They all spent the rest of the weekend peacefully, and Gabriella didn't think of Father Connors again until she saw him at the altar saying Mass for them, and then had lunch with them in the garden afterward. It was Palm Sunday, and she was still carrying the palm fronds she had picked up in church when he walked up to her casually after lunch in the garden.

“Good afternoon, Sister Bernadette. I hear you've been busy planting vegetables all week. I understand you have a real gift with herbs and enormous tomatoes. Don't forget to send us some at St. Stephen's.” His eyes were as blue as the April sky, and there was laughter in them as she looked up at him and smiled as innocently as he did.

“Who told you that?”

“Sister Emanuel. She said you grow the best vegetables in the convent.”

“I guess that's why they let me stay for so many years. I knew there had to be a reason.” She said it with good humor, as they began to stroll through the garden without any particular destination.

“There may be other reasons as well,” he said kindly. In just the few times he had come to St. Matthew's, he had discerned easily how fond the older nuns were of her. He knew she had been a protégée of Mother Gregoria's since her childhood, and he could see why she meant so much to them as they walked slowly toward the section of the garden where she had planted her vegetables, so he could see what she'd been doing. There was an air of poise and grace about her that went beyond her looks and the way she carried herself. There was a natural elegance about her, and at the same time a quiet warmth and gentleness that touched everyone around her. She had become very beautiful in the years she'd been here, and she was completely unaware of it. Her looks were something she never thought of. But even as a priest it was easy to admire her. She was like looking at a priceless painting, or a lovely statue, almost like a piece of art one wanted to stare at. And yet what one really saw was the light in her that shone so brightly. She seemed to be lit from within with a force he found irresistible, and he told himself it was the strength of her vocation that enhanced her beauty.

She showed him what she'd done that week, and explained the broad assortment of vegetables and herbs she was growing for the convent. “I can plant some more for all of you, if you like, although well have plenty of extra to share with you next summer, if I can keep my Sisters from getting too enthused and picking them before they're ready. We have a whole patch of strawberries over there.” She pointed it out to him. “Last summer they were delicious.” He smiled at her then, suddenly remembering memories from his boyhood in Ohio.

“I used to pick blackberries when I was a kid. I'd come back to St. Mark's all scratched up from picking them and with blackberry juice all over me.” He grinned. “I ate so many on the way back, I had a stomachache for a week once. The Brothers told me God was punishing me for being greedy. But I kept on doing it after that. I figured it was worth it.”

“Did you go to a boarding school?” She had heard the mention of St. Mark's, and the Brothers, and it was so rare for her to talk to someone new, that she was naturally curious about him. Despite her normal shyness with people from beyond her world, she was surprised by how comfortable she felt with him. And Sister Anne's ugly comments of two days before had been totally forgotten.

“I guess you could call it a boarding school.” He smiled. “My parents died when I was fourteen, and I had no other relatives, so I lived at the orphanage in the town where I grew up. It was run by Franciscans. They were terrific to me.” It still made him smile warmly to think about it.

“My mother left me here when I was ten,” Gabriella said quietly, looking out over her garden. But he already knew that.

“That's unusual.” But he already knew from what she'd said in the confessional that there had been nothing ordinary about her mother. He distinctly remembered her mention of the beatings, and wondered if her being left here had actually been a blessing. “Was it a financial problem that made her leave you?”

“No,” Gabriella said quietly. “She remarried, and I guess I didn't fit into the picture. My father had deserted us the year before, and run away with another woman. For some reason, my mother always used to blame her troubles on me, and she always felt it was my fault.” She spoke very softly, as he watched her with silent compassion.

“Did you? Feel it was your fault, I mean?” He liked talking to her, and wanted to better understand why she had stayed here. He thought it was important to understand the people he tried to help, and worked with.

“I suppose I did. She always blamed everything on me, even as a child… and I always believed her… I figured that if she'd been wrong, my father would have interceded on my behalf, and since he never did, I just accepted the guilt for whatever it was they blamed on me. After all, they were my parents.”

