X Returns by Claudia Mair Burney

Author:Claudia Mair Burney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2010-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

The monastery was built amid the rolling hills and verdant valleys of northeast Oakland County. I didn’t know there could be so many varieties of trees in one place. The air, fresh as just-mowed grass, seemed sweetened by the breath of God Himself. I could have opened my mouth and tasted it.

What had I been missing? I’d spent my whole life in the hood or burbs, with no sense of how sublime creation is. The monastery could have been that Garden of Eden. I just hoped I didn’t find too many demons in the place.

In that first week of September, the leaves were still various shades of green. Only a few trees had begun to change, a sign of the coming Michigan winter, which always arrived too soon and lasted too long.

But for now there was the sky, and a sun so blue and so bright that it momentarily made me forget about my troubles. I heard a small chirping sound, but didn’t see any birds nearby. Ms. Evette was the one who told me that was the sound of crickets. I’d never heard them before. I felt like a kid at recess for the first time.

We pulled up to a cream-colored building that looked like a cross between a church and a high-end motel. Spanish tiles covered the roof, while arched doorways and soaring pillars added elegance to the scenery. A cross pointed skyward at a tower in the middle of the facility. Peace and tranquility pervaded the grounds.

“Wow.”

“This is it, sweetie,” Ms. Evette said. “You’re about to do this thing. St. Benedict’s isn’t spirituality lite. This is the real deal.”

She stepped out of the car and stretched. A man, cloaked in a black robe, walked up to us. I’d never seen a monk before. It was stupid, but I couldn’t stop staring.

The man had salt-and-pepper hair and a beard to match. He turned into a sweet-faced boy when he smiled. He wore glasses with unfashionable frames. This guy wouldn’t have inspired Francis’s band, Monk Funk, but I liked him.

I stepped out of the car and he extended his hand to greet me. “You must be Emme. Welcome. I’m Father Don, the abbot here.”

“Nice to meet you, Father Don.”

He and Ms. Evette embraced. “Welcome home, Starshine.”

“Always good to see you, Padre,” she said, beaming.

Ms. Evette, unbeknownst to me, had packed a box of goodies. She pulled it out of her trunk along with an intricately woven quilt—different from the one I had before—and a brand-new set of sheets. She handed Father Don the box, and me the sheets and quilt, while she grabbed my duffel bag and icon of St. Maria Goretti.

“Will you look at this?” she said, extending Maria to Father Don.

He took the icon and touched one of her oily tears with his fingertip, bringing the digit to his nose. “It does smell like myrrh. Way cool.”

I so didn’t expect him to say “way cool.” Maybe he had a little monk funk after all. I stood there looking as crazy as the quilt I held while Ms.

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