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The Night We Met
Tara Taylor Quinn
I wasn't supposed to love Nate Grady, let alone marry him. But we found a love that triumphed over all adversity–just like Jane Eyre, my very favorite heroine.I was young, bookish, naive–on the verge of entering the convent–and then I met him…. The day I abandoned my old life, the day I agreed to marry him, now seems an eternity ago. But despite everyone's objections, I fell for Nate. An older, previously married man. My first and only love. My husband.When I looked into Nate's eyes on our wedding day, the rest of the world vanished. If I was crazy for doing this, I prayed the craziness would last forever….



The Night We Met
Tara Taylor Quinn


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Agnes Mary and Walter Wright Gumser—
together forever. Thank you.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19

Chapter 1
January, 1968
San Francisco, California
Life started the night we met. Everything before this was merely preparation for what was yet to come. It was a Saturday evening and I’d gone to a local pub just down the street from St. Catherine’s Convent. I’d been living in a private dormitory at the convent for a couple of years, studying education at the small elite women’s college a block away—and was just two weeks from becoming a St. Catherine’s postulant and beginning my life of poverty, chastity and obedience. The San Francisco pub wasn’t a place I frequented often, but that January night I needed the noise, the distraction, as much as I wanted the beer that I would drink only until it got me past the unexpected tension I felt that night.
After all, I had prayers and then Mass with the sisters early the next morning, followed by religious study.
At a little table some distance from the shiny mahogany wood bar, I sipped my beer, watched merrymakers and pool-players, and contemplated the fact that I didn’t belong anywhere.
Not on a date. Or at home watching television with my family. Not out with friends, not in a library studying and certainly not on the completely empty dance floor in front of me.
I was an in-between, having left behind the person my parents, siblings and friends, knew me to be. And yet I hadn’t arrived at who I was going to become. The friends I’d known were getting married, having babies, exploring the world and its opportunities while I was living on the outskirts of a society I was on the verge of joining. I had three years of religious study ahead of me before I’d be allowed to take my final vows and become one of the sisters with whom I’d soon be living.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t sitting there feeling sorry for myself. I’m far too practical and stubborn and determined to waste my time on such a defeatist emotion. I was simply taking my life into my own hands even as I gave it to God. Trying to understand the reasons for my decisions. Testing them. Making sure. Soul-searching, some folks might call it.
For that hour or two, I’d left my dormitory room at the convent and all that was now familiar to me, left the sisters and their gentle care, to enter a harsher world of sin and merriment and ordinary social living to seek the truth about me.
Was my choice to wed myself to God, to serve him for the rest of my days, the right one for me, Eliza Crowley, nineteen-year-old youngest child of James and Viola Crowley?
A woman’s laugh distracted me from my thoughts. A young blond beauty settled at the recently vacated table next to me with a man good-looking enough to star in cigarette commercials. They held hands as they sat, leaning in to kiss each other, not once but twice. Open-mouthed kisses. The girl wasn’t much older than me, but she had a diamond on her finger whose karat weight was probably triple that in my mother’s thirtieth-anniversary band.
I couldn’t imagine any of that for myself. Not the hand-holding. The kissing. And certainly not the diamond. They were all fine and good and valid for some lives. Just too far removed from me to seem real.
As I drank my beer, I saw an older woman sitting at the bar. I had no idea when she’d come in. The place was crowded, the seats at my table the only free ones on the floor, but I’d pretty much noticed everyone coming and going. Except for this woman.
Had she appeared from the back room? Was she working there? Maybe a cook? She held her cigarette with her left hand. There was no ring.
Judging by the wrinkles and spots on that hand, I figured she had to be at least sixty.
Had she always lived alone?
Could I?
I pictured the house I might have—a single woman by myself. It would be white with aluminum siding, and a picket fence and flowers. I was inside, having dinner, I thought. A salad, maybe. I’d worked that day. I’m not sure where, but I assumed I’d be a teacher. I was patient enough. And I liked kids.
And the whole vision felt as flat as the tile floor beneath my feet. There was nothing wrong with that life. It just wasn’t mine.
I imagined being my sister, my mother. I loved them, admired them—and experienced no excitement, no sense of connection, when I considered their choices for myself. I pictured myself as Gloria Steinem. I had courage and determination. Perhaps there was some contribution I was supposed to make to the world, some discovery or mission.
But I didn’t think so. There was no fire, no zeal at the thought. Rather than change the world, I felt compelled to care for those who lived in it.
What about that woman over there at the bar, surrounded by people yet talking to no one, lighting up another cigarette. Was there something I could do to help her? Comfort her?
I didn’t know, but if she asked for help I’d give it. Regardless of any discomfort. I was here to serve.
I wanted to be God’s servant, ready for Him to send where He needed, when He needed.
Joan of Arc wasn’t my heroine. Mother Theresa was.
I’d made the right choice.
Satisfied, relaxed, I reveled in my quieted mind and a few minutes later I was ready to leave the half mug of beer on the table and head back to St. Catherine’s. I planned to write about tonight in my journal, chronicling for later years these moments of reflection and self-revelation. I was mentally titling the page The night I knew for sure.
I just had to find the waitress so I could pay my bill. Good luck doing that, since the bar was so crowded. I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of her. How much did a beer cost in this place? Surely fifty cents would do it, plus tip. I’d shoved a few bills in the front pocket of my blue jeans.
“Hey, don’t I know you?”
I started to tell the blond guy standing at my table that the line was wasted on me, but then I recognized him.
“You’re Patricia Ingalls’s older brother, Arnold.” My reply was pretty friendly to make up for thinking he was hitting on me.
“Right,” he said, smiling. “And you’re that friend of hers who decided to become a nun.”
Not quite how I would’ve said it, but…okay. He was, after all, correct. “Yep.”
“My friends and I just drove in from skiing at Tahoe—and this is the only table left with seats. Mind if we join you?”
I fully intended to tell him he could have the table. I was leaving, anyway. And then I noticed the guy who’d joined the group, pocketing a set of keys. Arnold was older than Patricia and me by four years. This guy was even older.
It wasn’t his age that froze my tongue, though. I’m not really sure what it was. He looked at me and I couldn’t move.
And somehow, five minutes later, I found myself sitting at a table sipping beer with five athletic-looking older men.
And buzzing with nervousness because of the man right next to me—Nate Grady, Arnold had said, adding that Nate was staying sober so he could drive, which explained the keys.
Was I drawn toward him as a woman is to a man? I didn’t think so. Not that I knew much about such things. It was just that he was so…vital.
I couldn’t understand my reaction so, really, had no explanation for it.
“When’d you quit the convent?” Arnold asked after the beer had been served.
“I didn’t.” My eyes shied away from any contact with Nate as I replied—and my entire body suffused with guilty heat. For a second there, I’d wanted to deny my association with the church. With my calling.
Like Peter? Who later redeemed himself?
Or Judas—who never did?
“No kidding!” Nate’s deep voice was distinctive, his words clear in the room’s din. “You’re a nun?”
He’d been a minute or two behind, parking the car, when Arnold had mentioned it earlier.
“Not yet,” I assured him as though there was still time to stop the course of my life if need be—and at the same time shrinking inside, preparing to be struck down for my heresy.
“I’ve been living at St. Catherine’s dormitory for the past couple of years, but in two weeks I move into the convent itself and start my formal training,” I added to appease any anger I might have instilled in God, directing my comment to Nate without actually looking at him. “It takes three years to get through the novitiate.”
“You live with the nuns?” That voice came again, touching me deep inside.
“I live in a dormitory on the grounds, yes.”
“Dressed like that?”
“Not around the convent, no.” I didn’t describe the plain brown dress I usually wore. Not understanding why his presence was like a magnet to me, I wasn’t going to engage in conversation with him at all if I could help it. I tried to focus on Arnold and the other guys as they relived, with exaggerated detail I was sure, antics from their day, each trying to top the other with tales of daring attempts or perilous danger survived.
But frankly, I found their accounts boring. I kept thinking about paying my bill and excusing myself. Our waitress passed, laden with drinks and I told myself I’d flag her down next time.
“Do you spend your days with the nuns?”
I shook my head, alternating between wishing I’d bothered with makeup or a hairstyle and feeling glad that I hadn’t. Men liked blond bobs, not the straight brown wash-and-wear stuff that was cut just above my shoulders.
There was safety in mousy.
And in another six months when, God willing, I became a novice and received the Holy Habit, minus the wimple I’d be honored with when I took my final vows, my hair would be cut as short as my father’s.
“What kind of order is St. Catherine’s?”
Why wasn’t he joining in the boasting with his friends?
“Teaching. Other than those who run the household, the sisters hold teaching positions, either at the private college I attend or at Eastside Catholic High School right next to it.”
I didn’t see how he could possibly be interested in this. And wasn’t even sure he’d be able to hear me above the crowd.
“So that’s what you want to do? Teach?”
“I want to serve God. Since the Second Vatican Council there’s been a surge of energy directed toward education. And I love kids. So, yes, I do hope to spend my life teaching.” Instinctively I turned to face him as I spoke. And couldn’t look away. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. And possibly the warmest.
“How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Nineteen.”
He leaned a bit closer, not disrespectfully, I somehow knew, but simply to ease conversation.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are to know your calling in life at such a young age?”
The question reminded me of my reason for being in the pub at all—potentially the last time I’d enter such an establishment. “Yes,” I told him, remembering the conclusions I’d drawn only a half hour before. And the resulting peace that had settled over me.
A peace I couldn’t feel quite as intensely anymore…
“So what happens next week? Do you quit school?”
“No. I only have a few more classes to take before I get my degree and I can attend those during my postulant period. That’s what I begin in two weeks.”
“How’s that different from what you’re doing now?”
I could hear Arnold on my other side, delineating in great detail a downhill run he’d made that day.
