Jesse returned her smile, his so dazzling, with his white teeth and gorgeously kissable lips, I don’t know how she didn’t faint at the sight of it. “I’m sure we will.”
The school turned out to be on grounds four times as big as those of the Mission Academy, though Sacred Trinity housed half as many students, being for girls only. The main building resembled a country manor estate, something straight out of one of those historical movies where the people all sit around getting served tea. It came complete with a long, impressive driveway (lined by Italian cypress trees) that passed gently sloping lawns before stopping in front of a wide, ornately carved stone staircase, leading to an even wider, more ornately carved double doorway.
“One good earthquake,” I said to Jesse, “and this whole place will come tumbling down. Who do they think they’re trying to impress?”
“Dr. Bad Attitude.”
We parked in a lot that looked as if it had been designed for a world-class modern art museum, not a school, it was so well landscaped, and were greeted at the main entrance by Sister Mary Margaret, director of admissions. She’d no doubt been alerted to our arrival by the security guard at the gate—not the gate to 17-Mile Drive, but to the school. On the website, it had said that daughters of foreign princes attended school there. Security was clearly a priority.
Just not when it came to local girls with the last name of Martinez.
“Dr. Baracus,” the nun said, glowing with enthusiasm as she stepped forward to shake our hands. “Mrs. Baracus. I’m so delighted to meet you. Welcome to the Academy of the Sacred Trinity.”
I shot Jesse a triumphant look. They totally hadn’t looked up baracus on the Internet. Or, if they had, they were hedging their bets that Jesse—or I, not to be sexist—was so rich we’d carefully kept ourselves off the Web, like the families of many of their students. The wealthiest people in the world don’t share photos of their private jets and Rolexes on Instagram, as they do not care to have their children kidnapped and held for ransom as a result of advertising that wealth.
Sister Mary Margaret was Sister Ernestine’s opposite in every way. Young where Sister Ernestine was old, lean where Sister Ernestine was plump, Sister Mary Margaret fed us a well-rehearsed but sweetly enthusiastic speech about the benefits of educating our adorable daughter Penelope—Jesse frowned every time her name was mentioned—at Sacred Trinity.
The percentage of Sacred Trinity girls who went on to college, we were told—was the highest in the tri-county area—100 percent!—and the percentage who went on to Ivy League colleges—well, Sister Mary Margaret didn’t want to brag, but it was high.
If they weren’t murdered, of course, before they finished first grade, I thought, but didn’t say out loud.
Jesse looked annoyed during much of Sister Mary Margaret’s spiel, for which I didn’t blame him. He was playing the role of the brilliantly wealthy plastic surgeon—the medical specialty that pulls in the most money these days—incredibly well, but I could tell that having to hear the words thanks to Father Francisco so often was wearing on his last nerve. It was wearing on mine, too.
“Thanks to Father Francisco,” Sacred Trinity was no longer on the brink of financial disaster due to mismanagement by the previous headmaster. Father Francisco had swooped in a decade ago and saved the day with his fiscal know-how.
“Thanks to Father Francisco,” the Sacred Trinity girls’ choir had gone from being nearly disbanded to being number one in the state. They had even recorded an album. Did we want a copy of their CD for Penelope? Of course we did. Penelope would love it.
“Thanks to Father Francisco,” the Sacred Trinity school library’s floors had been stripped of the exotic wood the father’s predecessor had laid there. Father Francisco had replaced the floor with a more sensible wood, donating the difference in cost to a literacy charity. Wasn’t he the most wonderful man?
“Did Father Francisco do the labor himself?” Jesse asked Sister Mary Margaret.
She looked momentarily confused. “Er . . . no. He hired a contractor.”
Jesse was unimpressed. “Then he probably didn’t save that much money.”
I had to stifle a laugh. Sister Mary Margaret didn’t know what she was up against. Every time he was on call, Jesse saw children suffering from maladies caused by improper diet. Their parents simply couldn’t afford to feed them properly.
Yet here, in the same community, was a school that had paid $150 per square foot for flooring, and charged for tuition for its kindergarten what Jesse had paid per semester for medical school . . . though of course it did offer, even though in Carmel the temperature rarely fell below fifty degrees, heated stalls for the horses their students wished to board there. We found this out as we were given a tour of the grounds.