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The 39-Year-Old Virgin
Marie Ferrarella
Литагент HarperCollins EUR
It was a big world out there…But was ex-nun Claire Santaniello ready for it? Her yearning for a home and family had her shedding her habit and moving back to California. But her true calling definitely wasn't with sexy single dad Caleb McClain. Was it? The stunning redhead seemed uncomfortable in the crowded bar. She was also tantalizingly familiar.Caleb couldn't believe the girl he'd once loved was now a teacher in their hometown. Soon after he rescued her from the dance floor, Claire made it her mission to bring out his softer side, arousing feelings Caleb couldn't ignore. Was it finally time for them to create the future together they both craved?




She’d never been kissed.
Until now.
Anything she might have imagined as a young girl didn’t even begin to scratch the surface. She felt disoriented and yet there was this wild rush inside her. And electricity. A great deal of electricity, crackling and humming between them. It took everything Claire had not to just fall into the kiss and remain there.
But she couldn’t. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t what she’d intended to happen.
Her breath felt trapped in her throat. And she was dizzy. She, who had never been lost for words, now felt as if she’d suddenly been struck dumb.
Dear Reader,
For those Catholic children whose parents couldn’t afford a parochial education, there was “religious instructions” or, as some of us called it, “catechism.” We studied our book, memorizing answers to questions just in case, when we finally made it up to the Pearly Gates, St. Peter decided to give us a quiz. We all went on Saturdays and Wednesdays. It was Wednesdays that made us a source of envy for the other students. They had to remain seated while we—they thought—ran off to freedom when the bell rang dismissing “all students attending religious instructions.” The truth was, we remained captives of these sharp-witted, often sharp-tongued ladies whose faces and hands were the only visible evidence that they were human rather than spirits sent by God to tidy up our immortal souls.
I don’t remember the questions or answers—hopefully St. Peter will be magnanimous—but I remember those ladies and how I wondered if they were happy. I actually had a Sister Michael. This is not her story, but it is the way I would have imagined it.
Thank you for reading and, as ever, I wish you love.
Marie Ferrarella

The 39-Year-Old Virgin
Marie Ferrarella



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

MARIE FERRARELLA
This USA TODAY bestselling and RITA
Award-winning author has written more than one hundred and seventy-five novels for Silhouette Books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her Web site at www.marieferrarella.com.
To
all the dedicated Dominican Sisters at St. Joseph’s in Queens, NY, who passed through my life

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One
So this nun walks into a popular hot spot…
Ex-nun, Claire corrected herself silently. Dear God, what was she doing here, anyway?
The loud din of voices wedged itself into the throbbing music, forming one large wall of noise that seemed to swirl all around her. Thinking was becoming increasingly more difficult, never mind hearing and talking.
Claire supposed she was daring herself to forge ahead into the life she’d never previously sampled, the life she’d left behind.
Heaven knew that, although popular, she certainly hadn’t had more than her share of dates. Less would have been a better word to describe the condition of her social life at the time. Her popularity had a universal appeal. She’d been the one people always talked to, the one they wanted to hang out with. She was a “friend” with a capital F to all, no matter what gender.
The bottom line was that she’d never had a boyfriend, no steady male in her life to turn to, to nurture secret dreams about. There’d been no one to make her pulse race, her adrenaline flow. She’d never even had a crush, much less been in love.
Was it so wrong to want to discover what she’d missed?
Her fingertips tingled. She was nervous. Just as nervous as she’d been this afternoon when her cousin Nancy, Nancy of the comfortable life, loving husband and four children, had insisted on taking her shopping for not just something suitable to wear tonight, but for undergarments, as well.
“What’s wrong with what I have?” she’d asked.
“Nothing, if you want him immediately guessing that you were a nun.”
She’d discarded the see-through panties that Nancy held up, trying hard not to blush. “There’s not going to be a ‘him,’” she insisted.
“Uh-huh.” Picking up the panties again, along with two more just like them, Nancy grinned. “On me,” she announced, heading toward the register.
Claire wasn’t wearing them tonight. No way was she about to sail into a shallow relationship just to make up for lost time. She had to get used to the idea of going out with a man first. And that was going to take time. A lot of time. She’d been a nun for twenty-two years. She’d only been a “civilian” for a couple of weeks. She hadn’t even told her mother that she’d left the order permanently when she’d first arrived home. Margaret Santaniello had been under the impression that her only child had gotten a leave of absence in order to care for her during an aggressive bout of leukemia. Her mother, who proudly proclaimed to all who listened that her daughter, Sister Michael, was “married to Jesus,” had been horrified when she’d discovered, purely by accident, that Claire, to put it in her mother’s words, had “divorced God” because of her.
Her mother had no way of knowing that this turn of events had been a long time in coming. That she hadn’t lost her faith, but she had lost her passion. And perhaps lost pieces of herself, as well. Pieces she needed to find again. Pieces that weren’t going to turn up here, she thought, looking around at Nancy and the other childhood friends who had dragged her to this place, a restaurant called Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, where “hookups” were the not-so-secret hoped-for outcome of any given evening.
When she’d first thought about leaving the order, when she’d first felt that surge of restlessness, of no longer feeling fulfilled or being on the right track, she’d dreamed of having a family of her own, of children. However, that dream didn’t extend to the segment before that ultimate goal was reached. She hadn’t thought about dating, or the dreaded step before that—looking for a date.
The idea of looking, of actually “dating” terrified her more than going off into the heart of Africa, armed with a truckload of medicine, a crucifix and an untested translator. That she’d undertaken almost fearlessly, believing she had God and right on her side because her intentions were selfless and noble.
God was no longer her copilot. She was flying solo here. And, if examined, her intentions could be deemed as self-centered or self-serving, both foreign feelings to her. The closest she’d come was the notion of remaining alive to see the next sunrise when she and the accompanying nurses had found themselves in enemy territory, caught in cross fire.
She wondered if sitting at a table in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning could be deemed as being stranded in enemy territory.
She would never have come here on her own. But Kelly, Amy and Tess, the three women who had once been so close to her when they were all girls together, and her cousin Nancy had insisted that they come here for her maiden voyage into the secular world.
“Sure you don’t want anything stronger than a ginger ale?” Amy asked, fairly shouting the question across the circular table.
In response, Claire wrapped her hand tighter around the tall, slender glass that was now only half-full, holding it as if it were a lifeline to sanity and safety.
“Yes, I’m sure.” It wasn’t that she’d never had a drink. She could hold her own when it came to hard liquor, like whiskey, something she’d also learned—through necessity—while in Africa, but here she felt she would do far better with a clear head.
Seated at her left side, Kelly leaned in and said the words close to her ear. “You don’t look comfortable, Claire.”
“I just thought that maybe we could have picked a quieter place to catch up,” she answered. “Like the middle of an airport runway.”
Amy laughed. “It is kinda noisy, isn’t it?”
Nancy, seated on Claire’s right, chimed in as she shook her head. It was clear that she considered her cousin her latest project. “There’s ‘catch up’ and then there’s ‘catch up.’” A wink punctuated the end of her sentence.
