He stopped before joining the mid-morning traffic to focus on her. “You’re kidding.”
“No. It was quite comfortable.” Veronica always made references to her past with a smile. It masked the ache the memory brought. “So, don’t worry because I don’t have a sofa. I’ve dealt with worse deprivation. And if I’m in the tub, you won’t be tempted to draw a chalk outline around me.”
He waited for a mail truck to pass, then drove half a block and stopped at a red light. He turned toward her, as though trying to see how she really felt.
“Your mother was in or out of jail at the time?”
“Out. She...you know...worked in the bed.”
He said something under his breath that was seldom heard in a convent. “Where the hell was Children’s Services? You must have been in foster care when she went to jail. Didn’t anybody notice it was happening a lot?”
Veronica wondered why she’d made the tub remark. She had only talked about her past to a couple of priests, and once to another nun. It would have been much easier to let his casual remark about her lack of a bed lie unchallenged.
She didn’t think she needed to talk about it. She’d made her peace with the past long ago—the day she walked into the motherhouse of the Sisters of Faith and Charity and offered them her future.
But she’d reneged on that offer twelve years later because she knew she didn’t have a true calling. Did that mean she hadn’t adjusted, after all? It was a sobering thought.
“I was finally taken away when I was twelve and went to live with the Porters, an older couple in Philadelphia who took in foster kids. My mother ODed in prison, and I stayed with them until I graduated from high school and joined the convent.”
He studied her face for a moment, the said with a conviction that was unexpected, “You’ve made it your life’s work not to be angry about your childhood, haven’t you?”
“I’m not angry.” She looked out at the sunlight gleaming off store windows and windshields and chrome. “My foster parents were loving and protective and taught me that your life is your life. You take what you get. And if you’re in a bad situation, you do your best to make something good out of it.”
“Are they still around?”
“No. They died within months of each other shortly after I went into the convent.”
“Is that why you joined?”
She turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Another red light. He stopped the truck, then faced her again, his eyes gentle. “To make something good out of your situation? To atone for your mother? Or for yourself? For all the horrors you saw and endured and couldn’t do anything about?”
It was an astute observation, but not quite on target. At least, she didn’t think so. “I entered because I was lonely. I wanted people in my life who would be there, who would be dependable. My mother obviously wasn’t that. She always wanted me back when she got out of jail, but I was never sure why. And in the foster homes, kids came and went—nothing ever stayed the same. Val and Henry—my foster parents—tried, but they had other foster children, too. I never dated until my senior year. My past was so different from everybody else’s, I didn’t know what to talk about. And I didn’t want anyone to know.”
She rolled down her window and breathed deeply. “I’d been in the convent a couple of years, though, before I realized that. I started to wonder why I still wasn’t happy, I examined my motives and decided I’d been looking for a big family, not necessarily for God.”
“Tate said you were part of the order for twelve years.”
“Yes. I’d started helping in the classrooms while I went to school myself, and I was enjoying the children so much, I couldn’t leave.”
“But you could have taught outside the convent.”
“I didn’t have my degree yet, and I couldn’t afford to go to school and set up an apartment, buy a car and all the things working people need. And I was still somewhat confused, so I stayed in. And the longer I was there, the harder it got to think about leaving. I wasn’t happy, but I was...safe.”
“Safe.” He repeated her word as though considering what it meant. “From what you went through as a child?”
“Yes, definitely that.” They left French River and followed the winding, tree-lined road to the winery. “About eight months ago, I went on a retreat. I did some serious soul-searching and realized I was using the convent not only to protect me from the past, but as a buffer against the future. Convent walls were a fortress between me and what might be expected of me on the outside. I was hiding.”
“What brought you to French River?”
She explained about teaching in Portland but longing for the country, and the sudden impulse to take the winery tour. “I was standing behind the B-and-B, admiring the view, and Colette approached me. We got talking...and we’ve been friends ever since. Then a parishioner I used to help in Portland heard about my wanting to open a day care and sent me a generous check for supplies. So I called Colette and asked if I could rent the barn.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “I am sorry you disapprove, but I promise the children won’t get in your way.”
“Children get in the way anywhere. It’s how they learn,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Mike helped her carry her belongings to the loft, then looked around at the still considerable emptiness.
“What are you going to sleep on tonight?” he asked. “And please don’t tell me you’re curling up in the bathtub.”
She pointed to the stack of boxes. “I have a sleeping bag in one of those. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t seem to think that was possible. “I’ll bring the table and chair over right away, so you can at least sit down.”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
As he loped down the stairs, Veronica put her meager groceries into the cupboards she’d washed and lined with paper yesterday. She had oatmeal, mesh bags of onions and potatoes, a string of garlic, a can of chili, a small bottle of olive oil, pasta, herbs and spices, a box of tea and a shaker of Parmesan cheese.
She would have to go shopping at the first opportunity. But tonight was the rehearsal, and tomorrow was the wedding.
She put two towels and two facecloths in the small cupboard under the bathroom sink, a hairbrush in the drawer and a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet.
Then she hung her clothes in a closet with sliding doors, stopping to admire the shelf that ran along the top and the pigeonhole divisions on the bottom for shoes. She smiled wryly because she had very little to put into it.
She’d put two boxes of school and art supplies in the center, leaving one final box to unpack. She unrolled her sleeping bag and placed a thin pillow on top, then leaned a crucifix against the window.
Mike returned with a rocking chair, a battered coffee table, and gray metal shelving. “I know this is really ugly,” he said as he put it, under her direction, against the living room wall, “but it might be useful until you can get something better. In the truck I’ve also got two small file cabinets. With a board or a door across them, you’ll have a desk.”
He brought those up, one by one, then gave her a picnic basket “Shea sent you some lunch and a few things for the kitchen.”
“Oh!” Veronica delved into it excitedly, finding two sandwiches, a small casserole bowl of pasta salad, two apples, and two cans of pop. She smiled at Mike, warming to the idea of sharing