leaves, their naked branches stretching into the dawn, while others had hardly begun dropping leaves at all. Everything was shades of gray now, but soon they would burn in flaming tones of gold and red and orange.

Picking her way through the grass was a dark brindled cat whose presence caused a few startled scoldings from birds perched in the branches. She trotted along, following Lauren up the hill and through the screen door.

Settling herself into one of the chairs, Lauren closed her eyes and quieted her mind. The cat hopped into her lap and curled up, purring. After a few minutes with birdsong the only sound from the surrounding meadow, she heard it—voices, raised in song, carried on the still morning air. Lauds, the first hour of the Divine Office—the daily, living ritual which had been the basis of Lauren’s life for almost twenty years. Her lips moved, mouthing the Latin words that seemed to flow effortlessly. For those few minutes, she was joined with the women who had been her sisters and companions for so many years. When the last echoes of Lauds faded away, she prayed for a while longer.

The cat sat up and pressed her forehead into her chin, nudging her.

Hungry, Kyrie? She ran her hand down the sleek back. Me, too, little girl. Come on.

Together, they made their way down the hill to the house, where Lauren scooped some fresh food into the cat dish on the kitchen floor. While the cat ate, she made herself a bowl of oatmeal and ate in silence.

The few people who came to the house had by now accustomed themselves to the fact that there was no television, though there was often music. Lauren had acquired a vast collection of CDs, mostly classical and folk music, but for now, she was content with the quiet. She knew it wouldn’t last long.

After a shower, her blonde hair twisted into a loose braid, she went out to her workshop and gathered up three canvas tote bags she’d packed the day before. She quickly tossed them into the back of the RAV4, turning on the heated seat as soon as she started the engine. At times, she felt guilty, enjoying such frivolous luxuries as heated seats. Long years of voluntary deprivation had taught her what she could live without, and even then, she’d never known real hunger or the insecurity of not having a roof over her head. But as she settled her backside more firmly against the warmth, she decided she could forgive herself this.

She drove through Millvale, enjoying the autumn wreaths adorning the shop doors, and beyond to the Millvale Elementary School. Taking a deep breath, she plucked the totes out of the back seat and approached the school’s entry.

Just inside the first set of doors was another, which was locked.

A speaker mounted on the wall crackled. Name, please?

She set a bag down and pressed the button. Lauren Thackeray. I’m helping with Jamie Stewart’s art class today.

Come on through, Miss Thackeray. The office is on your left.

She heard a click as the door was unlocked, though she struggled a bit to pull it open with both hands once again loaded with bags.

In the office, she signed a visitors’ roster and had to show her ID. Please wear this, the secretary said, handing her a lanyard with a large orange VISITOR tag hanging from it.

Lauren slipped the lanyard over her head. Can you please tell me how to get to Jamie’s classroom?

A few minutes later, she stood in the corridor, peering around the corner into a room filled with third-graders.

Jamie, who was crouched down listening to a little boy, saw her. Hey! Come on in. We’ve all been waiting for today.

He introduced her to the class. Miss Thackeray is a professional weaver. She’s going to teach us how to weave.

Together, they handed out the cardboard mini-looms Lauren had prepared, along with string and balls of various-colored yarns. She demonstrated how to wind the string to create the warp in the notches she’d pre-cut in the cardboard, and then she and Jamie helped the kids create colorful weavings with the yarn. By the time the bell rang, each student had a unique creation to take home.

Aren’t you exhausted? she asked, dropping into a chair when the students were gone.

He grinned at her—the grin and the blue eyes that still caught her off-guard, they were so like Mickey’s—and she felt that familiar hitch in her chest. Some days. But most days, I’m pretty jazzed. It’s fun watching them get excited about art.

She joined him to clean up odd bits of string and yarn littering the floor. What are you working on? Any new sculptures?

He didn’t answer immediately. There’s not a lot of extra time, what with this job and the twins walking now. He straightened, forced a smile. Got to grow up sometime. With a family, we need a steady paycheck and insurance. Hey, Jenn wanted me to make sure you’re coming over for Halloween. Costumes required.

Lauren paused, her hands full of extra yarn. Costume?

Yup. He lifted his hands. Sorry. Those are the rules. Michele is going to be an Amazon.

Not Wonder Woman?

She said she should have stayed with the Amazons. He shook his head. God, I love that girl. She is so much like Mickey.

For a moment, their eyes met, their mutual grief stretching between them like a live wire. It didn’t happen as often these days, but there were still times when it felt raw and fresh. Lauren broke away first.

Okay, she said with a clearing of her throat. Halloween. Costume. I’ll be there.

Chapter 3

Pip dragged herself downstairs in her bathrobe and slippers, bleary-eyed and yawning, and plopped herself into a chair at the kitchen table.

Thank you, Maggie, she said to the cook, who poured a cup of steaming black coffee for her.

Her father lowered the paper enough to frown in her direction. You were out late again last night.

Far from trying to hide it, Pip stretched and yawned again. I was. Early graduation celebration with my friends.

Patrick smiled indulgently and shook the paper upright. Just don’t make a habit of it.

I won’t. She propped her chin on her hand while Maggie slid two fried eggs and some bacon onto her plate.