Claire had had enough to deal with these last two weeks, getting reacquainted with her mother, finding a routine that suited them both and, come Monday, she was going to be facing a brand new job, presiding over a group of children who would not be addressing her as “Sister Michael.” With all that going on, she wasn’t in the market for, nor had the time for, any male-female relationship. “I don’t want to catch up on that just yet.”
“You should, Claire. The rest of us have been married at least once, or still are married—” Amy nodded at Nancy “—but you,” she said, pointing a scarlet-painted index finger at Claire, “you haven’t even gotten your feet wet.” She gave her what Claire assumed Amy thought was a penetrating look. “Am I right?”
“I don’t think ‘feet’ are the part of the anatomy that Amy’s thinking about,” Tess explained. About to say something else, her eyes widened as she zeroed in on someone at the bar. “Now that one’s cute,” she declared. She squinted, trying to make out someone. “I think I know the guy he’s with. Want an introduction?” Tess looked ready to bounce up to her feet at the slightest sign of interest from her.
Claire shook her head vigorously. The last thing she wanted was to have some man dragged over to the table strictly for the purpose of her perusal.
“No, really,” she insisted with feeling, grabbing Amy’s arm in case the petite blonde was about to run off and make good on her threat. “I just wanted to see my old friends and talk, like we all used to.”
“We ‘used to’ be seventeen and eighteen,” Tess told her. “We’re not seventeen and eighteen anymore.” She punctuated her statement with a giggle. “Life moves on and all that cr—stuff.” She changed the word at the last minute, a guilty expression slipping over her face.
“You can say ‘crap’ if you want to, Tess. You don’t have to temper your language around me,” Claire told her. “I’m not Sister Michael anymore.”
Tess nodded, as if she should have known that. “Right. Does that mean you can’t put in a word with the Big Guy, you know, for your friends?”
Claire smiled, leaning closer in order not to continue shouting. “I can pray for you if that’s what you mean, but right now, I’m not too sure if He and I are on the same wavelength.”
But she found herself talking to the back of Tess’s head. Her friend had turned back around to look toward the bar, to make eye contact with the man she thought she’d recognized.
The latter separated himself from his friend and subsequently made his way over to their table.
Claire watched Tess light up like a desert sunrise, her attention completely riveted on the man who spoke with a slight southern drawl. “Just when I thought I wouldn’t be seeing a beautiful lady tonight. Tess, how are you?”
“Just fine. Now,” Tess purred.
He nodded toward the incredibly crowded floor just beyond the table. “Would you like to dance?”
Tess was already on her feet and two-thirds of the way into his arms. She took his hand before he had a chance to offer it. “I’d love to.”
The next moment, they were swallowed up by the crowd.
It occurred to Claire that their table was located a few feet shy of what seemed to be the dance floor. A shoe box would have seemed less crowded, she thought.
“Don’t worry,” Amy said, patting her hand as she, too, began to look around in earnest. “We’ll find you someone.”
Very gently, Claire drew back her hand. “I don’t want someone. I really did come here just to talk.”
As she said it, Claire looked accusingly at Nancy, who’d been the first one to contact her with details about the impromptu “get-together.” Nancy lifted her shoulders and went through the motions of a helpless shrug, her face the soul of innocence.
Claire wasn’t buying it for a minute.
In short order, Amy and then Kelly were whisked away to the dance floor, as well, although Kelly, at least, promised to “be right back.”
Claire had her doubts.
As she watched Kelly being led off, she frowned slightly and turned toward Nancy. “Something tells me I should have insisted that we all meet at IHOP.”
“Pancakes can’t compare to being in the arms of a man,” Nancy cracked, then grew serious. “Don’t fault them, Claire-bear, they meant well. They also don’t think I get out enough,” Nancy confided. “This supposedly is as much for me as it is for you.”
“But you’re married,” Claire protested.
“And I make no secret of it.” She held up her left hand. Both her wedding ring and her engagement ring were on the appropriate finger. “Patrick doesn’t dance and I love to, but you’re right, so get rid of that frown.”
“I’m not frowning.”
“Tell your lips that,” Nancy advised. “Besides, once this latest invader comes along—” she placed her hand on a belly that still had not begun to fill out with its newest occupant despite her being five months along “—I won’t be going anywhere for a good long while. This may be my last opportunity to get out.”
She supposed she could see her cousin’s point. But she still wondered about Nancy’s marriage. “Patrick’s all right with you coming here?”
“I’m not out trolling for men, Claire-bear,” Nancy informed her with a grin. “I’m just here strictly as an observer. Not to mention that he does think I’ve gone to IHOP to meet you.”
“Really?”
“No, I’m just kidding.” Nancy laughed. “Patrick knows where I am. We have no secrets from each other. And besides,” she added seriously, “he trusts me. We trust each other. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones.”
Even as she said it, Nancy suddenly looked alert.
Claire scanned the area, expecting to see someone heading their way. But there was no one approaching their table. “What?”
“My phone’s vibrating.” Nancy pulled the phone out of her pocket. With a finger in one ear, Nancy placed the cell phone against her other one. “Hello? Yes, it’s me. Okay, don’t worry, it’s all right. I’ll be right there, honey.”
“There?” Claire asked as Nancy shut the phone and put it back in her pocket. “Where’s ‘there’?”
“Home,” Nancy told her. “One of the twins ran into the refrigerator door just as the other one swung it open. She cut her lip,” Nancy told her, glancing around the floor for her purse. Locating it, she pulled it up and placed it in front of her on the table. “Patrick gets faint at the sight of blood.” She looked apologetic as she added, “I’m sorry to be cutting the evening short.”
Claire waved away the apology. This gave her an excuse to leave and she was grateful for it. “That’s okay, I think I’m really ready to go.”
Nancy looked at her in surprise, then realized the reason for the confusion. “Oh, no, I meant me. You stay, Claire.”
Claire said the first thing that came to her head. “You might need a nurse, and I do have a degree, you know.”
Nancy stopped for a second and smiled at her even as she shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Claire, but after four kids, nursing has become second nature to me. Besides, we can’t both leave.”
“Why not?”
“Because Amy, Tess and Kelly will wonder what happened.” Her cousin rose and stood beside her for a second. “Look, I know you’re antsy, but just stay a little longer. At least until one of them comes back to the table.” She nodded toward the empty chairs. “Until then, you have to guard the purses.”
Claire sighed. She’d forgotten about that. “Okay, but the second one of them comes back, I’m leaving.”
“Whatever you want,” Nancy agreed. “Next time,” she promised, “you get to pick the place.”
Because she didn’t want to detain her cousin any longer, Claire nodded. But there wasn’t going to be a “next time.” Not for a while, anyway. After one venture, she knew she wasn’t ready for this. She needed to get used to the rest of her life first, get comfortable in her responsibilities and new routine. Then—maybe—she’d think about going to a place like Saturday Night and Sunday Morning to meet men.
And then again, maybe not.
Claire looked at Nancy as the latter pushed her chair in. “Give me a call and tell me how she’s doing when you get a chance.”
Clutching her purse, Nancy leaned over the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “Will do. And try to have a good time while you’re still here.”
Claire forced a smile to her lips. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better,” Nancy instructed, then hurried off. And Claire felt very alone.
