And then we’re in paradise. The door opens onto a lush garden, with a skinny brick path outlining it in the shape of a heart. The path’s border is marked by low-lying plants with rich olive-colored leaves, thriving even in the shade of the pin oaks. A row of flowers grows behind the row of plants, dotting the perimeter with blossoms of pink, yellow, and white. Behind them are rosebushes, one after another, just beginning to bud. The effect is something like an old-fashioned floral valentine.
“Wow!” I say.
Angie pushes the door closed in a businesslike way and moves aside a stack of clay pots. “Thank you.”
“You did this?”
She blushes. “I shouldn’t take all the credit.” She steps into the garden and stands at the point of the heart. “I designed it.”
I follow her. “When? How? What do we know about gardens? We’re city kids.”
She smiles, and her face relaxes. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“Pick one.”
“Well, I designed it about five years ago. Mother felt we needed a garden, a place for quiet contemplation. The shape, obviously, is the Sacred Heart.”
“Obviously.”
Angie glances back at me. “You haven’t forgotten everything, have you?”
“I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried.”
She suppresses a smile. “Let’s take a walk. There’s a bench at the top where we can sit down.” She leads me up the path, slipping both hands into the sleeves of her habit, like the nuns did at school.
“So tell me how you did this. It’s wonderful.”
“It wasn’t hard. We have a library here. I read about the types of flowers. Perennials. Annuals. What grows in shade, what doesn’t.” Angie looks up at the sky. “I think we’ll get some sun today. Good.”
“You can get out the sun reflector like you used to.”
She stops on the path and shakes her head. “I can’t believe we actually did that. A sun reflector, of all things. With only baby oil for protection. What were we thinking?”
“We were thinking we wanted to look good. What all teenage girls think. Burn off those zits.”
“Stop.” She bumps me with her shoulder. “Look here. These are my favorites.” She nods in the direction of a group of white flowers. The stems stand about two feet high and are covered with what appears to be soft white bells. They nod gracefully in the slight breeze.
“They’re beautiful. What are they?”
She bends over and cups a dimpled bell in her fingertips. “Campanula. Bellflower. Aren’t they lovely? They need some sun, but they don’t like too much. Most of the varieties bloom in the summer. I have those on the north side of the heart. But this little baby, this is an early version. Aren’t you, sweetie?” she coos comically into the upturned face of the flower.
“The vow of silence doesn’t extend to flowers, huh?”
“Why do you think they grow so well?” Angie says, and we both laugh.
“That’s the first time you ever made a joke about this place, you know.”
She straightens up. “Don’t start, Mary.”
“All right, all right.”
“Come on, let’s go. We don’t have much time.” She walks briskly toward a weathered wooden bench. She seems more energetic than when she first met me this morning.
“You love this garden, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She sits down on the bench. “Step into my office,” she says.
I sit down obediently.
“Look over there.” She points to the right of the bench, where mounds of trailing green vines make a glossy carpet. “You know what that is?”
“Free parking?”
“No, wise guy. I planted it in our honor. It’s Italian bellflower.”
“I love it. Goombah foliage.”
She looks over at the vines. “They’re hard to grow. They’re like you, stubborn. I couldn’t get them to come up last year. But they’re lovely when they do. I saw them in a picture.” Her gaze is suddenly far away.
“What do they look like?”
“Little stars. Little bell-shaped stars. They call them Star-of-Bethlehem.” She keeps looking far away. I wonder what she’s looking at, what she’s thinking about. I follow her gaze over the garden, past the statue of some saint. I can’t see anything after that, except the wrought-iron crucifix on top of the gate.
“Remember when we used to read each other’s minds?” I ask her.
She doesn’t answer.
“What are you looking at, Ange?”
“The other side.”
“The other side of what?”
“The other side of the rose garden. On the other side is our new gazebo. Have you seen it?” She squints, as if she were trying to see through the roses.
“No.”
“It’s lovely. It’s made from the lightest wood, a blond color. Inside are statues of the Sacred Heart and the Immaculate Heart, both hand carved in Italy. Hand painted, too. The statues gave me the idea for the garden.” She pauses a minute. “The statues are in the middle of the floor, and there’s a skylight over the top. When the sun shines in, the whole room glows. The light inside is remarkable. It’s full.” Angie looks at me. Her eyes are bright. “Do you understand what I mean, that light can befull? Can you see that?”
I swallow hard. “You’re never going to leave this place, are you?”
Angie smiles. “You’re not a very good listener, you know that?”
“I’m a lawyer. We don’t get paid to listen. We get paid to talk.”
“But no one’s paying you now.”
“No, no, you’re right. No one’s paying me now.” It’s my turn to look past the roses.
“So. I was up last night, thinking about what you said and other things.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap. She seems tense again.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, hurt you. It’s just that I don’t want you here, Angie. I saw the cemetery out back. I don’t want you here then and I don’t want you here now.”
“I understand that.”
“I really think-”
“I know what you think. You want me to go out there.” She nods over the garden to the gate beyond.
“Right.”
“Because you think it’s better than here. Than this lovely place.” Her brown eyes move over the bright flowers of the garden.
“Not that it’s better. Just that it’s real. It’s the real world, and you have to deal with it. You can’t just ignore it. Run away from it.”
“No? Why not?”
“What do you mean why not?”
“Why not?”
“Because you have to live in it. Because you learn by dealing with it, by coping with it. We’re strong, Angie. Mom and Pop raised us that way. They taught us that we can deal with whatever comes our way. I know you can resolve what you have to on the outside. I just know it.”
“Do you think it’s important for me to do that?”
“More than important. Vital.”
She pauses. “Is it important for you to do that?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“I see. Well, then, may I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you here?”
I look at her. She looks back. My eyes narrow, then hers. Identically.
“What?” I ask.
“Why are you here?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? If what you’re saying is true, then why are you here? Why did you run to the convent, from the vast and wonderful outside world?”
I have no answer for this. It doesn’t seem like a fair question.
“You tell me there are dangerous people out there, stalking you. They send you notes. They enter your apartment when you’re not there. They might havekilled your secretary. Yourhusband.” Her pained look flickers across her face. “You believe these things to be true.”