“I’ll be moving into the Mother House—the main house where the nuns live. Other than classes, I’ll be pretty much restricted to living there. My day will start at 5:00 a.m. and end at 10:00 p.m. I’ll have a uniform, mostly black, with a veil but no wimple, and my only possessions, besides my rosary and hygienic necessities, will be a sewing kit. Except for grace, meals will be taken in silence, and most general conversation will be limited to designated free time during the day. In another six months, when I become a novice, I’ll read only religious books, and will have no access to radio, television or newspapers so that I can focus completely on prayer, meditation and spirituality.”
He’d asked. But I think I answered as much for me as for him. Hearing myself say the words out loud made them real. Official. I was prepared. And unafraid.
“And you’re doing this because you want to?”
There was no derision or criticism in his tone—just honest curiosity that spoke to my heart. “I can’t imagine doing anything else,” I told him with a certainty born earlier that evening.
“What does your family think of it all?”
“I’m the youngest of five and my folks have been shaking their heads at me for as long as I can remember.” I smiled. “Mostly they approve. They’ve already got sixteen grandchildren. And they’re devout Catholics. They’re proud that one of their offspring is dedicating her life to God’s service.”
“But you don’t feel they’re pressuring you to go through with it?”
“Not at all.” That I knew for sure because we’d talked about it. Several times. “They want me to have a decent, productive life doing something that makes me happy.”
“You’re very lucky.”
I almost didn’t hear him. I considered letting that be the end of the strange conversation that had sprung up from nothing. But as I thought about what he’d said, I knew I couldn’t just get up and leave.
“You don’t think your parents want the same thing for you?” I couldn’t believe I was asking such a personal question of a total stranger.
“Probably.”
The response left a lot unsaid, but I wasn’t forward enough to press further.
“What do you do?” I asked instead, with a genuine desire to know. Nate Grady, as a member of the human race, intrigued me.
“I manage a ski resort in Boulder, Colorado.”
“What about in the summer?”
“We have camp activities for kids, hiking for adults.”
“So how did you meet Arnold?”
“My kid brother and Arnold were part of a ski team training for the junior Olympics several years ago and stayed in touch. After high school, Keith enlisted, said it was the only way he’d ever get a degree. I offered to help him pay for college, but he wouldn’t let me. His unit was deployed to Vietnam almost as soon as he got out of boot camp and two years ago, we got word that he’d been killed. A couple of weeks later, his remains were sent home for burial.” He paused, and when he resumed speaking, his voice was slow and measured. “Arnold and I have this sort of unspoken agreement to fill some of the gaps left by Keith’s loss, so we go skiing together a few times every year.”
The words could have hung like lead between the strangers we were, but they didn’t. Nate’s openness disarmed me. I had a feeling he wouldn’t have been so forthcoming with other people—and that he was hiding a lot more pain than he was showing. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too,” he said. He lowered his head, hands resting on the table on either side of his soda water. Neither of us had touched our drinks since he’d first spoken to me.
“He was a good kid,” Nate continued. “Far too young to die.”
“Did you see him after he left?” I wondered if that might make a difference.
“No. But he wrote every week. I wrote back, but based on the things he said in his letters, I don’t think he ever got mine.” My heart hurt hearing those words.
“Do you know what happened?”
Nate shook his head. “Just that he died honorably, and in battle. I have no idea where he was or what the battle was about.”
That was true for so much of this war that had been troubling our nation for too many years now.
“What are you two talking about that’s so all-fired serious?” Arnold shouted across the table, draining the last beer from his bottle. “Don’t forget, man, she’s a nun.”
Nate switched gears to jest with his friends, and I smiled as the others teased him about an ego so big he thought he could get a nun, even laughed out loud when he joked back. And I felt like some kind of freak, missing half a body. It was time for me to go.
“The piano’s calling, buddy!” Arnold said as he grabbed the second bottle of beer he’d ordered, not that I was counting. Nate stood and Arnold leaned toward me. “Nate plays here most Saturday nights when he’s in town. Wait till you hear him.”
I watched the six-foot-tall, perfectly proportioned, athletic man stroll to the piano, watched him wave as a couple of people called out to him. Watched his face break into an odd, almost peaceful smile. Even getting up to perform, there was nothing pretentious about Nate Grady.
And as he sat down, placed strong-looking fingers on the keys, I knew I couldn’t leave yet. I’d be in trouble if I missed my ten o’clock curfew, but it was only a little past eight.
The first notes were muffled by the crowd, but by the time he’d reached his second stanza, the noise had stopped as everyone turned to listen. Nate played everything from current hits and love ballads to the big band forties songs I’d heard from my parents growing up. And he sang—in a voice so rich and deep I felt as though God was in every note.
I told myself I’d stay for one set. Long enough to tell him I thought he was wonderfully talented and to thank him for playing. I paid my bill so I’d be ready to go as soon as he finished. I still had time.
He broke into a rowdy rendition of “Great Balls of Fire” and before I knew it, I was laughing and cheering with the rest of the crowd. The break was good for me. And I loved the song. It had just hit number one, not that I’d ever really followed the pop charts. But that week I seemed to be more aware of everything worldly around me—maybe because I was looking at it all with an eye to leaving it behind.
After announcing a short break, Nate came back to the table. Words of goodbye were forming on my lips. Someone had borrowed the chair he’d been using, but then he found another one and pulled it up next to mine. I couldn’t just leave.
The guys were placing bets on which of the three jerks who’d been talking up a sweet young thing at the ski resort had won her favors for that night.
“She went home with her sister,” Nate said dryly. “I saw them go.”
“How d’you know she was her sister?” Arnold challenged in a good-natured way.
“She told me. She’s getting married next week, and she and her sister, who’s her maid of honor, went to Tahoe for a couple of days. It’s their last time together as just the two of them.”
Arnold and his pals were distracted when the waitress reappeared.
“Were you trying to get her to go out with you?” I asked Nate. My gall shocked me.
“I asked her if she was going to be all right leaving with those guys making such asses of themselves,” he said just loudly enough for me to hear.
“Oh. That was a nice thing to do.”
“It’s habit. Girls skiing without a male escort seem to attract the worst kind of male attention.”
He should know; he managed a ski resort. I couldn’t help wondering how many managers watched out for the girls, and how many hit on them. More the latter, I expected.
A few minutes later, Nate excused himself to play again. Before he left, he asked if I’d be there during his next break. Without glancing at my watch, I nodded. I had about an hour.
The crowd slowly quieted as Nate played that second set, thinning out some, but not much. Couples swayed together on the dance floor. Chairs circled the piano. And then, just after nine-thirty, as Nate struck a new chord, he looked straight at me.
And started to sing.
“My Cup Runneth Over.” He sang the whole song directly to me.
It didn’t mean anything. How could it? We’d just met. He’d never seen me in the morning. Or any other time of day, for that matter.
And never would.
Still, I listened to every cadence, every lilt and syllable, and knew that this was a night I’d never forget.
“I have to go,” I said, standing to put on my serviceable short black coat as he made his way back to the table. “I don’t want to miss my curfew.”
“I’ll see you later,” Nate told his friends, standing behind me. I wasn’t sure what was going on until he followed me outside.
Nate walked me home. The couple of blocks had seemed insignificant when I’d traversed them with crowds of people earlier that evening. Now the quiet stretch of road, cloaked in the darkness of night, seemed far too intimate.
Nate kept a respectful distance, his jacketed arm not even bumping into mine.
“The guys told me about this cliff you skied today,” I began. “They said you’d have won a medal if you’d been in the Olympics.”
“In case you haven’t figured it out, they exaggerate.”
“But not many skiers make it over that particular drop-off upright, or so I hear.”
“Plenty do. And plenty fall, too.”
“How’d it feel, to be flying in the air like that? Were you scared?” I’d had butterflies in my stomach listening to Arnold talk about it.
“Truthfully?” He glanced down at me.
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else would probably figure I’m crazy, but I have a feeling you’re going to understand this. As soon as I started that run, I was so busy being aware of the wind gliding by—almost as though it was holding me up—and the crisp cold against my face, I didn’t even think about landing until it happened. And then it was like any other slope. You do what you have to do to stay on your feet.”
What he’d just described sounded like a moment of pure, spiritual bliss. Such intense involvement in the here-and-now that you were actually taken beyond it.
I’d petitioned to join a convent so I could learn how to have moments like that. There was something about this man, something deeper than anything I’d encountered in normal life, that was reaching out to me.
Almost as if he had answers to some of the mysteries I so desperately wanted to solve. Subconscious answers, maybe. But had them, just the same.
“I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Eliza Crowley,” he said as we arrived at the heavy iron gate in front of St. Catherine’s.
“And I’m glad I met you, Nate Grady.” There didn’t seem to be much harm in admitting that. I was never going to see him again.
“My flight back to Boulder leaves tomorrow evening,” he said unexpectedly as I slipped through the gate and shut it behind me. “Any chance you could get away before then? Maybe we could take a walk.”
Looking at him through the iron bars, all I could get out was, “I…”
“I’m sure you’re on a pretty rigid schedule.” He seemed to take pity on me. “It’s okay if you can’t. I won’t be offended.”
“I’m…I have…an hour free after lunch.” I finally stumbled over the words. Who on earth was this woman uttering them? “We could meet down at the corner and walk through the gardens.”
They weren’t owned or tended by the sisters of St. Catherine’s, but because the city park was so close, many of the sisters went there. I’d be in plain sight. Protected.
This could in no way be considered a date.
And until I moved out of college student housing into the main house, I was free to come and go. Curfew aside, of course.
“Great,” he said. “What time?”
“One?”
“I’ll be there.”
I spent the next two hours lying awake in the long room I shared with seven other college students—three of them, like me, soon to be postulants—my nerves buzzing with energy and life. And with guilt…Going to that bar had been so completely out of character for me. And everything that had followed even more so.
My favorite fictional heroin flashed into my mind, a woman whose inner strength and sense of right and wrong had always spoken to me. My mother had read Jane Eyre to me as a child, and since then, I’d reread it often. Did the feelings I was trying so hard to comprehend bear any likeness to those experienced by Jane Eyre when she first met Mr. Rochester? I hoped not.
My attraction wasn’t physical or romantic. At a time when I felt lost between past and future, when I was no more than an in-between, having left behind who I was and not yet arrived at who I was going to be, Nate Grady saw a person.
I wanted to talk to him one more time.