How long did these songs last, anyway? she wondered impatiently. Wasn’t it about time at least one of the girls came back?
“Looks like all your friends deserted you, little lady.”
Despite the noise, Claire heard the words clearly. Startled, she swung around and discovered a tall man standing directly behind her chair. And he was looking right at her.
“Not quite,” she replied. “Three of them are on the floor, dancing. My cousin had to leave.”
“Lucky for me.” He was good-looking in a non-rugged, stockbroker kind of way. If she were to judge, she would have put him in his early forties. You’d think after all that time, he would have learned not to go where he wasn’t invited. But instead, he dropped down into the seat beside her.
Nancy’s seat, she thought grudgingly. “So, what’s your name, pretty lady?”
“Claire,” she heard herself saying even though she had a feeling that she should have given him a false name, or, even better, none at all.
“Claire,” he repeated, nodding his approval. “Nice change from ‘Tiffany’ and ‘Britney,’” he commented. Putting out his hand, he grinned broadly. She couldn’t get the image of a shark out of her head. “I’m Bill.”
Not shaking his hand would have been rude and she didn’t want to be rude, so she shook it with no enthusiasm and murmured, “Hello, Bill.”
He kept his hand around hers. “I like the way you say that.”
Very deliberately, she withdrew her hand from his. “Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not here to mingle.”
“Oh?” Rather than put off, he seemed pleased. Before she realized what he was doing, he ran the back of his knuckles slowly against her cheek. Stiffening, Claire immediately pulled her head back. “A lady who wants to cut to the chase right off the bat. I like that.”
“I’m not here to ‘cut to the chase,’” she informed him. “I’m here with my friends to do a little catching up.”
Instead of backing away, Bill took hold of her wrist and then rose, pulling her up to her feet with him. “Why don’t we teach your friends a lesson and have them come looking for you? My car’s right outside.”
Obviously, the man refused to take a hint. There was no way she was about to go anywhere with this man. But she still tried to be polite. “No, thank you, I’d rather not.”
A flash of anger came and went from the dark eyes. His grip on her wrist tightened. “Don’t be a tease, Claire. Men don’t like that.”
She glared at him. Fear had left, replaced by anger. “And I don’t like being manhandled.”
“What are you, one of them?” he asked contemptuously.
She knew where he was going. It might be easier just to agree, to let him think her preference ran toward the softer gender, but that would have been an out-and-out lie. She preferred a shade of gray instead.
“What I am,” she informed him, tossing her head, “is a nun.” God forgive me for lying.
“A nun, huh?” The news did not have the desired effect on the man. Rather than release her and mumble an apology, Bill leered at her as he let his gaze travel over the length of her and then back up. “Never had a nun before.” His hand tightened even more around her wrist and he pulled her toward him. “Now you’ve really piqued my interest. C’mon, dance with me, ‘Sister’ Claire. Show me what you’ve got.” The leer deepened. “I bet you’re really starved for a little action.”
So much for being polite, she thought. “If I were, it wouldn’t be with such a Neanderthal,” she declared, trying in vain to pull back. She was no weakling, but he was far too strong for her.
“Not the right answer.” The warning came out like a half growl.
“But it’s the one you’re going to accept,” someone said directly behind her. “Now.”

Chapter Two
Caleb McClain ran his fingers along the chunky shot glass sitting on the slick bar before him.
He knew he should be on his way.
Hell, he wasn’t even sure what had made him stop here at Saturday’s rather than simply going to Lucky’s, the bar located near the precinct.
Maybe it was because he wanted the excuse of going to a restaurant rather than a bar. More likely, it was because he didn’t want to run into anyone from the station. Tonight of all nights, he didn’t feel like talking. Not that anyone would expect him to be talkative. Never one to shoot the breeze, the way his partner, Mark Falkowski, did, he’d become one step removed from being a mummy in the last year.
At least that was what Falkowski maintained. Ski was the only man who would attempt to broach the subject that had so viciously scarred him and even the six-foot-six vice detective didn’t venture very far into that territory. Ski knew better. Everyone knew better. Just like everyone knew the reason why he’d withdrawn so completely into himself.
One year. One year today.
How the hell did time go by so fast when it felt like it was standing still, when every second of every day seemed to pierce him with sharpened spears?
And today was the worst of all. Today marked 365 days since it’d happened. Since Ski had come to him with a long face and sorrow in his eyes to tell him what the beat cops in East L.A. had just called in.
Getting out of bed today had been almost impossible. He’d thought of calling in sick, but where would he go, what would he do? Everywhere he went, his mind went with him.
There was no escape.
Staying in the house wasn’t the answer. Danny would be there. He didn’t want his son seeing him like this. The boy needed to be shielded, but he couldn’t pretend that he was all right. He could pull it off for short periods of time. But not today.
The mere thought of his wife had his throat threatening to close up on him. Whatever air was left in his lungs wasn’t enough.
Jane.
Jane, with her bright, eager smile, her desire to put a bandage on the whole world and somehow make it all better through sheer force of will and her infinite capacity to love.
Anger surged, channeling itself through his hand. His fingers tightened around the glass so hard, he realized that he’d wind up shattering it. Loosening his hold took effort. Effort not to go over the edge. Every day was a struggle.
If it hadn’t been for that Mother Teresa attitude of hers, her determination to boldly go where even angels had better sense than to tread, Jane would still be alive today. Alive instead of a victim of the mindless feuding of two rival gangs. She was there, about to get into her car, when the shooting started. Caught in the cross fire, she was one of several people to die that afternoon.
The only one who’d mattered to him.
A year ago. Exactly one year ago today, her young, beautiful life had been senselessly cut short because she had to go see the pregnant girl who was one of the cases she handled as a social worker. The girl was sixteen and already the mother of two. He’d told Jane she was wasting her time, but Jane had been convinced she could turn the girl around, help her get her life together.
She could be so stubborn when she wanted to be. He’d begged her to take a different job, to be reassigned, or, even better, just stay home and be Danny’s mother and his wife and make them both supremely happy. But Jane had to be Jane. She was determined to save the world, one lost soul at a time. So she went.
And instead of saving that pregnant girl, Jane had lost her life that day and he, he’d lost his main reason for living. Nothing else seemed to really matter to him, even though he kept trying to go through the motions. He continued being a cop because that was all he knew and he had to do something to pay the bills and keep a roof over Danny’s head.
He shouldn’t feel this way. Jane wouldn’t want him to be like this and it was because of Danny that he hadn’t pulled the trigger of the gun he’d cradled in his lap night after night that first week, raising it to his lips time and again, desperate for oblivion.
But that would have left Danny an orphan and he couldn’t do that to the boy. It wouldn’t have been fair to deprive him of a father after he’d lost his mother. So he’d put the gun down and stayed alive. In a manner of speaking.
Instead of killing himself, in order to survive, to deal with the huge waves of pain that would wash over him without warning, he’d gone numb. Absolutely and completely numb.
A twinge would break through, every now and then, and Caleb would tell himself that he’d try. Try to break out of his invisible prison and be emotionally available to his son. But every time he did, the pain would find him, oppressing him to the point that he was no good to anyone. So he retreated, telling Danny he’d make it up to him later. And the boy forgave him, each and every time.
