The Confessions(14)

“Conference,” he said quickly. “The Ecumenical Council of America met at the Sauveterre three years ago. They asked me to speak there. Free night at a five-star hotel? Couldn’t turn that down, could I? Stole the sign, but I left the towels.”

“Sauveterre—it means ‘safe haven’ in French.”

“That’s where you are right now, dear. A safe haven. You seem to know the Sauve well.”

“Very well,” she said, sitting back in the chair. “I’ve met clients there before.”

“Second time you’ve mentioned clients,” he said. “You’re a therapist?”

“We’ll get to that. Should we begin?”

He looked at her a moment before leaning forward and meeting her gaze again. She looked back at him with wide eyes, a slight smile on her lips, and not a blush to be found on her pale cheeks or a tear in her eyes. If he had to describe this woman’s expression, he might pick “confident” or “fearless”…but if he could choose only one word, he’d probably pick “shameless.” Interesting expression on the face of a woman who was ostensibly here to confess her sins.

“We should begin, yes,” he said. “Let’s pray.”

Obediently she crossed herself, closed her eyes and bowed her head.

“Glory be to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end,” he said. “Amen.”

“Amen,” she said, crossing herself and raising her head. “I like it better in Latin though.”

“Say it,” he said.

“Gloria patri,” she began without a moment’s hesitation, “et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”

“Very good.” Father Ballard clapped. “Accent could use some work.”

“Considering Latin’s a dead language, isn’t my guess at an accent as good as anyone’s?”

“Not a bad point. You’re too young to have grown up with the old Latin Rite. Where’d you learn it?”

“My priest,” she said. “He can be a little old school.”

“Nothing wrong with the old school,” he said. “I can be a little old school myself.”

“You’re playing Enya on an iPod Nano in a confessional that looks like a Park Avenue psychotherapist’s office. Leather chairs, candles, and if I’m not mistaken...that’s a bowl of Jolly Ranchers on the table next to you.”

“So I’m a little old school and a little new school. I know Latin, I wear a cassock, but I can still appreciate the power of a little candy to get a nervous child talking.”

“Or a nervous woman?”

“Or that,” he said, passing her the bowl of candy. She took one—cherry—but didn’t eat it. “Although something tells me you aren’t nervous. Am I wrong?”

He set the bowl back down on the table and faced her. Funny, he thought she had dark eyes, dark brown eyes, but now her eyes looked green. Not hazel, no. Real green. Contact lenses? A trick of the light?

“No, not nervous. I’d rather not be here, but here I am.”

“If you don’t want to be here, why are you here?”

“To keep a promise I made to someone,” she said. “I’ve been putting off coming here.”

“Tell me about this promise.”

“My mother died two years ago. On her death bed, she asked me to go to confession and be absolved and reconciled. She was very specific about what sins I needed to confess. So here I am doing as my mother asked. Mom, I hope you’re happy.” She glanced up at the ceiling and shook her head in amusement. Looking up was a good sign. Meant that this lady thought her mother had gone to Heaven.

“I’m very sorry about the loss of your mother. What’s her name? I’ll pray for her.”

“Sister Mary John,” the woman said.

“A nun?”

She nodded. “She joined the Monican Order when I was in my twenties. It had been her lifelong dream. She was happy there. First time in her life she was truly happy.”

“She wasn’t happy before then?”

“No, but a lot of that is my fault. I was a disappointment to her.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” she said. “I’m being unfair really. She got pregnant with me as a teenager and that ended her convent dreams. I suppose she was a disappointment to herself, and I was the living manifestation of that disappointment. But we were...better? I suppose you could say we were better by the end. I knew she loved me. That’s why I made her the promise. My sins weighed very heavily on her.”

“Is this your first confession?”

“Not by a long shot. I have a priest I confess to once every few months.”

“But that wasn’t good enough for your mother?”

“She didn’t like my priest. Thought he was a sinner.”

“Doesn’t matter. Ex opera operato. The sacrament works because of Christ and through the minister, not because of the minister. As long as your priest is a priest, he can administer the sacraments, no matter the sins on his conscience.”

“Mom knew all that. But this case was a little different.”