“He's cute,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, as Melanie giggled like the teenager she was, and not a world-famous star.

“Yeah, he is. And nice. He's just graduating from Berkeley as an engineer. He's from Pasadena.” He was a far cry from Jake, with his slick looks and acting career, and frequent trips to rehab, although she had loved him for a while. But she had complained to Ashley recently that he was incredibly self-centered. She wasn't even convinced he was completely faithful. Tom looked like a totally decent, wholesome, nice guy. In fact, as she would have said to Ashley, he was really, really cute. Hot. A hunk. With brains. And a great smile.

“Maybe you'll see him sometime in L.A.,” Maggie said hopefully. She loved the notion of nice young people falling in love. She hadn't been impressed so far with Melanie's current boyfriend. He had only dropped by the hospital to see her once, said it smelled terrible, and went back to their hangar to lie around. He hadn't volunteered for any of the services that others were providing for him, and thought it was ridiculous for someone of Melanie's stature to be playing nurse. He expressed the same views as her mother, who was seriously annoyed by what Melanie was doing, and complained about it every night when Melanie got back and collapsed onto her cot.

Maggie and Melanie got busy then, and Tom was in the mess hall talking to the friend he'd been staying with the night the earthquake happened. His host on that fateful night was a senior at USF.

“I saw who you were talking to,” he said with a sly smile. “Aren't you the clever devil, picking her up.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, blushing, “she's cute. Nice too. She's from L.A.”

“No kidding.” His friend laughed at him, as they put vats of carrot soup on the enormous butane stove that had been supplied by the National Guard. “Where did you think she lived? Mars?” Tom had no idea why his friend was so amused by his brief details about her.

“What's that supposed to mean? She could have been from here.”

“Hell, don't you read any of the Hollywood gossip? Of course she lives in L.A. with a career like hers. Shit, man, she just won a Grammy.”

“She did?” Tom looked stunned as he stared at him. “Her name is Melanie …” And then he looked mortified as he realized what he'd done and who she was. “Oh, for chrissake, she must think I'm a total moron…I didn't recognize her. Oh my God …I just thought she was some nice blond kid about to drop a package. Nice ass, though,” he chuckled to his friend. But better than that, she seemed like a nice person, and had been totally unassuming and down to earth. Her comments about her mother's ambitions for her should have given it away. “She said she wished she could go to nursing school, and her mom won't let her.”

“Damn right. Not with the kind of money she makes singing. Shit, I wouldn't let her go to nursing school either if I was her mother. She must make millions from her records.” Tom looked annoyed then.

“So what? If she hates what she does. It's not all about money.”

“Yes, it is, when you're in her league,” the USF senior said practically. “She could sock a lot of it away, and do whatever she wants later. Although I can't see her as a nurse.”

“She seems to like what she's doing, and the volunteer she's working for said she's good at it. It must be nice for her being here with no one recognizing her.” And then he looked embarrassed again. “Or am I the only person on the planet who didn't know who she is?”

“I would guess you are. I heard she was here, at the camp. But I didn't see her myself until this morning, when you were talking to her. No doubt about it, she's hot. That was a score, man.” His friend congratulated him for his good taste and judgment.

“Yeah, right. She must think I'm the dumbest guy in the camp. And probably the only one who didn't know who she was.”

“She probably thought it was cute,” his friend reassured him.

“I told her she looked familiar and asked her if we'd met before,” he said groaning. “I thought maybe she's at Berkeley.”

“No,” his friend said with a broad grin. “Much better than that! Are you going to go back to see her?” He hoped so. He wanted to meet her himself. Just once, so he could say he had.

“I might. If I can get over feeling stupid.”

“Get over it. She's worth it. And besides, you're not going to get another chance like this to meet a big star.”

“She doesn't act like one. She's totally real,” Tom commented. It was one of the things he had liked about her, that she seemed so down to earth. And it didn't hurt either that she was smart and nice. And obviously a hard worker.

“So stop whining about how dumb you feel. Go see her again.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Tom said, sounding unconvinced, and then got busy stirring the soup. He wondered if she'd come to the mess hall for lunch.