Chapter 2
One Sunday a month, the novices at St. Catherine’s were permitted visits from their parents and siblings. That next day was one of those Sundays and with all the extra people milling around in the grounds, my departure went unnoticed. I wasn’t required to stay on the premises—not until I moved from the dormitory—but on Sundays I rarely left, choosing to study with the sisters rather than involve myself in secular activities on God’s day of rest.
Still, I wasn’t doing anything wrong in meeting Nate and didn’t really understand my relief at being able to escape unseen.
He was waiting at the entrance to the park, dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt and long, skinny black tie. His hair was neatly parted and combed to one side.
“I feel kind of silly, shivering in this sweater while you’re not even wearing your jacket.” He’d slung it over his shoulder in a way that looked casual and rakish—sexy—at the same time. I rejected that thought immediately.
“It’s nearly seventy degrees,” he said, falling into step beside me without so much as an inappropriate glance at my knees, revealed by the navy plaid jumper I’d worn to Mass that morning. Granted, I was wearing my usual dark stockings. “I can’t remember January ever being this warm. Not in my experience, anyway.”
“One year, when I was about twelve, it hit ninety-five in January. My folks cooked hamburgers on the grill and all my older brothers and sisters were there. We played Marco Polo in the pool in our backyard.”
“It’s going to be about twenty-five degrees when I get home tonight.”
His words stopped the smile on my lips—and calmed my heart. He would be leaving soon.
And I was never going to see him again.

“Did you bring anything memorable with you from Mass this morning?”
We’d been talking for almost an hour and I was beginning to feel as if Nate was an old friend. Still, the intimate query into my spiritual life threw me.
And yet it thrilled me. Other than the sisters, no one had ever engaged me in conversation about this most personal aspect of my life.
I had no idea how to answer him.
“My Bible,” I finally said, inanely.
“I meant from the sermon.”
I glanced up at him, careful to lower my eyes before I met his. I wasn’t yet under the tutelage that would require me to keep custody of my eyes, but I knew I would be soon. As a novice, I would be required to keep my gaze low, to refrain from direct eye contact. I wanted to practice it now, I told myself.
Either that, or I was afraid of liking him too much.
“Are you Catholic?” I asked him, instead of answering his question.
“I was born Catholic.” He slid his hands in his pockets and we moved around a bend filled with brightly colored blossoms. “But I’m divorced and when the Church wouldn’t recognize that, I felt kind of hypocritical staying. I’d done what I knew was right for me, but the Church expected me to remain in a marriage that wasn’t working anymore.”
I barely got through the rest of his words, stuck back in the divorced part.
“How long were you married?”
“Two years.”
“When?”
“Before Keith shipped out.”
A couple with two small children smiled at us. I felt an urge to tell them that Nate and I weren’t a couple, but held my tongue.
He’d been married at least four years ago. I would’ve been, at most, fifteen. “Why did you split up?”
“She was still at university and got involved in antiwar protests. Pretty soon they were consuming her life and I hardly saw her.”
“She was protesting the war your little brother was fighting?”
Nate didn’t say anything for a few minutes and I walked silently beside him.
“I never blamed her for her beliefs,” he said slowly as we passed an elderly man walking a dog. “I supported her right to have them.”
“So what happened?”
“She couldn’t accept the fact that I wouldn’t join her. Said she couldn’t live with someone who promoted violence. About a year before Keith was killed, she left me for a fellow student and antiwar activist. They’re married now and just had a baby.”
“I’ll bet she’s got Dr. Spock’s book,” I said to cover my unexpected desire to comfort this man. I was completely out of my element. “He was indicted last week for conspiring to help others avoid the draft,” I added when Nate said nothing.
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“I’ve been listening to the news a lot lately.”
“Because you’re interested or because you know you won’t be able to after next week?”
Could the man see straight into my thoughts? My heart? That idea wasn’t as threatening as it could have been.
“The latter, I’m afraid.”
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
“It feels…duplicitous.”
“Wanting what you can’t have, believing the grass is greener on the other side, is part of the human condition.”
“You make it sound so…normal.”
“It is,” Nate said. “Listen, if it was easy to make the right choices, there’d be no glory in doing so.”
His words made me think.
“You’re a smart man, Nate Grady.”
He chuckled. “I’ve made some pretty stupid decisions, that’s all, and had to learn from them.”
I wanted to know what each and every one of them was.
But I didn’t dare ask.