I’m sorry, Danny. I really am.
Caleb looked at his near-empty glass. He debated getting another drink. The raw whiskey went down much too easily. But it made no difference. One or ten, the result was the same. Nothing really blotted out the pain and he had to drive home. Killing himself was one thing, but possibly killing someone else, someone who had nothing to do with the tragedy that haunted him, was something he wasn’t willing to risk.
Besides, Mrs. Collins had a home to go to. She’d already been there longer than agreed upon. Edna Collins was a godsend who lived in the single-story house across the street. The widowed grandmother was more than happy to watch Danny for him after school and whenever his work took him away. It gave her something to do, she’d told him. She hadn’t even wanted payment for her time, but he’d persuaded her to take it.
Tilting his glass, Caleb stared down at the bottom. The amber liquid was all gone except for what amounted to one last drop. Despite his earlier resolve, he debated getting just one more before he hit the road and went home.
Caleb really wasn’t sure just what had made him look in the direction that he did. Over at one of the tables, a woman tried to fend off the advances of some would-be Romeo who didn’t look as if he liked taking “no” for an answer. Well, what the hell did she expect, coming to a place like this?
He was about to look away, when something nudged at a vague, faraway place in his brain. A memory tried to break through.
Something about the torrent of red hair, the way she tossed her head, seemed familiar to him.
Remembering was just out of reach.
Did he know her?
Probably not. Maybe she just resembled someone he’d dealt with. God knew he came across so many people in his line of work….
Caleb looked closer.
And then he remembered.
Or thought he did. Curious, he decided it bore investigation. But for that, he needed to get closer. Setting down his glass, he tossed a tip onto the counter.
The next moment, he was striding across the crowded floor, carelessly moving aside anyone and everyone in his way with less regard than if they’d been cardboard placeholders.
The closer he got, the surer he became. And yet, it hardly seemed possible.
But it was, wasn’t it? he silently asked that part of his mind that still retained a few less damaged memories, memories that had been gathered before Jane had entered his life.
And before she’d left it.
Red hair, skin like alabaster. Green eyes. Delicate-looking.
It was Claire Santaniello.
No one else had hair quite that shade of red. Confusion snaked its way through him at the same time that a tiny microchip of warmth made its appearance.
Damn, what was she doing here in a place like this?
Assessing the situation with lightning speed, he told the other man to back away. The expression in the other man’s eyes was pure malevolence as he looked away from Claire and at him.
“You want her for yourself?” the other man growled, holding on to Claire’s wrist as firmly as a handcuff. “Tough. I was here first.”
This was absurd. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever conceived of this kind of scenario. Served her right for not standing her ground and leaving the moment she realized what sort of place the girls were bringing her to.
“Nobody was ‘first,’” Claire snapped, losing her patience. “I’m not some bone you two can scrap over. I’m not interested. In anybody,” she declared with finality just in case the man who’d just come to her so-called rescue had any ideas about the “winner getting the spoils” once he got rid of Neanderthal Man.
It was Claire, all right, Caleb thought. He was sure of it. “You heard the lady,” he said evenly. “She wants you to go.” It wasn’t a statement, it was an order.
The other man obviously saw it as more of a challenge. “You gonna make me?”
“Why don’t you step up to the plate and see?” Caleb’s voice took on a sort of deadly calm. He deliberately moved so that the other man could see the holstered gun strapped on beneath the navy sport jacket.
His eyes fastened on the weapon, Claire’s would-be lover sucked in his breath. He let loose a scathing curse before abandoning the virtual tug-of-war.
“She’s probably frigid,” he threw in with contempt. “You’re welcome to her.” With that, he turned away and melted into the crowd.
Squaring her shoulders, Claire turned around to get a good look at the man who had come to her aid. She was torn between thinking that chivalry wasn’t dead and wondering if she’d just gone from the frying pan into the fire.
Most of all, she didn’t want this new contestant in the battle of the dance floor thinking that she was some kind of defenseless weakling. She’d stood up to more dangerous men than the one who’d just left. Of course, that had been when she and God had been on speaking terms.
Was this some guardian angel He’d sent in His place? She would have liked to think so, but she had a feeling that wasn’t the case. “Thank you, but I could have handled him.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Caleb said matter-of-factly. There wasn’t a hint of amusement in his voice, but neither was there any annoyance. “He had at least a hundred pounds on you.” He paused, then added, “He’s not a little boy you can just send off to bed because it’s past his bedtime.”
The voice was deep and slightly gravelly. There was no reason for it to be familiar, and yet, the cadence managed to rustle a deep, faraway corner of her mind.
Did she know him? Was he someone she’d gone to school with? The lighting was far from good, designed more for seduction and to hide imperfections than to highlight anything. Claire squinted, studying the rugged, chiseled face, the somber yet ever so slightly amused expression beginning to emerge. Her eyes shifted to his sandy-blond hair and light blue eyes.
He didn’t look familiar, but that didn’t take away from the fact that he somehow seemed familiar. She wasn’t about to ask “Do I know you?” because even she knew that would sound like a line and it might very well open an undesirable door.
And then the familiar stranger stopped being a stranger with his very next words.
“What’s the matter, Claire?” he asked. “Don’t you remember me?”
She stood there, trapped in a memory that refused to gel even if it did produce flashes in her head. “You know my name.”
“I know a lot of things about you,” he told her, his amusement growing. “I know you used to like to watch detective shows, but that you wouldn’t if you had any homework to do. You did it first, then watched. I know you used to sing to yourself when you were studying when you thought no one was around to hear you.”
Her mouth dropped open as she stared at the tall man before her. She should know him, she realized, and yet, no name rose to her lips. “Who are you?”
Caleb had no idea why he didn’t answer her question directly, why he didn’t just tell her his name instead of choosing to prolong the mystery for her just a little longer. He nodded at the table, indicating that she take a seat, then, switching it around, he straddled a chair himself. He watched her sink down into the nearest one as if she intended to shoot up to her feet at any second.
“Who do you think I am?” he asked her.
Claire stared at him intently, her green eyes sweeping over him. When he’d stood behind her and she’d turned around, she’d noted that he was almost a foot taller than she was. The man had shoulders like a football guard and it wasn’t thanks to any padding in his jacket. She could tell by the way he moved.
“Possibly what I’d imagined my guardian angel looked like,” she answered, her mouth curving slightly, “but then if you were my guardian angel, that Neanderthal wouldn’t have been able to see you.”
For a glimmer of a moment, he was back in the past. The past where anything was possible and the blinding hurt hadn’t found him yet. Caleb decided to give her another clue.
“I became a cop because of all those detective shows you used to watch. You didn’t know it, but I used to sneak out of my room and watch them with you. I’d sit on the top step, just outside my bedroom door, and watch the show—when I wasn’t watching you,” he added. Then, for the first time in a very long time, he allowed himself a genuine smile. “I had one hell of a crush on you, Claire.”
He said her name as if they were old friends. So why couldn’t she remember him?
Who was he?
“I still don’t—” And then her eyes widened as she processed what he’d just told her. The connection came to her riding a lightning bolt. “Caleb? Caleb McClain?” she cried, not completely convinced that she was right.