“Sounds pretty painful,” he said gently, and she looked up at him then and smiled. It had been, but it seemed less so now, after more than ten years of peace and safety.

“It was. But being orphaned at fourteen can't have been easy either. Did they die in an accident?” she asked. They spoke like two friends, and it was so easy and open that neither of them were aware of time passing. It was so pleasant talking to him and she felt entirely comfortable with him, which was rare for Gabriella.

“No,” he explained. “My father died of a heart attack, very suddenly, he was only forty-two, and my mother committed suicide three days later. I wasn't old enough to understand everything that was happening, but I think she must have been overwhelmed with shock and grief. A little grief counseling might have worked wonders. That's why those things are so important to me. They make so much difference.” Gabriella nodded, wondering what kind of counseling would have helped her mother. “It took me years to forgive her for what she did. But I talk to so many people now in those same situations, people who feel trapped, or frightened or alone, or overwhelmed, and just don't see any way out of their problems. It's amazing how many people don't have anyone to talk to, and they just panic in the face of problems the rest of us think aren't all that bad, or all that important.”

“Like Sister Anne.” She smiled at him again, and this time they both laughed. They had shared some important things about themselves with each other. And they had a lot in common. They had both lost their lives in the outside world, and their families, suddenly, and forever. And they had found their salvation in a life where they would never again encounter the kind of problems that had nearly destroyed them as children. “When did you decide to become a priest?” she asked, curious, as they started to walk slowly back to the main part of the garden.

“I went into the seminary straight from high school. I made the decision when I was about fifteen. It just seemed right for me. I can't imagine a better life than this one.”

She smiled at him naively. He was so good-looking that in some ways it seemed incongruous to see him in the familiar Roman collar. “I'll bet a lot of girls you knew were disappointed.”

“Not really. I never knew any. There were only boys at St. Mark's. Before that I was too young, and I was pretty shy as a kid. It just seemed like the right choice for me. I never doubted it for a minute.”

“Neither have I, once I was sure,” she admitted to him seriously. “I thought about it for years, living here. The nuns I grew up with always talked about the ‘calling and my ‘vocation,’ but I never thought I was good enough. I kept waiting to hear voices or something, and then finally I just knew that I never wanted to leave here. I belong here.” He nodded, understanding her perfectly. To both of them it seemed that this was the life they had been born for.

“You still have time to be sure,” he said gently, sounding like a priest again, and not just her friend, but she shook her head at his suggestion.

“I don't need time. I knew when I went to college that I never wanted to live in the world again. It's too hard for me. I don't know how to do it. I never went on dates, never wanted to meet men. I wouldn't have known what to say to them.” She grinned up at him, forgetting that he was one. “And I never, ever want to have children.” It was the only thing she said that struck him as odd, and she said it with such vehemence that it caught his attention.

“Why not?” he asked, curious about her reasons.

“I decided that when I was a little girl. I was always afraid I would turn out to be like my mother. What if it's part of me, and I did the kind of things she did?”

“That's silly, Sister Bernadette. You don't have to be cursed with the same demons that plagued your mother. A lot of people suffer through terrible childhoods, and go on to be extraordinary parents.”

“And if that doesn't turn out to be true, then what? You drop the kids off at the nearest convent and desert them? I wouldn't want to take that chance with someone else's life. I know what it's like to live through it.”

“It must have been terrible when she left you,” he said sadly, remembering the day he had found his mother. With a lifetime of prayer and service to God, he had never been able to forget it. She had been in the bathtub, with her wrists slashed. It had been the first and only time he'd ever seen her naked. She had nearly cut her hands off with his father's razor.

“It was,” Gabriella answered him soberly, “and a kind of relief too, once I understood that I was safe here. Mother Gregoria saved my life. She's been like a mother to me.”

“From what I've heard, she's very proud that you decided to stay and join the Order. You'll make a fine nun, Sister Bernie. You're a good person.” And he looked as though he believed it.