Lovely, Dark, and Deep Read Online Free

cheered me immeasurably. Jack's guitar has helped him out of many a tight spot, due to my love for the instrument. (Okay, and its player.) I began to hum along with "Son of a Son of a Sailor" as I slipped into the bedroom to comb my hair. When I looked in the mirror I was reminded of my new hair color.
    That's right , I thought to myself. I'm a minx . “And Jack will just have to deal with it,” I told my reflection. I went back to my troubadour, ready to demand a kiss.
    Chapter Two
    The convent of the Dominicans of the Holy Nativity was situated at the edge of Webley in an area that was once cornfield as far as the eye could see. It remained a rural area, though the inevitable construction had created a subdivision and a mini mall to the west of this religious retreat. The convent itself was shrouded by an unexpected cluster of pines and a line of weeping willows which had been planted when the builders broke ground in 1951.
    The trees gave the long driveway a sense of seclusion and serenity, and on this cold Monday afternoon they swayed, leafless, in a biting wind. Their naked branches struck me as sad and lent a somber air to my journey as I pulled into the circular turn-around in which Sister Joanna had been struck and killed.
    I parked my car at the edge of the circle, got out and wandered over to the Mary Fountain. At its center, of course, was a statue of the Virgin, her hands raised in benediction. Surrounding her was a cement basin of about ten feet in diameter. The water was frozen now, not currently housing the fish who darted here and there in summer, flashes of orange and yellow beneath peaceful lily pads. I wondered where they were kept in the cold months. I could see the rocks beneath the ice, one of which (as a nun named Sister Mary Iris had shown me last summer when I'd interviewed her about a math educator's award she'd won) was hollow, so that the fish could swim through. I'd looked where she pointed, and of course the fish swam around the large gray rock, just to prove her wrong. We'd shared a little chuckle about it.
    As a child I'd been sent here on my bicycle with lilies of the valley wrapped in a wet paper towel, then again in tin foil. “Bring this to the sisters,” my mother would instruct me, and I'd take my delicate cargo down side streets and one mile of rural road before I got to the long driveway. I would pretend I was Maria from The Sound of Music , on her way to the Von Trapp Mansion. I would actually sing: little me on a bicycle, with flowers in my basket, warbling as I wended my way toward the nuns.
    There was no bell at the entrance of the convent, but an elaborate wrought iron knocker functioned just as well, I found, as I pounded it against the door.
    Soon Sister Moira herself answered the door. “Madeline, thank you so much for coming,” she said with a warm smile, ushering me in.
    I confess that from childhood I've had a fascination with nuns and convents, and the life that to me, at seven and beyond, seemed both secret and inscrutable. I felt a rush of bald curiosity as I looked around me at a disappointingly plain foyer with a few padded benches, a lamp, a fake flower arrangement, the ugliness of which suggested it had been "donated" by someone who didn't like it, and a table with a few magazines on it, boringly predictable titles like The New World and Maryknoll .
    Moira rushed ahead of me, saying, “You're a bit early, and I was just helping to prepare dinner. It's my turn. Come on, it won't take a minute.” She led me down a hallway to a bright little kitchen, where an old nun, still in the full Dominican habit, sat layering the ingredients for lasagna in a giant pan.
    “Hello, Sister Francis,” I said, recognizing her. Even when I'd attended St. Roselle she'd been old, relegated to pushing AV carts down the long hallways, leaning heavily on them as she went. We students, cruelly, had called her "Fran the Man" behind her back, due to her unusually deep voice.
    “Hello.