But it was the only answer that made any sense, given what he’d just told her. He was the only little boy she used to babysit. Except that he wasn’t little anymore. And definitely not a boy.
My God, she felt old.
Caleb nodded. “It’s Detective McClain now.”
Even though she’d guessed right, Claire could hardly believe it. Except for the color of his eyes—electric blue—and his hair—a dark sandy-blond—he bore no resemblance to the small, wiry, semishy little boy she used to babysit on a regular basis.
“How long has it been?” she heard herself asking, raising her voice as the music grew louder again.
Caleb brought his chair in closer. “Twenty-two years. Ever since you went off to that convent in New York.”
She’d broken his heart that summer. Up until that time, he’d been nursing his crush, thinking it love, and making plans for the two of them and their future together once he gained a few inches on her. The fact that he was five years younger had never fazed him in the slightest. As an only child, he’d always felt older than he was.
Caleb frowned slightly as he regarded her. She was dressed conservatively enough, certainly not like most of the women here. In a two-piece cream-colored suit with the hint of a rose blouse peeking out, she looked more like she was on her way to a board meeting than a place where singles converged and mingled.
It didn’t make sense, her being here like this. “Do they encourage nuns to frequent places like this?” he asked. “Are you on some mission, looking for converts?”
She was seriously thinking of having cards printed up with a disclaimer written across them. It would certainly save time. “I’m not part of the Dominican Sisters anymore.”
“What happened? I heard my parents talking about your decision to join an order. My mother said you had the calling.” He didn’t add that he felt his heart was going to break that entire summer. Those were merely the thoughts of a highly impressionable twelve-year-old.
Real heartbreak, he now knew, was so much harder to survive.
Claire shrugged, falling back on the excuse she’d given her mother because it was the only simple way she could summarize what had happened. “My ‘calling’ just stopped calling.”
Outside the job, he never prodded. Everyone had a right to their privacy. Still, because this was Claire, the “woman” from his childhood, something kept him in the chair, talking. “So, are you just passing through?”
“No, I’m staying. For now.” Why she felt it was necessary to qualify her words, she wasn’t sure. Maybe because she felt so uncertain about what to do with this new life. “My mother’s ill—” a nice safe word for what was wrong, she thought “—and right now, she needs someone to be there for her.” Although, she added silently, her mother was still almost every bit as feisty as she used to be and determined to keep her independence. If she hadn’t gotten a copy of the lab report, she would never have guessed that there was anything wrong with her mother except a bout of fatigue.
He caught himself vaguely wondering what this mysterious malady was, but he left it alone. Wasn’t any of his business. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded in response to the sentiment he’d expressed. “Thank you. In the meantime, I’ve just gotten a job at an elementary school.” A job. It still felt rather odd to say that. She’d been a Dominican Sister for so long, being anything else was going to take a great deal of adjustment. But they were going to need the money, now that her mother had retired. And there might come a time when her mother would need around-the-clock care, so she needed to amass a nest egg now. “I start next week.”
He could see her as a teacher, he thought. “Which school?”
“Lakewood Elementary.” Caleb laughed shortly under his breath. It wasn’t a response she would have anticipated. “What?”
“Nothing.” But the expression on her face prodded him to elaborate. “It’s just that it’s a small world.” There were a total of six elementary schools in Bedford. It seemed ironic that she should get a job at this one. “That’s the school my son goes to.”
A son. The boy she’d babysat had a son. Sometimes she forgot that other people went on to have lives while she’d been sequestered in tiny villages where running water was considered a luxury.
Claire smiled. “You have a son.”
Her whole face still lit up when she smiled, Caleb noted. That was what had first captured his preadolescent heart, her smile. It surprised him to discover that there were some things that hadn’t changed.
“Yeah,” he finally acknowledged. “I’ve got a son.”
Obviously, he wasn’t one of those fathers who liked to brag, she thought. “What’s his name?”
“Danny.”
Definitely not in the bragging league. “Do you have a picture of him?” she coaxed.
He did, but the one he carried in his wallet was a two-year-old-photograph of both Danny and Jane. Right now, he didn’t feel up to seeing it. So he lied.
“No, not on me.” He really had to get going. And yet, somehow, he continued to remain straddling the chair, his arms crossed over the back, just looking at her. He’d never expected to see her again. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he began in his gruff detective’s voice, then tempered it as he continued, “what are you doing in a place like this?”
“I was asking myself the same question. Some of my friends talked me into coming here with them. I think this is their way of ‘breaking me in.’”
“And where are they now?”
“One, my cousin Nancy, had to leave,” she explained. “The other three—” she waved a vague hand toward the throng “—are out there somewhere on the floor.”
Presumably not alone, Caleb surmised. He rose from the chair and pushed it back toward the table. “Well, I’ve got to get going.” But his feet still weren’t moving. And he knew why. He felt as if he was deserting her, leaving her to be preyed on by the next over-sexed male. Which was why, he supposed, the next minute he heard himself asking, “You want a ride home?”
Claire popped up to her feet as if she’d been launched by a catapult, crying “Yes” with such enthusiasm and relief he found it difficult not to laugh.
Placing a hand to the small of her back, he urged, “Then c’mon.”

Chapter Three
But instead of heading for the door the way he’d expected her to, Claire asked him to indulge her for a moment.
It occurred to Caleb that, up to this point, he’d actually been talking to the Claire from his past. Twenty-two years did a lot to change a person and he really didn’t know the woman beside him at all, just who she had been.
“Exactly what do you have in mind?” he wanted to know.
“It won’t take long, I promise,” she told him. As she spoke, she carelessly placed a hand to his chest, as if to hold him in place. She was a toucher, he remembered. It was one of the things that had set his young heart pounding and his mind spinning romantic scenarios. God, had he ever really been that young? “Wait right here.”
Puzzled, he did as she asked. He had no idea what was on her mind until he saw her burrow her way into the throng and corner a vivacious-looking brunette. The latter’s abbreviated dress appeared to be half a size too small in all possible directions.
The next moment, she was edging the woman out of the crowd. Bringing her back to the table. Trailing after the woman, looking mildly interested, was the man who’d just been gyrating with the brunette on the dance floor.
“Kelly, you have to watch the purses,” Claire told her friend. “Nancy got an emergency call so she went home, and I’m leaving.”
The woman referred to as Kelly looked past Claire and directly at him. The grin on the brunette’s face was so wide Caleb suspected he could have driven a squad car through it without touching either corner.
“You got lucky,” Kelly cried with triumphant glee, the man standing behind her temporarily forgotten. “First time out, too.”
“Yes, I got lucky,” Claire responded. “Because I ran into an old friend. He’s taking me home.”
The moment she said it, referring to Caleb as a friend, it felt a little odd. She’d never thought of him that way before. The last time she’d seen him, he had been wearing pajamas embossed with figures from a Saturday-morning cartoon show and his head had barely reached her chin. Short for his age, the boy she remembered bore next to no resemblance to the man standing by her right now. This man all but reeked of quiet self-confidence. And masculinity.
“I should have old friends like that,” Kelly murmured, her eyes sweeping over him appreciatively. “Go, don’t worry about anything.” She leaned into Claire. “Purses would be the last thing on my mind if I were going home with someone like that.”