We moved aside on the walkway to make room for a family dressed in church clothes. The son, about ten, I’d guess, had a stain on the knee of his slacks and his tie was askew. The little girl, with bows in her hair and lace on her socks, was pristine. The sight made me smile.
“You’ve never mentioned the rest of your family,” I said. “Other than Keith.”
“He was my only sibling.”
“What about your parents? I imagine they took his death hard.”
Hands still in his pockets, Nate slowed. “My father doesn’t know. He took off right after Keith was born.”
“You’ve never heard from him?”
“No.”
“Have you ever tried to find him?”
“Nope. What was the point? He knew where we were. If he wanted contact, he knew how to get it.” Nate didn’t seem bitter. Or the least bit victimized, either.
I glanced sideways as we walked, trying to see his expression. “Aren’t you curious about him?”
“Not really. I vaguely remember him. My mother said he never wanted kids and that made sense. He’d come and go as he pleased, and he never heard me when I talked to him. I don’t think he loved my mom. They had to get married.”
“Because of you?”
“Yeah.” Nate nudged a stone off the cement with the toe of his shoe without missing a step. “I suppose he wasn’t a bad guy. He didn’t beat us or anything. Some people just aren’t meant to be parents.”
I thought the man sounded incredibly selfish.
“What about your mother?”
“She loved him.”
As if that said it all.
“Do you see her often?”
“After our father left, she drank herself into liver disease and died ten years ago.”
“So she didn’t know about Keith.”
“If the alcohol hadn’t killed her, his death would have.” Nate’s voice was far calmer than mine would have been. “She drank a lot, but only after the two of us were in bed. Or out. She was a great mom, always there for us whenever she could be. She had no family support, which is why I think she fell into trouble with my father to begin with. Yet she raised two boys who knew they were loved, who never did drugs or got in trouble with the law. And she did it all on her own.”
“In his sermon this morning, Father John talked about God’s work in our society today,” I said, returning without explanation to his earlier question. “He mentioned Jacques Cousteau’s first undersea special on TV this past week. And the space-probe landing on the moon. Man’s potential is limitless. But without God’s help none of that could have happened.”
“You say that as if you aren’t sure you agree with him.”
“I don’t disagree,” I said. “Not at all.” Father John was a highly revered priest. I was a lowly postulant-to-be. “But I do think human choice and human will also contribute to scientific achievement. To any kind of achievement. What’s the point of having a mind, of making choices, if we don’t have the power to follow through on them?”
His nod encouraged me to continue. “Take your mother, for instance. She made choices. They didn’t all work. But she took what she had and made good things happen.”
“You’re pretty smart for such a young woman.” Nate’s words were teasing, mocking my earlier comments about him. And yet, they held a note of admiration.
“You sound as though you’re ancient,” I teased him.
“Compared to you, I am.”
I slid my hands into the sleeves of my sweater. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
Fourteen years older than me. Which was safer than I’d thought.
“Say something.”
“I’m surprised you even find me interesting.” That didn’t come out the way I’d meant it. I wasn’t fishing for compliments.
“You’ve got a sense of peace about you,” he said, pausing. “A kind of acceptance.”
I certainly didn’t see myself that way. But he had nothing to gain by turning my head. Our futures were clearly determined, and they’d be far from each other, with absolutely no point of connection.
“You aren’t shallow.” He started to walk again.
“Neither are you,” I said, catching up with him.

“You have something I want,” Nate said as we approached the entrance to the park and the moment I’d be saying goodbye to him forever.
I stopped breathing. And then my racing pulse forced air into my lungs.
I felt like running. But some impulse held me there, wouldn’t let me go. “What?”
“A calm and knowing heart.”
I almost wept. “Oh, Nate, if you could feel it right now, you wouldn’t say that.”
“You aren’t afraid to face life, to confront your doubts and still head off full force.”
“I’m scared to death!”
“On the surface, sure, but deep down?”
I glanced up only long enough to see the earnest question in his eyes. And without conscious thought, I entered my inner world, the mental space I flowed into when I meditated, looking for the sense of assurance that had always guided me. A world I trusted.
“Deep down I am content,” I whispered, filled with gratitude at the fact he’d just pointed out to me. I hadn’t consciously realized that my questions and confusions were only on the surface, and that inside, where it counted, I was calm. Peering up at him, I didn’t care that tears fell from my eyes. I understood now what this weekend had been all about. God worked in mysterious ways. Sent messengers in a myriad of guises.
And at that moment I knew without question that Nate Grady was one of those messengers.

Chapter 3
I spent the rest of that day with Nate. I was a free woman—didn’t have to be anywhere. The other soon-to-be postulants who were used to me hanging around the dormitory, studying or joining them in a game of croquet would be curious, but they wouldn’t be disrespectful. Nate called and got a later flight back to Boulder. And we went to a little café not far from St. Catherine’s and talked for hours. He saw so much more than most people did when they looked at daily life.
“Where’d you learn to play the piano?” I asked as dusk was starting to fall.
“Taught myself, mostly.” We were drinking hot chocolate. “My grandparents bought a piano and I’d sit down and pick out songs. I didn’t learn to read music until I was in high school.”
“You’d just hear songs and sit down and play them?”
“Eventually.” I loved Nate’s grin.
“If you heard a song right now for the first time, could you play it?”
“Probably.”
I wondered about that morning’s sermon—wondered where man’s talents were strictly his own and where God was responsible for them.
“I enjoy skiing,” Nate said. “And I love working with the kids all summer. But playing the piano…completes me.”
I understood what he meant by that. “I’m not sure I know what completes me.”
“Giving your life to the service of God?”
“Can it be that broad?” I frowned. “Shouldn’t there be some talent that’s more personally my own?”
“I don’t know.” His gaze was steady. Sincere. “What I can tell you, what I’ve learned, is that the more rules you place on whatever you’re looking for, the less likely you are to find it.”
He’d given me something else to think about.
“Like if someone spent his whole life searching for some grand purpose, he’d miss the fact that he was a great gardener and that his flowers brought comfort to hundreds of people.”
“Or the proverbial janitor whose smile touched hundreds of kids over the years…”
His words faded and we smiled at each other. An easy, comfortable communication between like spirits. I was glad I’d met him.

