Lovely, Dark, and Deep Read Online Free Page A

Who are you? Do I remember you?” she intoned, squinting at me.
    “Probably not. You were the monitor of my study hall when I was a sophomore.”
    She sprinkled some shredded mozzarella into her pan, nodding. “I feed twenty sisters here,” she said proudly.
    “Wow,” I said.
    Sister Moira had been tossing a salad, which she now covered in plastic wrap. “We have busy afternoons, so we prepare dinner early,” she explained. “Several of our sisters are literacy volunteers, or work in soup kitchens. Retirement hasn't changed their work ethic. When they return, we have prayer, and by then we're all hungry!”
    “Even old women have appetites,” said Sister Francis in her deep voice, laying slippery noodles on top of the ricotta mixture. I noted that her white sleeves were rolled up for the task, and that she wore a bright blue apron over her habit. I tried to picture Sister Francis in a store, buying a blue apron. I failed.
    Sister Moira, again in motion, was beckoning me toward the door. I said goodbye to Sister Francis, and she nodded again, looking thoughtful as she dribbled red sauce into her pan.
    “It's mostly the retired sisters living here, right?” I asked Sister Moira as we moved down the hall.
    “Yes. It's funny, Madeline, but at forty-eight, I am one of the youngest sisters in our order. The median age right now is 70. The median .”
    “What about Sister Iris?” I asked, remembering my friend at the fish pond.
    “Oh, she's in Indianapolis now,” Moira said, as though this were quite a promotion.
    “Ah.”
    “So I've become the unofficial, er—”
    “Den mother?” I joked.
    She laughed. “You always make me smile, Madeline,” she said, entering a little sitting room.
    I followed her in. This room was nicer than the lobby, and small. It contained only a couch and two chairs, which matched, but looked a bit worn. Sister Moira read my mind. “We always say, if you want nice furniture and your own bath, become a priest.”
    I laughed. “Can't you get in trouble for saying that?”
    “Oh, we just say it in here. Although we've said as much to Father Fahey, and he agrees with us.”
    I grinned. Father Fahey was the pastor at St. Catherine's. He also taught one religion class at St. Roselle. He was a good-natured man, fifty or so with white hair and a tall, lanky frame. I wondered if he and Sister Moira liked to joke around. I wondered, too, if there had ever been any attraction between them. They were both relatively young, handsome people. I had a tendency to look for romances where society said they should not exist. We had seen one priest leave our parish, when I was ten or so, to marry a sister from the convent. It was sort of a scandal at the time, but I think people were rooting for them, as well. Your average person can't relate to the vow of celibacy, and that includes Yours Truly. The notorious pair still come back sometimes, with their two daughters, to visit their friends in the parish. The funny thing is that everyone still calls them Father Tim and Sister Gretchen. They always will, I imagine. My mother used to tell me, when we saw them in town and stopped to chat, that you can't separate a person from his ministry, just because that person did something like fall in love. To her, he and she had both ministered to our people, and as such had attained a status that could not be taken away.
    Moira was nodding at nothing in particular. She looked at me with a serious expression and said, “You should know that I told Father Fahey I had contacted you. I told him that I would be asking you to investigate.”
    She was obviously going to do this at her own pace. I took a little notebook from my bag and watched Sister Moira fold her hands and sit, serene, regarding me.
    “You said something about Sister Joanna,” I said, leading in.
    Moira smiled. “Joanna.” She paused to wipe imaginary things off of her suit skirt, a pretty green plaid. “She chose the name because Joanna was one of