I hold out the second pillowcase and Monsignor Davis drops the bag of money on the snow. He looks inside the second sack, then at us, then back inside. He takes hold of the ornate gold stand and drops the empty pillowcase on top of the cash. His eyes are damp when he looks up. “Glory be to God,” he whispers again.
We stand in silence for a few minutes, the Monsignor’s eyes glued to the monstrance, the snow collecting on our hats and coats. “Justice,” he says at last. “Another bit of justice for Father McMahon.”
That’s not true, of course. In the end, Derrick John Holliston is the only one who even came close to finding justice. He got exactly what the Constitution promises: he was judged by a jury of his peers, peers he pretty much hand-selected. Judge Gould sentenced him to twelve-to-fifteen on the voluntary manslaughter conviction. If he keeps his nose clean—and Holliston seems able to do that when he’s on the inside—he’ll be out in a decade. Francis Patrick McMahon didn’t fare nearly as well.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, resting his bandaged hand on the Monsignor’s shoulder, “about everything.”
Monsignor Davis takes in the bandage, then looks closely at Harry’s face. “Why don’t you come to Mass?” he says. “Both of you. The eight o’clock starts in just a few minutes. Share your burdens with the good Lord.”
Harry holds up both hands, palms out, to stop him. “I’m sorry, Your Emerald,” he says, “but it’s been sort of a rough morning. Could we not do the God thing right now?”
The Monsignor’s laugh is hearty. He shakes Harry’s hand, then mine. “All right,” he says, “we’ll do the God thing later.”
Harry starts to protest, but the Monsignor cuts him off. “Whether you like it or not,” he adds. He retrieves both pillowcases and heads for the church’s back door, the sack of money at his side, the monstrance pressed to his chest—no, to his heart.
“Hey, Padre,” Harry calls after him.
Monsignor Davis stops on the bottom step and turns.
“Merry Christmas,” Harry says.
The Monsignor nods, then smiles and disappears inside.
Harry retrieves his considerably lightened schoolbag and drapes his arm around my shoulders as we head for the cars. “Come back to Windmill Lane,” I tell him. “Luke probably isn’t up yet, but I’ve got eggs and bacon. He’ll follow his nose downstairs as soon as we start cooking. After we eat, we can open presents.”
Harry’s expression brightens at once, and the change has nothing to do with gifts. Not the wrapped kind, anyway. “Eggs and bacon?” he says as he climbs into his Jeep. “It really is Christmas.”
Luke’s already up, as it turns out. I can tell by the thickness of the white smoke billowing from our brick chimney when I pull into the driveway. The woodstove was on a slow simmer when I left the cottage. It’s cranking now.
His truck is parked next to my spot, buried under a foot of snow and blocked in by a silver Miata, its black retractable roof barely wet beneath a thin layer of the white stuff. It’s a car that’s normally garaged, apparently, and not one I recognize. Harry parks his Jeep behind my T-bird and eyes the Miata as he emerges. “Your son has a caller,” he says as we head for the house, “and I’ll bet the farm she’s of the female persuasion.”
He’s right, of course. “Mom, Harry,” Luke says when we come into the living room, “this is Chloe.”
Chloe is the sweet young thing we heard about last night and she appears to be on her way out. They’re both on their feet and she’s zipping up her jacket. Luke didn’t overstate his case; she’s a knockout. Danny Boy is seated at her feet, panting up at her.
“Chloe,” I say, “we’re just about to make breakfast. Will you join us?”
Luke looks happy; I didn’t say anything embarrassing, I guess.
“I would,” she says, “but I promised my mom I’d be back to help with breakfast at home. We have a houseful. Thanks, though. I just came by to drop off a little present.”
“Look,” Luke says. “Chloe brought me this.”
He holds up a pink box adorned with a brown ribbon, a combination near and dear to Chatham’s locals and visitors alike. It’s from the Candy Mansion, Chatham’s source of all things sweet.
“Truffles,” Luke says, and my mouth waters. The Candy Mansion’s truffles are legendary. No doubt more than a few will disappear before we crack the first egg.
Luke and Danny Boy walk Chloe to the kitchen door. Luke’s in sweats and socks, and Danny Boy has turned into a steadfast home-body in his old age, so neither of them is going any farther than that.
Harry manages to contain himself until the door slams shut, but then he lets out a loud whistle. He punches Luke on the arm—hard—when he rejoins us in the living room. “Nice work,” Harry says. “And truffles to boot.”
Luke shrugs and laughs, then looks down at his socks. He thinks he does nice work too, it seems.
Danny Boy barks, just once, and lifts his front paw to Harry’s shin.
“Okay,” Harry says, shaking the outstretched paw, “you do nice work too.”
Danny Boy barks again, a happy one, and we all laugh. My son. And Danny Boy. The chick magnets.
Luke walks to the front window, pushes the lace curtain aside, and stares out into the driveway until we hear an ignition turn over. “Is she great,” he says, turning back to face Harry and me, “or what?”
About the Author
Rose Connors, whose debut novel, Absolute Certainty, won the Mary Higgins Clark Award, grew up in Philadelphia and received her law degree from Duke in 1984. A trial attorney for more than two decades, she is admitted to practice in both Washington State and Massachusetts. She lives on Cape Cod, where she spends summers commercial shell-fishing with her two teenage sons.