“You’re sure you won’t be in trouble for spending so much time with me?”
We were heading in the general direction of the convent. It was almost completely dark and I hugged my navy cardigan more closely around my body.
“While I’m living in the dormitory, I pretty much come and go as I please,” I told him. “Other than curfew, and a few rules like no food in the rooms and no male visitors, I don’t have restrictions.”
“Why no food?”
“The sisters are notoriously clean.” A trait I shared with them.
“No male visitors—has it been that way for all your college years?”
“There’ve only been two and a half of them.” I was feeling a little nervous about getting back, missing my Sunday-evening time with the other postulants-to-be. And yet, I hated to see the end of these hours with my in-between friend. “I took college classes while I was still in high school. But yes, it’s been that way the whole time.”
“Did you date in high school?”
“A little. Not much. Boys bored me.”
Except for him. But then Nate was a man—fourteen years my senior. There was nothing boyish about him.
And it was fully dark outside. Would the sisters be hugely disappointed in me if they could see me now?
“When did you know you wanted to be a nun?”
“I’ve felt drawn to the convent my entire life. I went to Catholic schools and have been visiting St. Catherine’s since I was in high school. Joining the order was a natural progression. But because it’s a teaching order, I needed to get my degree.”
“So you won’t always be living as secluded a life as you will for the next few years?”
I could see the corner far ahead where I’d turn to go home and started to relax again. I was almost there.
“Seclusion ends when I take my vows.” It felt as good tonight to be talking to him about what was to come as it had the night before. “The point of being a postulant and then a novice is to leave the world behind so I can fully concentrate on my spiritual life. I’ll develop self-discipline and spend a lot of time in contemplation of God and the vows I mean to take. I won’t associate with many people, except for others in my position.”
“Not even the nuns?”
“Except for those who oversee us, no.”
We were only a block away from saying goodbye forever.
“Can people come and visit you?”
“One Sunday a month and only immediate family.”
“What about letters?”
“I’ll be permitted to write one a week to my parents, but it’ll be read by the sisters and any letters my family sends will also be read.”
He didn’t say anything and I was afraid. It was important to me that he understand, that he not judge my choice too harshly. Though why his opinion mattered I didn’t know.
“I won’t be a prisoner, Nate,” I told him. “The rules aren’t there to confine me, but to protect me from the world so I can prepare myself for the life I’ve chosen. Or—perhaps—to figure out that this isn’t for me. The sisters work very hard to help us clear the voices from our minds so we might hear the inner guide inside us.”
“Would that everyone had that chance.” His softly spoken words quieted my heart.

“Would you hate me if I told you I wish I’d met you in another time and place?”
I’d entered the grounds—closed the heavy iron gate behind me. The drive, which had been lined with cars earlier that day, was now deserted. Silent. Dimly lit. Before I could take another step, his words reached me.
I turned back to see Nate standing with both hands clutching the black metal. And lost the battle I’d been fighting with tears since my hastily muttered goodbye—my wish for him to have a safe and happy life.
“Where and when would that be?” I whispered. “Anywhere I go, I’ll be who I am right now.” A woman who was bound for a life of poverty and chastity. “And you’ll still be fourteen years older than me, living in another world.”
“I will never forget you.”
“Nor I you.”
I walked away then. Because it was the right thing to do. I trusted that, deep inside, it was what I wanted to do. I would miss Nate, but I hardly knew him. I was committed to God.
My tears continued to fall long into the night—and I asked forgiveness for shedding them.

On Thursday, having spent four days cloistered in my room, at confession, at Mass or in prayer, I shared a silent lunch with several of the other candidates who’d be joining the order with me the following week. Afterward, back at the dormitory, I found a letter waiting in my cubicle.
Assuming it was from my sister June in Cincinnati—she was the only one who ever wrote me—I tossed it onto my cot. On its way down, the bold, virtually illegible writing that served as a return address caught my eye.
My sister’s writing was small. She always printed.
Sick to my stomach I sat beside the envelope, staring at it. I shoved my hands beneath my thighs. A white, sheetlike curtain separated my area from the other six cubicles in the long room, but the privacy it offered wasn’t necessary at the moment. I was the only one there. The rest of the girls were on the lawn playing volleyball.
I’d thought of Nate often that week. And repented afterward—each and every time. I still believed he’d been heavensent, to show me that my confusion and questions were momentary and my soul was content. I also feared he might be my temptation.
A few nights before, very late, I’d awakened from a dream about Nate—and lain there wondering what it would feel like to be hugged by him. To be kissed…I’d been afraid to go back to sleep in case I dreamed of him again.
He’d shown me the inner peace I possessed, yet it had remained elusive since the moment I’d turned my back and walked away from him.
I understood that this was one of life’s contradictions. That human need to want what you can’t have, as he’d described it. Was this a test of my resolve? I wondered.
My mind would not be quiet.
The envelope had to be dealt with. I could throw it in the trash. Perhaps that was how I passed this test.
But what if he had something to say that I needed to know? Some insight or revelation that would bring clarity back to my heart. What if he was sick? Or injured?
He’d never shown any inclination to be anything but proper with me. Our association was a moment in a lifetime—there, and then gone. We’d been brought together to strengthen each other, I told myself, to bless each other’s lives, and then move on. Only my obsessive inability to let go of my earthly thoughts was a problem.
I picked up the envelope.
I was not going to tarnish the gift of Nate’s brief friendship with the dark side of human nature. Of my nature.
After waiting until my stomach felt calm, I slit open the envelope. Two sheets of folded paper slid out. There was writing only on the inside, but through the paper I could see that he’d written more than one paragraph.
Looking around to make sure I was still alone, I unfolded the long sheets.

My dearest Eliza,

My heart skipped a beat as I read the greeting. I wasn’t his. But it felt good to read the words, anyway—as though I had a special, sacred friend. A friendship outside the boundaries and beliefs that defined my life. Outside the opinions and judgments of others.
My hands were shaking so hard it took me another second to be able to focus on the next words.
Please forgive my intrusion. I have struggled with myself since leaving you at the convent gate on Sunday night, knowing that when I walked away it had to be forever. And yet something inside me compels me to contact you, to speak of my heart, and let fate, or your God, or whatever powers that be take us wherever they must.
The rest of the world faded away and I read on as though my entire being rested on these next moments.
Had you known me more than a day, you’d know that I’m a man who always thinks before he leaps. I carefully plan before I step. There’s a reason for everything I do, and I’m aware of the reason before I do it.
Until now. I have no idea why I feel I have to write this letter, but I won’t rest until it’s done.
I don’t have an explanation for what I’m about to do and have no way to convince you that I’m fully sane as I sit here. I know only what I know and it is this:
I love you. I believe you are my soulmate. I would give this more time, not to convince myself of the rightness of what I’m feeling, or because I have any doubt, but to give you time to know me more completely. I would attempt to court you according to societal expectations, except that in one short week you will be lost to me. I know that once you make a commitment, you make it fully.
In this untraditional and inadequate way, I must ask, Will you marry me, Eliza Crowley?
I read those words and can’t believe I’m doing this. You have me so tangled up I hardly know myself.
And as I consider what I’m asking, I must, in all fairness, tell you about myself. I have a temper, but most times have pretty good control over it. I cannot promise not to get angry with you. Nor can I promise to make every moment for the rest of your life a happy one. I can’t assure you that I won’t ever make you angry or disappoint you. I can tell you that I’ll try always to listen to both sides and to consider you fairly in every decision I make.
I can also promise that I will love you until the day I die and beyond.
I don’t say any of this to pressure you. I do not intend to contact you again, or to try in any way to convince you to accept my proposal. As I said, I believe you are my soulmate but don’t know if we’re meant to be together in this lifetime. If not, I will wait until we meet again.
Yours,
Nathanial Grady
Joy unlike any I’d experienced before coursed through my body. It was followed by a sense that something in my life had just settled into rightness.
The sensation lasted about ten seconds, until my eyes focused on the letter and I read it a second time. It was a fairy tale, better than most of the stories my mother had read to me when I was a child—with the exception, maybe, of Jane Eyre.
It was the stuff that dreams and magic—not lives—were made of. Like my association with Nate, it was a moment, not solid, not sustainable.
I couldn’t possibly marry him. I didn’t even have to ask myself before I knew the answer to that. I’d committed myself to vows of chastity. I truly wanted the life I’d chosen for myself.
But even if this episode with Nate was supposed to show me that I wasn’t meant for the convent, I still couldn’t marry him. No matter how badly I wanted to. He’d been divorced.
If I were to marry Nate, I wouldn’t only have to leave the convent, I’d have to leave the Church.
If I was going to seriously consider this proposal, I would have requested counsel from the Mistress of Postulants, but I was in no doubt as to my response. It wasn’t uncommon to have a trial present itself just before entering into the religious life. This was a test of my faith, no more.
Leaving Nate’s letter on the thin, hard mattress, I sat in the plain chair at my small writing table, picked up pen and paper, and started to write. He’d said he wouldn’t contact me again and I knew he wouldn’t, whether I replied to his letter or not. But it wouldn’t be kind to leave him hanging. He’d given his heart to me. I wanted to explain to him what was in mine.
And then I’d put the interlude behind me and focus on the life that was to come.
I got as far as Dear Nate before I began to cry. When I was finished, I dropped my pen, reread what I’d written and started to shake.
There was only one sentence.
Yes, I’ll marry you.

