Emma touched a fingertip to a raindrop on Saint Francis’s shoulder. The statue was the work of Mother Linden, an accomplished artist who’d have considered the absent tail feathers part of its charm as it aged.
The Sisters of the Joyful Heart was a tiny religious order, independently funded and self-sufficient. The twenty or so sisters grew their own fruits and vegetables and baked their own bread, but they also ran a shop and studio in the nearby village of Heron’s Cove—Emma’s hometown—and were skilled in art restoration, conservation and education. During the summer and early fall, the convent held retreats for art educators and conservators, as well as people who just wanted to learn how to protect family treasures. Various sisters were dispatched to Catholic schools throughout the region as art teachers. Hope, joy and love were central to their work and to their identity as women and religious sisters.
All well and good, Emma thought, but hope, joy and love hadn’t prompted Sister Joan’s call early that morning. Fear had.
“It’s a personal favor,” she had told Emma. “It’s not FBI business. Please come alone.”
Emma felt the cold mist gather on her hair, which she wore long now, and sighed at Saint Francis, the beloved early-thirteenth-century friar who had given up his wealth to follow a life of poverty. “What do you think, my friend?” She peered through the gate and made out a corner of the stone tower in the gray. “I know.”
Sister Joan was afraid, and she was in trouble.
CHAPTER 2
SISTER JOAN REACHED THE MEDITATION GARDEN and took a breath as she entered the labyrinth of mulched paths, fountains and native plants. Bright purple New England asters brushed against her calves as she shivered in the damp air and tried to let go of her fear, pride and resentment. She envisioned Mother Linden out here as a very old woman, the hem of her traditional habit wet and muddy and her contentment complete. She’d understood and accepted that each sister brought her own gifts and frailties to their small community.
Lately, Sister Joan was more aware of her frailties. She often pushed herself and others too hard, and she had a tendency to probe and question when standing back and letting events unfold would have been better.
Too late to stand back now, she thought as she veered past a weathered brass sundial onto a narrow path that would take her through dwarf apple and pear trees, back to the fence. A large garden and a dozen full-size fruit trees were on the other side of the convent grounds, away from the worst of the ocean wind and salt. With the long New England winter ahead, the sisters had been canning and freezing, making jams and sauces, since the first spring peas had ripened. They were as self-sufficient as possible. Nothing went to waste.
Sister Joan was acutely aware she hadn’t been pulling her weight recently in her community’s day-to-day work. Art conservation was her particular area of expertise, but every sister participated in cooking, gardening and cleaning. No one was exempt. Every task was God’s work. She hoped, with Emma’s help, she would soon resume her normal routines. She was accustomed to sharing everything with the other sisters and regretted not being open with them, but what choice did she have?
It was for their sake that she was being circumspect to the point of sneaking an FBI agent onto the grounds.
Sister Joan picked up her pace. She had to learn the truth. Then she would know what to do.
She came to the fence again and followed it a few yards to where it ended at the edge of a rock ledge that dropped almost straight down to the water. She could see the outline of at least a dozen sailboats and yachts that had taken refuge in the cove and wondered if anyone was looking up at the one-time estate and imagining what life was like in the secluded convent.
She had as a child, sailing with her family. Her parents hadn’t been particularly religious, but even as girl, she’d felt the call to a religious life stir within her. Only years later, after much study, contemplation, prayer and hard work, had she fully embraced her vocation and become a member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.
Holding on to a wet, cold cross-member for balance, Sister Joan eased around to the other side of the tall fence. She was mindful of her footing on the ledge, especially in the wet conditions, but she’d taken this route from the meditation garden to the tower countless times and had never come close to falling.
She ducked past the sweeping branches of a white pine and sloshed through a puddle of mud and browned pine needles, emerging onto the expanse of lawn in the middle of which stood the squat, rather unattractive, if impressive, tower. Why it was fenced off was just one of the many mysteries and eccentricities of the sprawling property the order had purchased in a dilapidated state sixty years ago. As near as anyone could figure, the tower had been modeled after a lighthouse and served as a place where the owners and their visitors could observe the ocean, passing boats and marine life. Now it was the center of the convent’s work in the conservation, restoration and preservation of art.
I’ve dedicated my life to this work, Sister Joan thought, then shook her head, amending herself. For the past thirty years, she’d dedicated her life not to herself and art conservation but to the charism—the unique spirit—and mission of her community. She’d freely chosen to enter the convent and commit herself to the rigorous process of discerning her calling before professing her final vows. She’d done her best to live according to the example and the teachings of Mother Linden.
It was in that spirit that she’d called Emma Sharpe.
Her wet shoes squishing with every step, Sister Joan
