She needed a few minutes on her own.
* * *
The tide was up, the water ripping under a gentle breeze, when Emma reached a stone footbridge and Colin again fell in next to her. She’d been walking at a brisk pace and slowed, finally stopping on the small bridge. “Do you suspect me of killing Sister Joan and planting the bomb in my grandfather’s vault? Attacking him this morning in Dublin?” She cast him a cool look. “Yank would say you should.”
“I don’t need Yank to tell me anything.”
It wasn’t a combative statement so much as factual. Senior agents like Matt Yankowski relied on their Colin Donovans to use their instincts, knowledge, training and experience, with enough accountability and oversight to keep everyone happy.
“You don’t think I belong on Yank’s team, do you?”
“Not my call.”
“I’ve fought not belonging ever since I left the sisters. Yank kept in touch the year I worked in Dublin. He saw me as building experience and contacts.”
“He knew he had you or he wouldn’t have wasted his time staying in touch.” Colin leaned against the stone bridge. “You went to the convent alone the other morning. You came here to Ireland alone. No backup, no coordination.” His tone was unemotional, neither soft nor hard. “You’re not a team player, Emma.”
“This from an undercover agent probably a lot of people think is dead.”
He winked at her. “Got a point there, sweetheart.” He stood up straight and slung an arm around her waist. “So which vow was the toughest, Sister Brigid—obedience, chastity or poverty?”
She felt herself get hot. “It’s not that simple.”
“It would be for me. Chastity. Hands down. I figure I’d have wiggle room on obedience and poverty, but chastity? That’s black and white.”
“In your world, maybe.”
He dropped his arm back to his side, and they walked off the little bridge, then past a garden of imported shrubs and plants that thrived in southwest Ireland’s mild, wet climate. On another day, Emma would have enjoyed studying the markers and spending a few leisurely minutes in the quiet park.
“Vows aren’t just about what you can and can’t do,” she said, not looking at Colin. “They’re about making the choice to fully embrace God’s call. I made first vows as a novice, but I stopped short of making final vows.”
“Are novices kept separate from full nuns?”
His question surprised her, until she reminded herself that he was an FBI agent and a nun had just been killed. “Novices with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart have separate living quarters within the motherhouse.”
“Is it a Spartan life?”
“I suppose that depends on your point of view.”
“Do novices spend a lot of time thinking?”
Emma smiled. “Postulants and novices enter into an intense period of discernment to test whether their call to a religious life is authentic.”
“Yours wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t lasting, I can say that.”
“What’s the difference between a postulant and a novice?”
She kept her tone professional, as if she were giving a report to her team. “A postulant is a candidate for admission to an order, not a member of the order. Postulant comes from the Latin postulare—to ask, to request. Requirements can differ from order to order, but generally a novice is a member of the order. She’s made a profession of first, or temporary, vows. A novitiate typically lasts two or three years, but it can be longer, or repeated. It’s a time of initiation and integration into the congregation.”
“Do postulants and novices do the scut work—clean toilets, sweep floors, cook for the sisters?”
“Postulants don’t live at the convent, but everyone at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart participates in daily tasks. I’m sure that hasn’t changed since I was there.”
“What about maintenance?” Colin asked. “Mowing, trimming trees, hauling wood, fixing leaks?”
“The sisters I knew are all very handy, although some more than others. They hire out what they can’t do themselves, just as anyone else would.” Emma stopped abruptly. “Why? Do you think a handyman is responsible for Sister Joan’s death?”
Colin went a few steps ahead of her, then stopped, turning to her. “You never know. Someone comes to fix the roof, sees a couple paintings lying around and decides to come back on a foggy morning. What about money? Sisters are all broke, right?”
Emma rejoined him, pretending she hadn’t noticed his scars and his shoulders and was just having a professional conversation with a colleague. “A vow of poverty means sisters don’t accumulate personal wealth. Everything they have and everything they earn goes into the general fund. They’re allotted money for personal needs. Clothes, food, shelter, spending money.”
“That’s a big commitment.”
“No one is forced to become a sister. Not these days, anyway. In the past, some women were forced into convents by their families or by personal circumstances.”
“Times change. You got up to the water’s edge and decided not to jump?”
“Basically, yes.”
“Yank’s doing? He’s a good-looking guy.”
“That wasn’t it.” Emma kept her tone cool, focused. “He offered me a different opportunity.”
“And he saw through you and your calling.”
“Maybe so.”
Colin was thoughtful a moment. “Sister Cecilia? Any sign her call is inauthentic? Did she run away from personal problems to become a nun?”
“It’s impossible for me to say.”
“Your gut, Emma.”
She turned off the path to an ornate iron gate. “My ‘gut’ isn’t always reliable.”
“Ah,” Colin said behind her. “You trusted it when you entered the convent, and you ended up wasting a few good dancing years.”
She sighed. “You’re welcome to your point of view.”
“You’re struggling not to be a novice again—back in the convent, mentally, emotionally. You have been since Sister Joan called you.”
He unlatched the gate and they entered a terraced hillside garden. At the top was the sprawling five-star Park Hotel. It looked