Chapter 4
I had a telegram from Nate the following Thursday. He was flying in to see me for a few hours on Friday afternoon. He told me what time to expect him—and nothing else.
Holding the only book in my possession that was almost as dog-eared as my Bible, my mother’s copy of Jane Eyre, I hugged it to my chest that night—thinking about the next day.
Had Nate changed his mind? He’d probably never expected me to accept his crazy proposal.
Or did he think he was coming to take me away forever? I couldn’t go. I was only a semester away from my teaching degree.
I was scared to death to see him again. And I was so excited at the thought of his arrival that I couldn’t concentrate on my studies.
Dressed in jeans and a hand-knit pullover, I was waiting nervously at the convent gates when he arrived.
Afraid that he was going to pull me into his arms, and that I wouldn’t know how to respond, I was surprised—and a little disappointed if the truth be told—when he just stood there, looking at me as though he’d be content to do that for the rest of his life.
“I don’t own any makeup.”
This is the first thing I say to the man I’ve agreed to marry!
“You’re beautiful without it. Genuine.”
Had he looked at me that way the previous weekend? I hadn’t noticed. But then, I’d avoided his gaze more than I’d met it. A sister kept custody of her eyes.
That heavy weight was back in my stomach. It had been there constantly since I’d mailed my letter to Nate the week before. I wasn’t ever going to be a nun.
Only the sisters and Nate knew that. Only Nate knew why.
“Are you scared?”
I nodded. I was still on my side of the open gate.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
“Are you sure?”
Standing there so close to him, mesmerized by his loving expression, I nodded again. “It’s just that I’ve been planning to become a nun for as long as I can remember and now I realize—”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Nate reached for my hand and gently tugged me onto the other side. “You aren’t what you do, Eliza,” he said while I was busy experiencing something like butterflies at the very first touch of his warm skin against mine. “You’re already who you are. Whether you add the role of sister or wife or even mother to that, you are still the sweet, gentle spirit you were when you came to this earth.”
Mother. My heart raced. I’d been so consumed by what I was leaving behind, and contemplating with nervous excitement the idea of lying in Nate’s arms, I hadn’t considered the possible outcome of that act. This was all happening so fast….
“Do you want to have children?” I asked.
“I’d like to, yes. But if you don’t—”
“I do.” I cut him off, suddenly so embarrassed I could hardly stay there with him. A week ago I was planning to go to my grave chaste and here I was standing on the sidewalk talking about having sex with a man. And while I knew the physical basics, that was all I knew on that particular subject. Not much point in teaching intricate details—or having “the talk”—with a girl who’s going to be a nun.
I looked down, afraid he’d seen the sudden redness on my cheeks.
“Hey.” With one finger beneath my chin, he lifted my gaze to his. “Your plans to enter the convent rushed our courtship, but the rest of it we’ll take as slowly as you need to,” he said, embarrassing me further. “Do you understand?”
I tried to act nonchalant. “You’re a grown man, Nate. You’ve been married before. You’re used to—” I couldn’t do it. “You know…”
The convent was looming on my left, filling my peripheral vision.
“I’m a man, not an animal.” His words were soft with an understanding of something I didn’t understand at all. I wondered if he guessed just how little experience I had.
And worried that, once he found out, he’d regret this rash impulse.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Eliza,” he continued, and I was relieved when he started to walk. “But that’s not why I wrote to you. I want to spend the rest of my life with the person I met last weekend. I want to feel the way I felt when I was with you. And while I’m looking forward to our physical relationship, I intend to give you all the time you need to adjust to that aspect of our life together. Okay?”
“Yes,” I whispered, wondering how long that would be. A year? Maybe two?
He was walking beside me as he had the weekend before, not touching me at all. I kind of wanted to feel my hand inside his again—and thought maybe I’d like him to keep it there.
“I’ve only got a few hours before I have to go back—can’t be gone two weekends in a row during the busy season—but I came as soon as I got your letter. To make plans. Have you told your parents yet?”
“No.”
“Have you told anyone?”
I hadn’t known what to do. I’d answered a letter, but I had no idea what Nate’s intentions were. Or if he would’ve changed his mind by the time he got my reply.
“I spoke to the Mistress of Postulants. I didn’t tell her about…us…only that I didn’t feel I could enter the convent anymore.”
Even if I’d never heard from Nate again, that much had become clear.
We walked to the park and then inside, passing a woman dressed in jeans and a purple sweater holding the hand of a curly-haired blond toddler dressed the same. A young black woman pushed a baby carriage past us. An elderly man wearing an unzipped beige windbreaker sat on the bench just inside the entrance. I noticed them all. And the vividness of the green grass, the trees that were still bare now, the velvety magnolia blossoms.
“How long do you have before you need to be out of your room?”
“I’m at college on full scholarship, so I’m free to stay in the dorm until I graduate in June. You don’t have to be committed to the convent to live there, you just have to be willing to follow the rules.”
The sky was bluer today than it had been in a while. The sun brighter. Yet nothing seemed familiar. Because I’d changed?
“That gives us a few months.”
“I have to graduate.” I clung to that goal as though it was all that was left of me. Certainly it was the only part of myself I recognized at the moment.
“Of course you do,” Nate said, and I think that’s when I fell completely, irrevocably in love with him. Until then, my heart had ached to be with him, to bless his life in any way I could, but it had felt like a big risk to take. A perilous thing to do.
Now it felt safe.
Contrary to what my head might have been telling me, the words I’d written to Nate Grady the week before were not retractable.

On January 22 of that year, Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In premiered on NBC. And I had a letter from Nate. He wanted to know if July 20th would be an acceptable date for the wedding. Camp would be between sessions the following week and would be closed, giving us time for a brief honeymoon and to get me settled in.
I visited my parents that evening. Nate had offered to go with me when he was in town, but I hadn’t wanted to share my brief time with him.
Late that night, I wrote him and said that July 20th would be fine. And that I’d like to get married in Colorado.
I didn’t tell him then that my parents had just disowned me.

On February 8th state police officers killed three black students engaged in an antiwar demonstration at South Carolina State. Nate called me three times that week. We talked about the Orangeburg massacre, as the attack was being called. About his brother. And he had some good news. He’d found a house he wanted to buy for us. I told him that if he liked it, it was fine with me. In truth, anywhere with Nate was going to be heaven as far as I was concerned.
Once I got past the initial wifely duty, that is. Nate and I still had not kissed. But I’d been doing some reading about the mating process and while I was trying to keep an open mind, I was pretty well scared out of my wits.
Charlotte Brontë had skipped the intimate details with Jane and Mr. Rochester.

