The Shadow of Your Smile

8

On Tuesday morning, Olivia woke early, but did not get up for nearly an hour. Then, slipping on a robe, she went into the kitchen. She always made a fresh pot of tea to start the day. When it was ready, she set the pot and a cup on a tray and carried it into the bedroom. She set the tray on the night table and, propped on pillows, sipped the tea as she gazed down at the Hudson River.

Her thoughts were scattered. She knew there were boats still anchored to buoys in the yacht basin on Seventy-ninth Street. In a few weeks most of them will be gone, she thought, and so will I. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to go sailing. I had thought that someday I’d get around to it.

And also to taking lessons in ballroom dancing, she added, smiling at the thought. And what about all the college courses I meant to sign up for? Of course, none of that matters now. I should start counting my blessings. I had a successful career working at a job I loved. Since I retired, I’ve traveled a lot, and have enjoyed deep friendships…

As she savored the last of the tea, Olivia turned her mind back to the pressing problem of what to do about the evidence in her safe. Clay absolutely wants me to let it go, she thought, but when the chips are down it’s none of his business, even if he is on the board of the Gannon Foundation. Catherine was my cousin. And Clay had no right to walk in here Monday evening, no matter how concerned he may be about me.

Of course when Mother died I agreed with him that it was better to leave things as they were, she reminded herself, but that was before the miracle of Catherine’s saving the little boy’s life, and before the beatification process began.

What would she want me to do? For an instant Catherine’s face was crystal clear in Olivia’s mind. Catherine at seventeen, with that long blond hair, and those eyes the blue green of the sea on a spring morning. Even when I was only five years old I was smart enough to know how truly beautiful she was.

A thought crossed her mind: Clay saw that file folder in my hand with Catherine’s name on it. He’s the executor of my estate, such as it is. When I’m gone, if I haven’t resolved this one way or the other myself, I wouldn’t be surprised if when he opens the safe he gets rid of the file. He would think he was doing the right thing. But is it the right thing?

Olivia got up, showered, and dressed in her favorite casual outfit: slacks, a tailored blouse, and a warm cardigan sweater. Over toast and a third cup of tea, she tried to decide what to do. She was still unsure as she tidied up the kitchen and made the bed.

Then the answer came to her suddenly. She would visit Catherine’s grave in Rhinebeck, where she was buried on the grounds of the motherhouse of her order, the Community of St. Francis. Maybe I’ll get a sense of what she would want me to do there, Olivia thought. It’s a pretty good drive, at least two hours, but once I’m out of the city, the country is so pretty. I’ll enjoy it.

In these last few years she had given up driving long distances herself and instead called on a service to send a driver, who would take her where she wanted to go in her own car.

An hour later the intercom buzzed to let her know that her driver was in the lobby. “I’ll be right down,” she said.

As she was putting on her coat, she hesitated, then went to the safe and took out Catherine’s file. She slipped it into a tote bag, and feeling relieved to have it with her, left the apartment.

The driver turned out to be a pleasant-faced man in his mid-twenties, who introduced himself as Tony Garcia. To Olivia, there was something reassuring about the way he offered to carry the tote bag, then put a guiding hand under her elbow at the step in the garage. With approval she noticed that once in the car he immediately checked the gauge and told her there was plenty of gas for the round trip. After reminding her to fasten her seat belt, he concentrated on the driving. The Henry Hudson Parkway North was crowded. As usual, Olivia noted wryly. She had tucked a book in her tote bag, along with the Catherine file. An open book, she had learned, was the best way to discourage a loquacious driver.

But in the next two hours Garcia did not say a word until they drove through the gates of the St. Francis property. “Just turn left and go up that hill,” she told him. “Beyond it you’ll see the cemetery. That’s where I’m going.”

A picket fence encircled the private cemetery, where four generations of Franciscan nuns were buried. The wide entrance was framed by a trestle that Olivia remembered as being ablaze with roses in the summer. Now it was covered with green vines that already were tinged with brown. Garcia stopped the car at the flagstone walk and opened the door for Olivia to get out.

“I’ll only be ten or fifteen minutes,” she told him.

“I’ll be right here, ma’am.”

Low stone markers were on the individual graves. Occasional benches offered a place for visitors to rest. Catherine’s grave was opposite one of them. With an unconscious sigh, Olivia sat down on the bench. Even such a short walk makes me so tired, she thought, but I guess I should expect that now. She looked down at the lettering on CATHERINE’S MARKER: SR. CATHERINE MARY KURNER: SEPTEMBER 6, 1917-JUNE 3, 1977. R.I.P.