Claire shook her head. Obviously, Kelly was going to think what she wanted to think. “G’night, Kelly,” she said, turning away from the table.
“Ready?” Caleb asked patiently.
“Absolutely.” She’d had enough of this kind of singles’ club to last a lifetime.
“Be gentle with her,” Kelly called after them.
When Caleb turned around to look at the brunette, she winked at him. Not flirtatiously, but as if he and she were privy to some shared secret.
Noting the wink, Claire picked up her pace, weaving her way to the front entrance.
The moment they stepped outside and the door closed behind them, Claire paused to take in a deep breath, savoring the cool air. It had been hot and stuffy inside; all those bodies packed into such a small space had generated a lot of heat.
She savored the quiet even more. The old line about not being able to hear herself think ran through her head. There was a great deal of truth in that, Claire mused.
And then she looked at Caleb. She was rather good at reading body language. His said he was running low on patience. Nodding off toward the left, he began walking.
“I’m sorry about Kelly,” she told him.
His hand lightly pressing the small of her back, Caleb guided her toward the side parking lot. As far as he knew, she hadn’t done anything annoying or offensive. “What are you sorry about?”
“Kelly views any male over the age of eighteen as fair game.” It felt awkward, talking about dating with him, even nebulously. That in itself felt strange. She’d never had trouble talking about anything before. She’d lost count of all the times she’d answered shy, misguided questions about sex from adolescents who hadn’t a clue about what was going on with them.
Well, she’d started this, she had to finish it. Gracefully, if possible. “Kelly seems to think I have to make up for lost time and I think she pegged you as my initiator.”
He stopped walking and looked at Claire. She’d lost him. “Initiator for…?”
She put it in as formal terms as she could. “My entrance into the world of romantic liaisons.” Caleb was shaking his head. Again, there was just the barest whisper of a smile on his lips. The Caleb she remembered was always grinning. What had changed that? she wondered. “What?”
He directed her over to his Mercury sedan, digging into the front pocket of his jeans for the key.
“You still talk flowery. I used to like listening to you talk, even when I didn’t have a clue what you were talking about. It sounded pretty.” The truth of it was, he loved the sound of her voice. He used to pray his parents would go out for the evening so that she would come over and babysit him. Or, as she had referred to it, “young man sit” with him. Looking back, he realized that she was always careful not to bruise his young ego. “I thought that maybe you were going to be a writer or something.”
That occupation had merited about five minutes of consideration before she’d discarded the idea. “I liked to read more than I liked to write, so I opted to become ‘or something.’”
Caleb unlocked the passenger-side door and then held it open for her. The thought that she had certainly become “something” whispered across his mind. “I always wondered, why a convent?”
Getting in, Claire buckled up, then sat back in the seat. She tried to relax, but some of the residual tension refused to leave her body.
“Lots of reasons, I guess. They all seemed very viable at the time.” She’d wanted to serve God and help humanity. Did that sound as hopelessly idealistic as she thought it did? She glanced at Caleb as he got in behind the steering wheel. “But they’re all behind me now.”
He knew she was saying she didn’t want to talk about it, that the subject was private. He could more than relate to that even though a part of him remained curious.
“Fair enough,” he allowed. “So you’re going to teach, huh?”
“Yes. I’m a little nervous,” she admitted freely. “But I am really looking forward to it.” The last class she’d taught was more than a year ago and it had been halfway around the world. They had been happy to get anyone. She considered herself lucky that the school here had accepted her. “I’ve always liked kids—and I’d like to think they like me.”
Leaving the parking lot, he nodded. “They probably do,” he said matter-of-factly.
Claire grinned. “And you know this for a fact.”
He surprised her by giving her a serious answer. “You don’t talk down to them,” he told her. “That’s what I liked about you.” One of many, many things, but he didn’t add that. The thoughts of a preadolescent boy belonged in the past. “You didn’t make me feel like some dumb little kid you could boss around.”
Never once did she lord it over him, even though he knew that he would have willingly submitted to her authority, just to have her there.
“That’s because you weren’t some dumb little kid,” she pointed out. “You were very smart—even if you pretended not to be.” His eyebrows narrowed in a quizzical glance he sent her way. “All those homework problems you used to ask me to help you with,” she recalled for his benefit. “I knew you could do them on your own.”
He’d forgotten about that. Forgotten a lot about his earlier life, the way things were when he was growing up and believed the world held so much promise. “What gave me away?”
“You ‘caught on’ much too quickly when I helped you with your math homework. You would have had to have understood the principle to some extent for that to have happened.” She smiled at him fondly, remembering evenings in the kitchen with books spread out, his and hers. She’d thought of him as the little brother she hadn’t been allowed to have. Michael, who had died long before he was a year old. “I think you were trapped between wanting me to spend time with you, helping you with your homework, and struggling to keep from trying to impress me with how bright you really were.”
He laughed quietly to himself. She’d hit the nail dead on its head. “You shouldn’t have become a nun, you should have become a detective.”
“I’ll keep that in mind as a backup career if teaching and nursing don’t pan out.”
He took a left turn at the end of the next long block, passing by a newly constructed strip mall. “You’re a nurse, too?”
She nodded. The order she’d joined had specifically encouraged her educational pursuits. “I thought getting a nursing degree would come in handy in the places that the order kept sending me to.”
“And that was?”
She rattled off the names of several small countries, some of which had already changed their name again. “Africa, for the most part,” she added, since that was the easiest way to keep track.
He could have easily made the yellow light up ahead before it turned red, but instead, he eased his foot off the gas pedal, switching to the brake. The vehicle slowly came to a stop.
The moment that it did, Caleb turned to look at her in sheer awe, her words playing themselves over in his head. Try as he might, he couldn’t picture her braving the elements, going from village to village, dispensing hope and medicine. It was difficult enough picturing her in the traditional garb of a Dominican Sister, swaddled from head to foot in black with white contrasts and roasting beneath the hot, merciless sun.
He couldn’t have explained why, but he was suddenly glad that was all behind her.
Very little really surprised him. Somewhere along the line, between his work and Jane’s death, he’d lost the ability to be amazed. But this came close.
“You went to Africa?” he finally asked. “On your own?”
Being in Africa for all those long periods of time had a great deal to do with who she’d been and who she had become. “Yes, why?”
He shrugged. The light turned green and they continued on their way. “I just thought you were in some cloistered place, far away from everyone.” Like Rapunzel in the tower, he remembered thinking. He’d been baptized Catholic at birth, but neither he nor his parents before him had ever really taken an active part in any organized religion. And Jane had been a free spirit, embracing everything, singling out nothing. His image of what nuns actually did was very limited. “Fingering your beads and praying.”
Someone else might have taken offense at the near flippant way he regarded those who had dedicated themselves to the religious life, but she knew he didn’t mean to sound belittling. Something else was going on, something he tried to keep buried. Maybe it had to do with his line of work. She’d known more than one burned-out police officer.
“Praying was a large part of it,” she acknowledged, “but God helps those who help themselves. In my case, I was the one doing the helping.”
“In Africa,” he repeated, the slightest trace of wonder creeping into his voice.
“That’s right.”
