The Patron Saint of Butterflies(6)

Every female at Mount Blessing—except Honey—strives to be like Veronica, beginning with how she wears her hair, swept off her face and knotted at the nape of her neck, to the way she holds her arms out straight during an entire prayer service, just like Jesus on the cross. I’ve spent prayer services—two, three hours at a time—just watching the way she moves her lips or the fervent way she closes her eyes when she utters certain phrases. She is the epitome of perfection, the example of what we are all striving to become. And she is brilliant. Sometimes even Emmanuel will defer to her while he is preaching and let her explain things in her own words. That is why I don’t want to hear Honey’s reason—if there is one—about Veronica’s participation in this. It just wouldn’t make any sense.

“What’s a harlot?” I find myself whispering instead.

“It’s a whore,” Honey says. Her voice is matter-of-fact, but when she starts talking again, it trembles around the edges. “Veronica said that’s what I am, running around trying to kiss boys like I do. Like I make a habit of it or something. It was one time, for God’s sake. Once!” The silence between us is deafening, interrupted only by a soft neigh from one of the horses in the barn. I take her hand in mine and stroke it tenderly, my fingertips caressing the rough patches along her knuckles.

“You’re not a harlot, Honey.”

“Yeah,” she says, pushing her hair off her face. “I know.” Her gaze is fixed on something I can’t see in the blue canopy above us. She points with her index finger. “Hey, look! It’s a Spangled Fritillary!”

I squint at a small orange butterfly swooping down toward some Queen Anne’s Lace. Only a butterfly could distract Honey from the conversation at hand.

She stands up slowly, watching as the small insect floats from one flower to the next. “Look how gorgeous. And so many markings on the wings.” She turns to look at me. “Did I tell you Winky and I started aerating the garden this morning?” I nod. “Winky found some wild fennel and turtlehead in the field, too. We’re going to transplant them tonight after dinner. The garden’s going to be so beautiful this year. I bet we’ll have over a thousand butterflies.” The butterfly soars past us suddenly and, after grazing the tip of more Queen Anne’s Lace, disappears from sight. Honey watches, shading her eyes with her hand.

A small, sudden shout interrupts the moment. “Agnes! Are you up here?”

Instinctively, Honey drops back down in the grass. “Who’s that?”

The voice floats over us, louder this time. “Honey! Agnes! Where are you?”

“That sounds like Benny,” I say, peering in the direction of the voice. Standing up straight, I wave my arm through the air. “Benny! Over here! We’re over here!”

“How’d he know where to find us?” Honey asks.

I lean up on my tiptoes. “Probably from when he followed us the last time. Remember?” My little brother is so small that I can see only the top of his white-blond hair as he turns and then swerves through the tall grass like a marshmallow on a stick. He’s a nervous little kid to begin with, but he gets even more nervous when he doesn’t know where I am. At all times. I love him to pieces, but sometimes it feels like he is suffocating me.

“Nana Pete’s here!” Benny says, bursting out all at once from inside the field. His blue robe flaps around him like a tent and his enormous black glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. A constellation of freckles stand out like tiny ants across his face.

“Nana Pete?” I say. “What are you talking about? Are you sure?”

Benny is holding his knees with his hands, breathing hard. He lifts his head at my barrage of questions. “I’m telling you, she’s here! Mom just came down and got me out of prayers so I could go get you! She’s waiting for us in the Great House!”

Honey looks at me accusingly. “You didn’t tell me Nana Pete was coming.”

I stare wide-eyed at her. “She wasn’t. At least, she’s not supposed to be. Dad said she wasn’t coming until August, just like always.”


Nana Pete is Dad’s mother. Despite living all the way down in Texas, she comes up to visit us at Mount Blessing every summer without fail. Sometimes she takes a plane, but more often than not, she drives her big green Cadillac, which she calls the Queen Mary. There’s nothing she likes more, she always says, than a “good ol’ road trip.” And while she is Benny’s and my paternal grandmother, she has made a point to include Honey in every single thing we’ve ever done with her, starting when we were just little kids living in the nursery. In fact, I can’t ever remember a single time with Nana Pete that didn’t include Honey.

Benny slaps his knees. “Can we go? Please?”

Honey laughs out loud and tosses her robe carelessly over one shoulder. “See you guys later.”

“Oh, come with us,” I say. “You know she’ll ask for you as soon as she sees us.”

“No more Great House for me today,” Honey says, walking on ahead. She looks over her shoulder. “But tell her I’ll see her later. Maybe after dinner.”

“Where are you going?” I ask uncertainly.

Honey spits out a blade of grass and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Back to the East House, I guess. Christine probably thinks I’ve committed suicide by now or something.”