“Rest in peace,” Olivia whispered. “Rest in peace. Oh, Catherine, you were my cousin, my sister, my mentor.”

She reflected on the tragedy that had entwined their lives. Their mothers had been sisters. Catherine’s parents Jane and David Kurner and my father had all been killed in a car accident, when a drunken driver crashed into their car on the highway. That was a month before I was born, Olivia thought. Catherine was only a child herself, just turning twelve. She had come to live with us, and, from what I know, she became my mother’s right hand, the strong one. Mother told me that she could barely handle the grief and that Catherine was the one who got her through it.

Olivia felt the familiar hurt as her thoughts turned to Alex Gannon. “Oh, God, Catherine, no matter how strong your vocation, how could you not have loved him?” she whispered into the silence.

Alex’s parents, the Gannons. Olivia wished she could better remember the faces of the people who had been so kind to her mother. They had insisted she stay on as their housekeeper and live in the cottage on their estate in Southhampton after her father, who had been their chauffeur for many years, had died.

I was only five, but I remember Alex and his brother sitting on our porch talking to you, Catherine, Olivia reflected. Even then I thought Alex was like a young god. He was in medical school in New York, and I can remember Mother telling you that you were crazy to think of the convent when it was clear that he adored you. Long before it happened, I remember her saying, “Catherine, you’re making a mistake. Alex wants you. He wants to marry you. In a thousand years there’ll never be another one like him. Seventeen is not too young to get married. And why don’t you admit it? You are in love with him. I see it in your eyes. I see it when you look at him.”

And you said, “And seventeen is not too young to know that I am called to a different path. It is not supposed to be. That’s all there is to it.”

Olivia felt the unwanted tears come to her eyes. Six months after Catherine left for the convent, Mother remarried and we moved into the city, she thought. But when old Mrs. Gannon died, I went to her funeral with Mother and met Alex again. That has been over forty years ago.

Olivia bit her lip to keep it from trembling and clasped her hands. “Oh, Catherine,” she whispered, “how could you have given him up, and what shall I do now? I have the letter Alex asked my mother to give you, the letter begging your forgiveness. Shall I destroy it, and the record of your son’s birth? Shall I give it to your granddaughter? What do you want me to do?”

The faint rustling of the leaves falling from the trees that were scattered around the cemetery made Olivia aware that she was suddenly chilled. It’s almost four, she thought. I’d better get started for home. What did I expect? Another miracle? Catherine to materialize and counsel me? Her knees stiff, she got up slowly and, with a final glance at Catherine’s grave, walked through the cemetery back to the car. She realized that Tony Garcia must have watched for her approaching, because he was standing beside the car with the door already open.

She got into the backseat, grateful for the warmth, but without any sense of resolution. On the way back the traffic was much heavier and she was impressed by Garcia’s steady and skillful driving. When they were nearing her exit off the Henry Hudson Parkway, she commented on that and asked, “Tony, do you work full-time for the service? If you do, I’d like to request you if I have any more trips to make.”

I should add, any trips that I make in the next few weeks, she thought sadly, realizing that for an instant she had forgotten how very little time she had left.

“No, ma’am, I’m a waiter at the Waldorf. Depending on my hours there, I let the service know when I’m available to drive.”

“You’re ambitious,” Olivia said, remembering how when she began at Altman’s all those years ago, she had always tried to work overtime.

Garcia looked into the rearview mirror and she could see his smile. “Not really, ma’am. I’ve got a lot of medical bills. My little guy was diagnosed with leukemia two years ago. You can imagine how my wife and I felt when we heard that. Our doctor told us he had a fifty-fifty chance, and those odds were good enough for her and for him. Two days ago we got the final word. He’s cancer free.”

Garcia fished into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photograph, and handed it back to Olivia. “That’s Carlos with the doctor who took care of him,” he explained.

Olivia stared at the picture, not believing what she was seeing. “That’s Dr. Monica Farrell,” she said.

“Do you know her?” Garcia asked eagerly.

“No, I don’t,” and then before she could stop herself, she added, “I knew her grandmother.”

When they were down the block from the garage, she reached for the tote bag and said, “Tony, please stop at the curb for a moment. I’d like you to put this bag in the trunk. There’s a blanket quite far to the back. Slip it under the blanket, please.”

“Of course.” Without showing that he was surprised at the request, Garcia followed instructions, then drove Olivia the rest of the way home.