Caleb thought about some of the articles he’d read in the newspaper and heard on the news over the years. Stories about wars between African factions and atrocities that were committed. “Were you ever in any danger?”
She inclined her head. “At times.” Her tone made light of the admission. She’d never been the type to seek the spotlight for its own sake, only as a necessary evil when focusing on raising funds to buy the simplest of supplies for the villages she went to. “One of the biggest dangers I faced was finding someplace to wash that didn’t have a hippo in it. They’re not the docile creatures everyone thinks they are. They can get pretty nasty. Makes you see the world in a different light and makes you truly grateful for the simplest modern convenience.” She grinned. “Like toilet paper.”
He listened quietly. When she paused, he commented, “I can see why you’d want to leave that.”
He’d misunderstood her meaning, she thought. “I never minded the harsh conditions. It was a small price to pay for being able to help people, to do some good for those less fortunate. Some of the things I’ve seen could break your heart,” she said with a heartfelt sigh. “I might even opt to go back someday.”
He frowned. Was she having a change of heart? “Then you think you’ll reenlist?”
“Reenlist?” she echoed, amused by the term.
He made a sharp left. She caught herself leaning into him. “As a nun.”
“Anything’s possible,” she allowed. “But at this point, I don’t really think I’m going to ‘reenlist’ in the order. Besides, my being part of a religious order was neither a plus nor a minus when it came to the work I was doing in Africa. I can just as easily go back there as a civilian.”
In some ways, she added silently, it might even be easier that way. They wouldn’t be turning to her, expecting answers to the questions that troubled their souls. Because she didn’t feel as if she had the answers any longer. If anything, she shared their questions.
“Do you want to?” he asked bluntly.
Claire pressed her lips together, suppressing a sigh as Caleb drove down the street that led to the far-side entrance to her development.
“I’m not sure what I want right now,” Claire told him honestly. “Other than doing whatever’s necessary to make sure my mother gets well.”
“What does she have?”
The word all but burned on her tongue as she said it. “She has acute leukemia. It seems that she’s had it for a while now, but I just found out recently.”
He wasn’t all that familiar with the ramifications of the disease, but he knew it wasn’t anything good. “I’m sorry.”
She appreciated his sentiment, but she wasn’t going to let dark thoughts get the better of her. She was here to raise her mother’s spirits and do anything else she could for her, not to let her own spirits drag her down.
“It’s not necessarily a death sentence,” she told him. She’d done her homework. “There’ve been plenty of people who have had long remissions.”
He made another right turn, slowing his pace down to twenty miles an hour, then spared her a glance. “You’re still an optimist, even after working in third-world countries?”
Despite working in third-world countries, she corrected silently.
Working in Africa was what had started the ball rolling to her ultimately leaving the order. Ever since she’d been a child she’d been taught that God wasn’t to be questioned, that His ways weren’t to be measured by the same rules as those that were applied to the people He’d created.
But, try as she might, she just couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t completely lock away the horror and the feeling of disappointment she’d experienced, and kept experiencing, whenever she thought of all the children who had died of the plague in that one village. All the children she hadn’t been able to help.
She’d been sent there, she’d really believed, to act as an instrument of God—and still she couldn’t save them, couldn’t help.
Because He hadn’t helped.
These were all thoughts she couldn’t voice, couldn’t even find any relief by talking about to the people who could give her some insight into the matter. She knew she would be told she was being blasphemous. And maybe she was, but she couldn’t just accept that, in some way, God couldn’t be held accountable for all those young lives that had been cut so short.
Caleb glanced at her again and she realized that he was waiting for her to say something.
“Not as much of an optimist as I once was,” she finally replied, saying each word carefully.
“But you still are one,” he pointed out.
She supposed that was what kept her going, what made her still think that what she did made a difference in the grand scheme of things. “Yes.”
“Why?”
The single word was razor sharp. Was he challenging her? Or was he somehow asking her to give him an explanation so that he could find his way to optimism himself?
She did her best to make him understand. “Because without optimism, we can’t go on. Optimism is just hope dressed up in formal clothes. And without hope, the soul has nothing to cling to, the spirit dies.”
Caleb laughed shortly. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Claire eyed this familiar stranger who’d reentered her life after all these years. His profile had gone rigid, as if he’d suddenly realized he’d just let something slip that wasn’t supposed to be exposed. Her need to help, to comfort, to make things better, surfaced instantly.
“Maybe you can tell me,” she coaxed.
“Sisters can hear confessions now?” Caleb said to her flippantly.
“Is it something you need to confess, Caleb?” she asked gently.
This was getting far too personal. He didn’t want her digging around in his life, even if her intentions were altruistic. “Just a play on words, Claire. I don’t have anything to confess.”
She regarded him for a long moment. “That would make you a minority of one.”
“No, just someone who doesn’t believe.” He squinted slightly as he tried to make out a street sign. This was the old development. He’d grown up here, but it had been a long time since he’d been back. His parents had moved shortly after Claire had left to join the order and he had had no reason to return.
“In confession?” she asked, although she had a feeling that his meaning was broader.
The next moment, her fears were confirmed. “In anything.”
There was loneliness in his words, whether he knew it or not. It horrified her that Caleb felt so alone, so adrift. But telling him that would only make things worse.
Still, she didn’t want to just drop the subject, either, so she tried to make light of it and hope that he’d wind up wanting to talk. “Well, that certainly is a sweeping statement.”
Where was all this coming from? He didn’t usually talk, much less open parts of himself up. Had to be because of what day it was, he thought.
I miss you, Jane. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get this serious.”
She hated to see any creature in pain, she always had. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”
“I don’t,” Caleb told her sharply. “Want to talk,” he clarified. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Pressing down on the gas pedal, he made short work of the last half block. “We’re here,” he announced.
Pulling up in the driveway beside the vintage vehicle her father had left her mother, he put his car into Park, but didn’t turn off the ignition. The car continued to hum quietly, like a tamed cheetah, waiting for the time it could stretch its legs again.
Claire got out of the car. She sensed that he wanted to make a quick getaway. Even so, she asked, “Would you like to come in for some coffee?”
Despite his desire to escape, he was tempted. For oldtimes’ sake. But he knew it was for the best if he just got going. So he shook his head. “I’m already pretty late.”
So he’d mentioned earlier, she thought. “Right. I’m sorry, I’m keeping you from your son and your wife.”
His expression darkened for a moment, as if something painful had gripped him in its claws, but he made no comment other than “G’night.”
The next second, he was pulling out of her driveway and speeding away.

Chapter Four
“So you’re really going through with it.”
Looking up from the bureau, Claire saw her mother standing in the doorway of her room. In a hurry to get ready and out the door, and more than a little anxious about her first day at Lakewood Elementary, she hadn’t heard her mother until she was almost inside the room.
Claire’s eyes met her mother’s in the mirror. “‘It?’”
Margaret nodded as she walked across the threshold. Gone were the trim business suits she used to favor. She’d slipped on aqua-colored sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, both of which provided a vivid contrast to the rich red hair she’s always been so proud of.
She didn’t look like a woman who was ill, Claire thought. Maybe God still had one miracle left with her name on it after all. Mentally, she crossed her fingers.