Everett came back from his walk around Pacific Heights late that afternoon. He had taken shots of a woman being pulled out from under a house. She lost a leg, but was alive. It had been a very moving scene as they pulled her out, and even he had cried. It had been a very emotional few days, and in spite of his experience in war zones, he had seen a number of things at the camp that touched his heart. He was telling Maggie about it as they sat outside during her first break in hours. Melanie was inside handing out insulin and hypodermics to the people who'd come to pick them up after an announcement made over the PA system.

“You know,” he said, smiling at Maggie, “I'm going to be sorry to go back to L.A. I like it here.”

“I always have,” she said quietly. “I fell in love with the city when I came here from Chicago. I came out here to join a Carmelite order, and wound up in another order instead. I loved working with the poor on the streets.”

“Our very own Mother Teresa,” he teased, unaware that Maggie had been compared to the saintly nun many times. She had the same qualities of humility, energy, and bottomless compassion, all of which sprang from her faith and good nature. She seemed almost lit from within. “I think the Carmelites would have been too tame for me. Too much praying, and not enough hands-on work. I'm better suited to my order,” she said, looking peaceful, as they both sipped water. Once again the day was warm, as it had been, unseasonably so, since before the quake. San Francisco was never hot, but now it was. The lateafternoon sun felt good on their faces.

“Have you ever gotten fed up, or questioned your vocation?” he asked with interest. They were friends now, and he was fascinated by her.

“Why would I do that?” She looked stunned.

“Because most of us do that at some point, wonder what we're doing with our lives or if we chose the right path. I've done that a lot,” he admitted, and she nodded.

“You've made harder choices,” she said gently. “Getting married at eighteen, getting divorced, leaving your son, leaving Montana, taking on a job that was almost a vocation too, not a job. It meant sacrificing any kind of personal life. And then giving up the job, and giving up drinking. Those were all big decisions that must have been hard to make. My choices have always been easier than that. I go where I'm sent, and do as I'm told. Obedience. It makes life very simple.” She sounded serene and confident as she said it.

“Is it as simple as that? You don't ever disagree with your superiors, and want to do something your own way?”

“My superior is God,” she said simply. “In the end, I work for Him. And yes,” she said cautiously, “sometimes I think what the mother superior wants or the bishop says is silly, or short-sighted, or too oldfashioned. Most of them think I'm fairly radical, but now they pretty much let me do what I want. They know I won't embarrass them, and I try not to be too outspoken about local politics. That gets everyone upset, especially when I'm right.” She grinned.

“You don't mind not having a life of your own?” He couldn't imagine it. He was far too independent to live in obedience to anyone, particularly a church or the people who ran it. But that was the essence of her life.

“This is my life. I love it. It doesn't matter if I do it here in the Presidio, or in the Tenderloin, or with prostitutes or drug addicts. I'm just here to help them, in the service of God. Kind of like the military serving their country. I just follow orders. I don't need to make the rules myself.” Everett had always had problems with rules and authority, which at one time in his life was why he drank. It was his way of not playing by the rules, and escaping the crushing pressure he felt when others told him what to do. Maggie was a lot more easygoing about it than he was, even now that he no longer drank. Authority still rankled him at times, although he was better about tolerating it now. He was older, mellower, and being in recovery had helped.

“You make it sound so simple,” Everett said with a sigh, finishing his water, and looking at her carefully. She was a beautiful woman, yet she kept herself back somehow, careful not to engage with people in any kind of personal, womanly way. She was lovely to look at, but there was always an invisible wall between them, and she kept it there. It was more powerful than the habit she didn't wear. Whether others could see it or not, she was always completely aware that she was a nun, and wanted it that way.

“It is simple, Everett,” she said gently. “I just get my directions from the Father, and do whatever I'm told, what seems right at the time. I'm here to serve, not to run things, or tell anyone else how to live. That's not my job.”

“It's not mine either,” he said slowly, “but I have strong opinions about most things. Don't you wish you had a home of your own, a family, a husband, kids?” She shook her head.