March 1st was the day Johnny Cash married June Carter. I wanted the marriage to work, but I didn’t think it would. He was such a rebel, probably even did drugs, and everyone knew June was just a darling.
Nate called the next day. I wasn’t in a good frame of mind, missing him, and feeling so alone, since I no longer had either my family or the sisters to turn to.
I tried to explain my feelings but knew I’d failed miserably when he asked, “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No. Not at all.” Surprisingly, I wasn’t. “The one thing that seems to be a constant in my life these days is my certainty about marrying you.”
“You’re sure of that?”
I couldn’t tell if he was feeling insecure, or just trying to make certain I was all right.
“Absolutely.”
“Because if you’re having second thoughts, we need to talk about them, Eliza.”
“I’m not!” I was beginning to get irritated with his unwillingness to believe me. Which was testament to how out of sorts I felt. Generally I was a very patient person.
“It’s to be expected,” he said. “You’re young and I rushed you.”
I got cold then. “Nate, are you trying to tell me you’ve changed your mind?”
“No.” It was a good thing his response was so unequivocal, otherwise I might’ve become completely unraveled. “But I’ve had a few more years to find out exactly what I want, which enables me to recognize it when I find it.”
“And you think I don’t know my own mind?” Did he have as little faith in me as my parents?
“Oh, Eliza, I’m sorry.” His sigh was long and deep.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve been thinking too much and knotted myself up, that’s all. I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Well, I’d like to hear what you were thinking about,” I said.
“It’s late and you have class tomorrow. It wasn’t important. Can’t we leave it at that?”
“No.” I had an instinct about this.
“I’d rather not get into it. At least not now, on the phone.”
I’d figured as much. “That’s why I’m pretty sure I should hear about it.”
He sighed again. I leaned against the wall, holding the pay phone so tightly my hand was starting to cramp. That phone in the dark hallway of our dorm was the only one on which we could receive calls.
“It’s not a big deal, Eliza.”
“So you keep saying.”
“I don’t want you upset or jumping to conclusions.”
My skin was clammy and I was half-afraid I might throw up. “Tell me.”
“I wasn’t married just once.”
My only coherent thought was that he’d said his news wasn’t important. Whether I was incredulous that he could think that, or hoping I’d misunderstood, I couldn’t say.
“We were young,” Nate said a few seconds later. “Too young. It didn’t last long. A couple of months. Her parents were moving to New Jersey and we figured if we didn’t get married, we’d never see each other again.”
“How…young?” I could hardly speak.
“Eighteen.”
Wow. I had no idea how to react to this.
“Say something.”
“I’m not…I don’t—” Helpless, I just stood there clutching the phone, letting the wall support me.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Deflated. Like I’m not sure I know you as well as I thought.”
“I’ve lived thirty-two years, Eliza,” he said, his voice taking on a weary note. “There are many facts about me, things I’ve experienced, that you don’t know yet. But none of them change who I am. They’re things that happened—”
“A marriage is more than something that just happened.”
“This one wasn’t. We never had a life together, never even set up house. We lived with my mother for the couple of months it lasted.”
I was tired. Needed a good night’s rest. “You said you got twisted up in thought.” I returned to our earlier conversation. “Were you afraid you were making the same mistake twice? Getting married before you were ready?”
“No.” He actually chuckled. “I was afraid you were.”
Considering what he’d told me, I supposed I could understand that. Maybe. “I’m not a child living at home with my parents.” Quite the opposite, in fact.
“I know that.”
“Then please don’t treat me like one.”
“I love you, Eliza Crowley.”
“I love you, too.”
I just wished love didn’t have to be so hard.

As timing would have it, my oldest sister, Alice, had me paged in the dorm one evening the next week. She’d been sent by my parents to talk me out of my madness and spent a full hour telling me everything wrong with a man she’d never even met.
“He’s divorced, Liza!”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
“You’ll have to leave the Church!”
I couldn’t argue with that, either.
And when she told me that if I went through with the wedding she and my other two sisters, like my parents, would be unable to participate in my life, I didn’t debate the issue.
I cried myself to sleep instead.

Two weeks later, Robert Kennedy announced his campaign for president of the United States and Rome indicated that while it deplored the concept of rock and roll Masses, it wouldn’t prohibit them. I read the news with an almost clinical detachment. Once I married Nate, I would no longer be attending Mass of any kind. I’d be married to a divorced man—a union the Church refused to recognize. And like Nate, I saw no point in worshipping within a society to which I could not belong.
I would miss attending mass.
But my God I’d take with me.
Putting down the newspaper, I went out to the hall, dropped a dime into the phone and dialed my brother, William, at his apartment in Los Angeles. I asked if he’d give me away at my wedding.
He agreed!

North Vietnam agreed to meet with the United States for preliminary peace talks during the first days of April—something I paid careful attention to now that I loved Nate and knew about Keith. And on the fourth day of that month, Martin Luther King was shot in the neck with a single bullet while standing on the balcony outside his room at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis. Crying, not understanding the injustice of a good man’s life ending in such a senseless way, I called Nate. He couldn’t make sense of the tragedy any more than I could, but talking to him helped just the same. I mentioned that my brother would be giving me away at our wedding and finally told him that my parents and sister would not be attending. It seemed like such a small thing at that point.

On April 18th Great Britain sold the London Bridge to a United States oil company that would be erecting it in Arizona. I wasn’t sure why Arizonans wanted a British bridge, but I liked the idea of bridges being raised far from their homes. I hoped that symbolism would apply to me, too.
The next day, walking back from class, I turned onto the block of the convent gate and saw Nate standing there, his face at once welcoming and somewhat grim.
I flew to him, almost dropping my books, and my whole being felt as though it was soaring as he grabbed me up, books and all, into a full-bodied hug. Glancing up, tears in my eyes and a smile on my lips, I meant to ask him why he was there, how long he could stay, why he hadn’t told me he was coming. I kissed him instead.
Just like that. With no thought. No worries about how to do it. My mouth went straight to his. In that moment, it no longer mattered that I’d lost most of my family, my church, all sense of security. I’d found the home I wanted for the rest of my life.

“I only have tonight,” Nate was saying several minutes later as we walked toward the pub where we’d first met. I’d brought my books inside, told my roommates not to expect me until curfew and hurried back to him without even changing out of my plaid jumper and white blouse. At least I’d grabbed my navy sweater for when the sun went down.
He was holding my hand—hadn’t let go since I’d come back out from the convent—and now he squeezed it. “I want to meet your folks.”
Oh. My spirits plummeted. “If we’ve only got a few hours, Nate,” I said, keeping my voice light, “I want to spend them with you—alone.”
“You love your parents,” he argued. “I’m not going to be the cause of a rift between you. I’d like to meet them, talk to them, assure them that I’m honorable and want only what’s best for you.”
“They won’t listen.”
“By your own admission, all they want is for you to be happy.”
That used to be true—when I was still a member of their church. When they thought I was in my right mind. In their view, they weren’t cutting off their support to punish me; they were doing what they thought was best, refusing to go along with my hare-brained idea because they believed that their rejection would bring me to my senses. And the hardest part was that I understood—which made it impossible to hate them.
Only to grieve their loss.
“We can take a cab out to their house,” Nate said, “and if all goes well, have a late dinner before I catch my plane back.”
“We can’t.”
“Of course we can.”
“They won’t see you, Nate.”
“What do you mean, they won’t see me? They don’t even know me.”
“I know them.”
He stopped by a pay phone outside the pub. Pulled change from his pocket. “Call them.”
“It won’t do any good.”
“Humor me.”
Because I loved him so much, I complied. I knew the effort was wasted.
And still, I had to take an extra second in the glass-enclosed booth after the call, collecting myself before I could face Nate. I’d had no idea my father had so much coldness in him.
“Well?” Nate asked, standing with both hands on his hips, facing me.
I shook my head. Hoped that would be the end of it.
“They aren’t home?”
I couldn’t start our life together with lies.
“They said that if we go there, they’ll call the cops.”
I would never forget the look on Nate’s face.

Chapter 5
In May, Vietnamese peace talks began in Paris, Mission: Impossible won an Emmy Award and I graduated from college. Nate came to the ceremony. And so did my brother, William. The two men—eight years apart in age—were as wary of each other as prowling tigers. But that night Nate played piano at the pub again and during the second set William asked me to dance.
“He’s talented,” my older brother said to me as we moved slowly around the crowded floor.
“Yeah.”
“He’s not shallow.”
“I know.”
“He loves you.”
I got choked up at that.
“And you love him, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
William didn’t say any more about Nate and me after that, but when the break came, he bought a round of drinks. And by the time I had to be back at the convent dormitory, where I’d be staying until July as a summer student, taking a first-session graduate class, the two men were discussing baseball homerun records and an outfielder who’d played 695 games straight.
I’d never been a fan of the sport, but I was going to love it from then on.

