Devious - Lisa Jackson [61]
“Seriously,” she continued. “But they’re good people. Take Louise, for example. She’s one of those terminally upbeat people I just don’t get. Musical, too. Always singing or humming, which bugs the reverend mother. Big-time.” Camille had smiled, as if amused at the thought. “She works with me at St. Elsinore’s sometimes.” She’d cast her sister a look. “I know, you think we should avoid the place, but I think it’s a good spot to start giving back.”
“Really?” St. Elsinore’s wasn’t a place she liked to think about too much. A parish far outside New Orleans and built on higher ground, St. Elsinore’s worked hand in hand with St. Marguerite’s, and together the two convents staffed the orphanage.
“Really.” Camille had flashed a bright smile. “See, I’m trying. But”—she’d shrugged, her grin fading—“the truth is, it’s a struggle to belong.”
“More than the others?”
“Who knows? Lots of the others don’t seem like typical nuns. Take Irene. I mean, she was a ballerina. Go figure. Athletic and strong and not particularly even-keeled.”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a diva nun,” Val had said.
“There shouldn’t be.”
“Meaning?”
“She has a dark side, I guess.” Camille’s face had turned pensive. “Maybe we all do.” She’d squinted and watched a hawk circle high overhead. “But the thing is, they all seem to think they’re doing the right thing—fitting in.”
“But not you?”
“Uh-uh. Not me.”
“No one’s put a gun to your head and said you had to stay. There’s plenty of time to change your mind.”
“And where would I go?”
“Anywhere, Cammie. You’re young and beautiful and smart as a whip. If you want to take your vows, fine. If the convent life is for you, great. But if you think you don’t belong there, then leave.”
Camille had looked away then, gazing across a fragrant clump of rosemary to a place only she could see. “Well, now, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t think I belong anywhere. . . .” She’d pulled out a pair of sunglasses and slipped the dark lenses over her eyes.
Val had felt her heart rip. “I’m so sorry,” she’d said, her throat thick as she recognized her own culpability, how she’d played a part in her sister’s decision. “I shouldn’t have thrown you out that night. I should have talked to you, listened to you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Camille had scoffed at the thought. “I was with your husband. And that’s something that the mother superior probably shouldn’t know. I’ve confessed my sins to the priest, but . . .”
“You lied to Sister Charity.”
“Omitted some information is all.” Camille had sniffed loudly, as if fighting tears, though when Val had checked to see if she were crying, her eyes were hidden by sunglasses.
“It was all a mistake.”
“The story of my life,” Camille had said before hurrying out the garden gate.
Now, nearly a year later, Valerie’s heart squeezed painfully at the thought of how she might have saved her sister’s life. If she had responded differently that day, would it have changed what happened to Camille?
Probably not. But the guilt stayed with her, hanging close, never completely disappearing.
Val wrote a few notes to herself about Camille’s comments on everyone at St. Marguerite’s and added her own impressions of the people she’d met earlier in the day. Then she skimmed the other names she’d previously jotted down: Father Paul Neland, Regina St. James, Terri Sue Something-or-Other, people Camille had mentioned at one time or another. Laypeople who worked at the parish. There were other people on staff, as well as