The first wet fat flakes began to tumble from the clouds just as Holly sneaked away from her office to drive to the Star of the Sea rectory. On her way, she had picked up a cherry strudel at Schroeder’s Bakery, for she wanted to stay in Father Bolden’s good graces since he would have to agree to spare his housekeeper the time to be with her child. Holly was certain she could arrange her help, now that Tim was no longer the main impediment.
The boys, too, had seemed changed. At the breakfast table, they had been nattering on in their own private language about their plans for the day. She studied Nicholas closely to see if he had gotten enough sleep after his nightmares. Honestly, babies on the walls, a flood that came and went like the tides. He seemed to have recovered somewhat, although when the Wellers returned, his mother would no doubt notice the dark circles under his eyes and his pale complexion from being inside since Christmas. Nick would have tales to tell her, dogs and bones and weeping rooms. They might never let him come back again.
The snow flew in a frenzy against the windshield and made the storm seem more threatening, enough so that she considered heading straight for home. But when she pulled the old car into the parking lot, sliding slightly to the left, the motion slowed, and stepping into the snow shower, she was surprised by how gentle and harmless and beautiful it was. On such days when Jack was a toddler, she had dressed him in a blue snowsuit, thick overalls with suspenders and a matching down coat, so that he could barely move. Stiff legged and waddling in his rubber boots, he would come outside into the wonder, and within minutes his cheeks would brighten to red and his nose was a cherry button. She’d fling him onto a sled and pull him to the top of a small hill, and there he would consent to sit in her lap for a ride to the bottom. The weight of him was just as real after all these years, his back pressed against her chest as they whooshed along, snow spray in their faces, and his laughter erupting from deep within, so hard that she could feel it in her bones. She would give anything to hear that laugh again.
Father Bolden answered the door in a worn black shirt and collar, his oversized gray cardigan around his shoulders like an old friend. The sly fox pretended he was surprised to see her and a little put out by her unannounced visit, but his ruse fell apart the moment he spied the white bakery box hanging by the twine curled around her fingers. She held it up to his eye level. “Strudel,” she said. “I hear your favorite is cherry.”
“How did you know?”
With her chin, Holly gestured past him toward the kitchen.
He frowned and nodded over his shoulder. “A man might keep a secret from a wife, but never from the housekeeper. Don’t let the snow in. Come along, come along. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Brushing the snow from her shoulders, Holly entered the rectory and made her way to the dining room. Excusing himself to find Miss Tiramaku, Father Bolden left her alone. She stared at the painting of the drowning ship, trying to convince herself that there were no such things as ghosts.
Father Bolden touched her shoulder and she leapt from her skin. He had slipped into the room with the pastry, plates, and a wicked-looking knife, while out in the kitchen, Miss Tiramaku was taking cups and saucers from the cupboards. Holly had heard none of this. She pressed her fingertips over her heart to slow its beating.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Father Bolden said. “You were in a bit of a trance.”
“Just this painting,” Holly said. “I’m not sure why, but it seems so vivid to me, so real. I’ve found out more about it.”
“Miss Tiramaku said you were off to the archives to research.”
“Damn,” she said. “I left all the papers at the house.”
Carrying a tray with three cups and a pot of coffee, Miss Tiramaku appeared to be struggling, and when Holly offered, she allowed her to remove the weight of the carafe in order to set down the service on the table. When her hands were free, Miss Tiramaku greeted her in a quick embrace, stiff as a hug from Jack. She looked much older again, as if being in the rectory or the company of the priest had given her more gravitas, but even so, she was a welcome sight.
The priest began to pour. “Mrs. Keenan here was—”
“Holly,” she said. “Please call me Holly.”
He smiled and moved to the next cup. “Holly found herself lost in the Wreck, and I may have given her a bit of a fright.”
“No, it’s just that after the last time I saw it, I started having dreams about the shipwreck and hearing things, imagining things. Knocking on the walls of the house. Tapping inside my head.” She turned her face away, eyes downward. “Tell me, Father, where does the church stand on the matter of ghosts?”