“You know.” Margaret frowned as if the very word she was about to utter tasted bitter. “Teaching.”
Claire was somewhat surprised that, when she woke up this morning after a not-so-restful night, she was in the grip of first-day jitters. She supposed it had something to do with wanting validation for the decision she’d made about the new direction of her life. Whatever the reason, the jitters were worse than she’d expected and her mother’s disapproving expression wasn’t exactly helping.
She glanced at her mother over her shoulder. “Yes, Mother,” she replied patiently. “I’m really going through with it. In approximately—” she glanced at her watch, “—an hour and ten minutes, I’ll be taking over what would have been Mrs. Butterfield’s fourth-grade class if she wasn’t about to deliver at any minute.”
Claire turned back toward the mirror to check over her appearance one last time. And perhaps locate her confidence, as well.
Margaret sighed and shook her head. “Why are you doing this?”
At the last moment, Claire had decided to wear her hair up. She thought it looked more authoritative that way. Besides, to be honest, she wasn’t all that accustomed to seeing her hair loose like this. Swiftly, she began to strategically place pins in it to ensure that it stayed in place.
“Because, for one thing, I need a job.” And we’re going to need the money, Mom, she added silently.
“No, you don’t,” her mother contradicted. “You already have a job.”
The last pin in, Claire quickly surveyed her handiwork. “You mean taking care of you—” Was her mother trying to tell her that she felt weak? That she needed her around in case she suddenly began to go downhill?
But before she got a chance to ask, her mother had already waved a dismissive hand at her, silencing any words that were about to emerge. “No, I can take care of myself, Claire,” she declared with dignity. “I’m not an invalid—at least, not yet,” she qualified quietly.
Finished, Claire turned away from the bureau. This was as good as it was going to get, she thought. Worrying about the way her hair looked and if her clothes were sending the wrong message was an entirely foreign concept to her. So was experimenting with makeup, but she felt she’d done a fairly admirable job of it for someone new to the game. The application was subtle, the results pretty.
The next second, she admonished herself for being vain. It was hard being stuck between two worlds, not feeling as if she belonged in either.
“Then I don’t know what you’re—”
Again her mother cut her short, this time with more than a trace of impatience. “Your job. Your vocation.” The frown mingled with a plea. “I’m talking about your being part of the Dominican order.”
Not now, Mother. Not today, please.
She’d known the moment the idea of leaving the order had occurred to her that the transition wasn’t going to be easy. For either of them. Not for her because she’d been part of the order for so long, she was going to have a difficult time redefining herself in different terms, and not for her widowed mother because she knew that Margaret Santaniello was convinced that turning her back on the order was tantamount to committing a mortal sin and thus putting her soul in jeopardy.
Getting her mother to come around would require treating both the subject and her mother with kid gloves. And, she’d already learned, it was also going to require a great deal of repetition.
She tried to focus on another time, a time when she and her mother had been in harmony instead of at odds. “Mother, we’ve gone through all this already. I’m not Sister Michael anymore.”
A note of desperation entered her mother’s voice. “That’s like saying you’re not tall anymore.”
“I’m not,” Claire pointed out calmly. She didn’t have time for this.
“You know what I mean,” Margaret insisted. “All right,” she conceded, “bad example. It’s like saying you’re not Italian anymore.” She nodded her head in triumph, as if feeling that she’d chosen her example well this time. “Saying it doesn’t change things. You can’t stop being Italian.”
“Not the same thing, Mother, not the same thing at all.” She saw tears suddenly gather in her mother’s eyes. Guilt assaulted her at the same moment. She placed her arm around her mother’s shoulders, or tried to. “Mother—”
But her mother shrugged her arm aside, moving away from her as if she had a contagious disease. “I’m going to die.” Her tone was oddly resigned.
Her mother wasn’t going to lick this thing if she’d already surrendered to it. She needed hope, Claire thought. A lot of it.
“No, you’re not,” she countered fiercely.
“Yes, I am. Because of you. You know this kind of thing doesn’t go unpunished.”
For one moment, Claire felt as if she’d been physically slapped across the face. Stunned, she focused on the larger subject. “You don’t believe that.”
“Yes, I do.” There was no arguing with her mother’s tone of voice.
If she couldn’t talk her mother out of it, she could still elaborate on her own beliefs, Claire reasoned, hoping that, in time, it would make her mother come around. “Well, I don’t. I don’t believe in a petty God who insists on going tit for tat.” She and God might not be on the same wavelength at the moment, but she still believed in His existence, still believed that He wasn’t a vengeful God. Why would her mother even think that? It was her mother who had taught her everything she believed in.
Her mother turned away from her. When she spoke again, Claire thought her heart was going to break from just hearing the sorrow in her mother’s voice. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with acute leukemia.”
All she could do was give her mother the benefit of her own faith. “Mother, I don’t have a clue why some things happen, why some people have everything go right for them even if they don’t seem to deserve it and why other people have so many bad things happen, even if they are good, decent people—”
“Maybe if you’d paid more attention at the convent, you’d have some of those answers.”
She continued as if her mother hadn’t interrupted. Her mother wasn’t being fair, but she couldn’t fault her. Staring at the face of your own possible mortality could frighten anyone. “But I do know that God doesn’t sit around keeping score and threatening people with sores and pestilence if they get out of line.”
A hopelessness descended over Margaret. “Then why am I sick?” she demanded.
Claire hugged her mother, trying desperately to comfort her. “I wish I knew, Mother. But I do know that you were diagnosed long before I ever left the order.”
“He knew you were going to leave. He knows everything.”
Rather than become annoyed or defensive, Claire felt nothing but compassion for what her mother was going through. But at the same time, she wanted her mother to be aware of how convoluted her thinking was.
“So what you’re saying is that you’re being punished for something I was going to do.”
“Yes,” Margaret declared with feeling, then relented. “No.” She could feel an enormous headache building as the tension inside her increased. “Oh, I don’t know.” She pressed her lips together, looking at her only child. She did, in a selfish way, appreciate her being here but at the same time, she felt in her heart it was wrong. Claire belonged in the convent. And she had taken her away from that, no matter what Claire said to the contrary. “Everything was so much clearer a year ago,” Margaret lamented.
Since she couldn’t seem to help her mother, maybe someone else could. The woman had always been partial to priests. “Mother, I’m going to see if I can get Father Ryan to stop by later today.”
Margaret’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh, no, I couldn’t face him.”
Claire slipped into her black pumps. The moment isolated itself. These were her first pair of non-sensible shoes in twenty-two years. She’d worn them the other night to Saturday’s. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed wearing high heels.
The next moment, she forced herself to concentrate on what her mother was saying. “Why?”
They were back on opposite ends of the discussion again. “You know why.”
Walking out of her bedroom, Claire turned and took her mother’s hands in hers. “Mother, you’re going to have to get used to it. I’ve left the order, I’m not Sister Michael anymore. But I will always, always be your daughter. And I am going to take care of you, to be there for you whenever you need me—and even if you don’t,” she added with a smile. She dropped her hands and headed toward the stairs. “But right now, if I don’t get going, I’m going to be late for my first day and you know what you’ve always said about first impressions—you never get a second chance to make one.”

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