Robert F. Kennedy was killed in early June. People everywhere were shocked, horrified that the assassination of prominent people was now part of our reality. We’d suffered two of them in two months.
At a time when I was taking a blind leap away from everything familiar and safe, my country was in turmoil. I wondered what God thought of how we were treating His world. I wondered if I’d ever feel safe again.
Consumed by fear—more menacing in itself than anything else—I squared my shoulders and requested counsel from Sister Michael Damien, the Mistress of Postulants. Had I entered the convent she would have been my mentor, training me in proper decorum, regulations and spiritual matters.
I hadn’t spoken with her since I’d told her I would not be entering the convent, the day after I’d answered Nate’s first letter.
I was in awe of her and intimidated beyond measure.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said quietly, eyes downcast as I sat with her on a warm cement bench during the postulant recreation time after lunch.
Her gown rustled beside me and I felt her soft palm cover the knot my hands had become in my lap. “We’ve known each other a long time, my dear. You’re always welcome.”
I wished so badly that would continue to be true. Despite my excitement over the future, a future I’d sacrificed everything to have, my heart ached for what I was leaving behind.
The postulants were playing a rousing game of basketball not too far away. I could hear them. And, in that moment, envied them. Two of my dormitory sisters were there, too.
“I’m getting married.”
“I guessed as much.”
My eyes darted up at that, meeting the serene blue of hers. “You did?”
“There are only two reasons a young woman as committed as you were decides against taking her vows,” she said. “Either she finds that her heart’s direction was not true, or she finds a man whose pull is stronger than the Church. I have no doubt your heart is true.”
“That makes me sound weak. Disloyal.”
“Not at all, my dear. It makes you alive.”
“Do you think less of me?”
“For following your heart? I do not.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m turning traitor to my calling? I love him—so much—but I feel as though I haven’t been true to my purpose for being on earth.”
“Let me ask you this, Eliza. Do you think you’re being untrue to yourself? Or do you know you are?”
“I’m so confused at the moment, I’m not even sure I could tell the difference.”
“Tell me why you’re doing this. Leaving the life you’d chosen in order to marry this man.”
“Because I have to.” I answered without analyzing. And then heard what I’d said. “Not…have to,” I quickly explained. “He asked me and even though I tried, I couldn’t say no. I listen to my parents, to my sister, and my head knows that much of what they say is correct. I understand their fears for me. I cry myself to sleep at night because I miss them. And still, I can’t tell Nate that I won’t marry him.”
“Why not?”
“I feel I have to do this.” I gave that worthless answer because it was all I had.
“Ahhh.”
Sister Michael Damien’s smile was kind—and knowing.
“What?”
“You feel,” she said. “That, my dear child, is your heart speaking. Your head is confusing you, but you’re being guided by the inner knowing that will always direct you. It brought you here to us for a time, for a purpose, and now your heart will lead you elsewhere, for the next stage of your journey.”
I wasn’t sure I understood.
“But how can marrying Nate be my calling if it takes me away from service to the God who made me?”
And this was the crux of my dilemma. I was going to marry Nate. But did that mean I’d be less than I was born to be? Less righteous? Less loving and spiritual? Less Godly?
Was I a spineless creature? Giving in to earthly pleasure because I wasn’t strong enough to sacrifice for a greater purpose?
“When a girl is deciding between the life of a nun or a life of marriage and family, Eliza, there is no better or worse. No choice more righteous than the other. God needs dedicated wives and mothers just as badly as He needs Sisters. Mothers are the core of family life, and family is the core of God’s work. Both callings serve Him equally—a mother in a more intimate setting and a Sister in a broader way.”
It was as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud.
“My calling is to serve God, but to do it in a different capacity than I first envisioned?”
“I believe so. Yes.”
I was elated, relieved—and then stopped short.
“What if he’s been married before?”
“He’s a widower?”
“Divorced.”
Sister Michael Damien didn’t say a word. And a few minutes later, when I stood to go, her concerned gaze followed me down the walk.

The day I got married, Jane Asher broke her engagement to singer Paul McCartney on live television.
Nate and I had a small wedding at the home of his friend and boss, resort owner Walt Blackwell, and as I was changing into my short, simple white dress that evening, Walt’s oldest daughter, Mary, told me about Asher and McCartney. I was pretty sure she was hoping I’d follow Jane’s example, minus the television crew. Walt and his family didn’t seem all that happy about me as Nate’s bride.
“Nate and your brother just arrived,” Mary said, taking the sponge rollers out of my hair. The squishy little tubes were the only curlers my short strands could fit around, and I’d had them in all afternoon. I hadn’t seen Nate since he’d picked me up from the airport and dropped me at the Blackwell home.
A door opened off the hall outside the guest suite where I’d spent most of the day with the myriad people Nate had hired to help me get ready for my wedding.
“Be happy for me, Walt.” All my senses came alive at the sound of Nate’s voice in the hall. Since the moment I’d met him, I’d craved his presence.
“She’s nineteen, son.”
“Soon to be twenty.” The voices came closer as the men passed our door.
Mary’s hand stilled, holding a strand of my hair straight up.
“A child,” Walt said.
“She’s already finished college and certified to teach.”
“I just hate to see you go through what you did when Karen left.” Walt’s voice was kind, fatherly and growing fainter.
“Trust me, Walt, Eliza isn’t like Karen.”
“She’s a kid with nothing looking to you for security.”
“She comes from a working-class family, but I wouldn’t say they’ve got nothing. Besides, she had her life settled, had more security than most of us will ever have, before I came along.”
“And offered her a better way of life.”
“I love her.” Nate’s voice grew in intensity, making it easily heard, and I tried not to cry.
“Are you sure you aren’t just itching to get her in the sack and marriage is the only way to do that?”
The voices faded before I could hear Nate’s reply.
“My father thinks we’re downstairs already.”
My eyes met Mary’s in the mirror. Hers were filled with pity. Mine with tears.
Twenty minutes later, as I entered the beautifully decorated living room on my brother’s arm, I saw that Arnold had flown in for the wedding. My high school friend, his sister Patricia, was with him. I’d had no idea she was coming and seeing her there with the dozen or so other people sitting in rented chairs made me start to cry again. I remembered the silly high school game we’d played, writing notes back and forth as though we were the characters in Brontë’s novel. We’d both loved that book and it gave us a private, and I think creative, way to express our feelings. I’d always been Jane—because I was the one who’d go against the crowd. She’d been different characters, the tragic Helen, who’d died of consumption. Or the lovely Blanche Ingram. Or even the first Mrs. Rochester.
Looking at her now, I couldn’t remember a time I’d been so emotionally on edge.
And then I saw Nate standing beside the minister, flanked by gorgeous white lilies, and as our eyes met, the rest of the room—the rest of the world—faded away. If I was crazy for doing this, I prayed the craziness would last forever.

After a champagne toast, a few photos and a bite of cake, Nate and I left our small celebration to drive up to a cabin Walt owned in the mountains not far from Boulder. We would be there until Monday.
“The bathroom’s down that hall,” Nate said, my small suitcase in one hand and his duffel in the other. I stood just inside the door of the dimly lit main room, still wearing my white dress, watching as he disappeared behind another door at the far end—and returned without either bag.
I’d known we were going to be sleeping together, of course. We were husband and wife now. But in recent days I hadn’t let myself think about what that actually meant—or picture it really happening.
For the first time I could remember in my life, I wasn’t prepared.
I thought briefly about claiming my monthly cycle as an excuse—but immediately dismissed the idea. I couldn’t start my life with Nate on a lie.

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