“Poor fellow,” Bryson, a man of high feeling as well as self-regard, said.
“I had no idea.” Brother Speed shook his head. “Oc casionally, Brother Christopher spoke of his ex-wife. A trophy wife, as near as I could tell, and when times got hard, she sailed on.”
“That’s about it,” Harry said. “You two are coming to the St. Luke’s party. I’ll see you there. I want to knock this out in case the mountain gets worse.”
“Good idea.” Bryson looked at Brother Speed, then clapped him on the back and rolled his cart down the bread aisle.
“Harry, this spring I’d like to come out and see your yearlings. You and Alicia Palmer keep the old bloodlines going.” “Sure. Love to have you.” Brother Speed then headed toward produce.
While Harry was in the grocery, Racquel was visiting Aunt Phillipa. Her oxygen bag, with a tube in her nose, helped the old lady breathe. She could speak without gasping. “Let it be,” Aunt Phillipa advised. “You’re right. I’m letting little things get under my skin.” “No man is worth this much worry.” Aunt Phillipa stopped. “You’re his wife. If he sleeps around, you still have the power. Remember that.” “Yes, Aunt Phillipa.” “You know, I’d kill for a cigarette, but I’d blow us all up.” “Not a good idea.” Racquel laughed, for she did love her old feisty aunt. Bill Keelo walked into the private room. “Merry Christmas.” “What a beautiful amaryllis.” “I remembered that you liked the white.” Bill’s tie—little Santa Claus figures against a green background—gave him a seasonal air.
“You remembered correctly.”
Alex Corbett stuck his head in the room. “Two good-looking women.”
“What are you doing here?” Racquel wondered.
“Bill does the hospice’s tax work. I’m looking for a larger piece of land down here for them.”
“No kidding.” Racquel was surprised.
“You can depend on dying. When the boomers start to go, it will be a bonanza.” Aunt Phillipa put on her glasses to better admire the amaryllis.
“Guess so,” Bill agreed.
“Shame about Brother Christopher.” Aunt Phillipa was focused on dying. “He didn’t work here as much as the others, but he was a bright penny.”
“Yes, he was,” Alex concurred. “We’re all upset. Bryson, too.” He nodded to Racquel.
“He did mention it was a loss. I think doctors harden themselves to the inevitable. Although Brother Christopher’s inevitable came early.”
“In which case,” Aunt Phillipa honestly stated, “I have nothing to complain about.”
12
Two white five-foot tapers stood vigil next to the altar, the light from their flames making the huge brass stands glow. Two smaller white candles graced the altar, and the sconces on the wall flickered with candles. The monastery, built before electricity, had sconces throughout all the halls, as well.
Life may not have been easier before electricity, but people certainly looked better in candles’ glow.
The service for Brother Christopher, conducted with dignity, left all the brothers in tears, most especially Brother Sheldon. Brother Ed, standing next to Brother Howard during the service, noted that Brother Sheldon could weep buckets at a sentimental commercial. His whisper brought a stare from Brother Luther, who was in charge of the service.
Brother Morris sang “Ave Maria,” a cappella. The beauty of his voice filled the chapel as the flames leapt higher.
Brother Howard’s reception, also by candelight, allowed the men the chance to tell Brother Christopher stories, citing his peculiarities such as a fondness for Sour Balls. Such tiny things helped soothe the shock, the loss.
Brother Speed watched as the others drank wine donated by Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard.
“Miss it?” Brother Luther bluntly asked.
“Sure.” Brother Speed nodded. “But drink and drugs gave me a ticket to hell. Can’t do it.”
“Takes a lot of discipline,” Brother Luther complimented him.
“Not if you know it’s going to kill you,” Brother Speed replied.
“I never thought of that.”
“You never had to.”
“You’re right. My journey was different. Bland. Boring even.” He looked Brother Speed in the eye. “All paths lead to God, even ones as different as ours.”
“Indeed, Brother Luther, indeed.”
Brother Sheldon, sitting in a straight-backed chair, tears flowing as freely as the wine, stiffened up as Brother Morris and Brother George came over.
“He is with God,” Brother George, a note of unctuousness in his voice, said.
Brother Sheldon may have been a candidate for the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, given his ability to change his emotions at breakneck pace, but he knew when he was being patronized. “Thank you, Brother.”
“We’ll all miss him. He was good with the patients, good with those who came to visit them.” Brother Morris sighed. “But as Brother George said, he is with God, and no matter how terrible the end of his mortal life, he is now rejoicing.”
“I’ll remember that,” Brother Sheldon said dryly.
He believed it, but they hadn’t seen Brother Christopher’s body. He had. Awful though that was, he did have special status because of it.
“I’d like you to do something.” Brother George leaned over.
Brother Sheldon looked up. “Yes.”
“Take a beautiful Christmas tree to Harry Haristeen. It seems the least we can do.”
Brother Sheldon brightened. “I will. When would you like me to deliver it?”
“Tomorrow.” Brother Morris stepped in. “I know she’ll be pleased to see you up and about, so to speak.”
“I like Harry,” Brother Sheldon said.
“We all like Harry.” Brother Morris smiled. “She’s a straight shooter.”
“Anyone ever see her in a dress?” Brother George wondered.
“Where did that come from?” Brother Morris was amused.
“I don’t know. I’ve only seen her in jeans. I like to see women . . . you know.” His hands made a curving motion.
“I expect she’ll wear a dress to the St. Luke’s Christmas party.” Brother Morris smiled. “And you know, Alicia Palmer and BoomBoom Craycroft will be there, too. They’re more your type, I think, Brother George.”
Brother George laughed at himself. “Oh, those days are long gone, but I can dream. A man’s still a man.”
The two left Brother Sheldon, who now received Brother Ed and Brother Speed. The waterworks turned on again.
As the head of the order and his second in command walked toward the door, Brother George whispered in a low voice, “I really am going to miss Brother Christopher.”
“Yes, I am, too. He had good ideas.”
“I’m willing to bet this is all about financial ruin and revenge.” Brother George folded his hands behind his back.
“I don’t know. He was always hatching plans for our financial advancement. Far-fetched as some of them were, I’ll miss his bright mind and spirit.”
Brother George lowered his head and nodded. “I hope we don’t lose support because of—”
“I’m sure the people who have been so generous to us in the past will continue.”
Brother George smiled slightly. “You’re right. I need to push my fears back.”
“Trust in the Lord.” Brother Morris smiled broadly.
13
Shining baby blue because of the snow, the Blue Ridge Mountains cast a benevolent presence over the rolling foothills of central Virginia. At this point the clear sky heightened the beauty of the scene. Occasional small squalls popped up, and the weatherman predicted a major storm within the week. One of the joys—or not, depending on one’s temperament—of living in this blessed part of the world was the variability of the weather.
Harry thought about that as she headed east from Crozet, arriving at Jean Keelo’s house in the attractive and expensive subdivision next to the Boar’s Head Inn. Originally, Harry, Susan, Racquel, and Jean had planned to gather at the South River Grill, off Route 340 in Waynesboro. They could have lunch without seeing too many people they knew and therefore could stick to business. However, going over Afton Mountain, even when the roads were passable, seemed imprudent. No matter how hard crews worked, the roads iced over, given the elevation. Invariably some fool would fly by at seventy miles an hour, lose control, and spin around—if they were lucky. If not, they crashed into other cars or sailed over the guardrail to the depths below.