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“I only have tonight,” Nate was saying several minutes later as we walked toward the pub where we’d first met. I’d brought my books inside, told my roommates not to expect me until curfew and hurried back to him without even changing out of my plaid jumper and white blouse. At least I’d grabbed my navy sweater for when the sun went down.
He was holding my hand—hadn’t let go since I’d come back out from the convent—and now he squeezed it. “I want to meet your folks.”
Oh. My spirits plummeted. “If we’ve only got a few hours, Nate,” I said, keeping my voice light, “I want to spend them with you—alone.”
“You love your parents,” he argued. “I’m not going to be the cause of a rift between you. I’d like to meet them, talk to them, assure them that I’m honorable and want only what’s best for you.”
“They won’t listen.”
“By your own admission, all they want is for you to be happy.”
That used to be true—when I was still a member of their church. When they thought I was in my right mind. In their view, they weren’t cutting off their support to punish me; they were doing what they thought was best, refusing to go along with my hare-brained idea because they believed that their rejection would bring me to my senses. And the hardest part was that I understood—which made it impossible to hate them.
Only to grieve their loss.
“We can take a cab out to their house,” Nate said, “and if all goes well, have a late dinner before I catch my plane back.”
“We can’t.”
“Of course we can.”
“They won’t see you, Nate.”
“What do you mean, they won’t see me? They don’t even know me.”
“I know them.”
He stopped by a pay phone outside the pub. Pulled change from his pocket. “Call them.”
“It won’t do any good.”
“Humor me.”
Because I loved him so much, I complied. I knew the effort was wasted.
And still, I had to take an extra second in the glass-enclosed booth after the call, collecting myself before I could face Nate. I’d had no idea my father had so much coldness in him.
“Well?” Nate asked, standing with both hands on his hips, facing me.
I shook my head. Hoped that would be the end of it.
“They aren’t home?”
I couldn’t start our life together with lies.
“They said that if we go there, they’ll call the cops.”
I would never forget the look on Nate’s face.
Chapter 5
In May, Vietnamese peace talks began in Paris, Mission: Impossible won an Emmy Award and I graduated from college. Nate came to the ceremony. And so did my brother, William. The two men—eight years apart in age—were as wary of each other as prowling tigers. But that night Nate played piano at the pub again and during the second set William asked me to dance.
“He’s talented,” my older brother said to me as we moved slowly around the crowded floor.
“Yeah.”
“He’s not shallow.”
“I know.”
“He loves you.”
I got choked up at that.
“And you love him, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
William didn’t say any more about Nate and me after that, but when the break came, he bought a round of drinks. And by the time I had to be back at the convent dormitory, where I’d be staying until July as a summer student, taking a first-session graduate class, the two men were discussing baseball homerun records and an outfielder who’d played 695 games straight.
I’d never been a fan of the sport, but I was going to love it from then on.
Robert F. Kennedy was killed in early June. People everywhere were shocked, horrified that the assassination of prominent people was now part of our reality. We’d suffered two of them in two months.
At a time when I was taking a blind leap away from everything familiar and safe, my country was in turmoil. I wondered what God thought of how we were treating His world. I wondered if I’d ever feel safe again.
Consumed by fear—more menacing in itself than anything else—I squared my shoulders and requested counsel from Sister Michael Damien, the Mistress of Postulants. Had I entered the convent she would have been my mentor, training me in proper decorum, regulations and spiritual matters.
I hadn’t spoken with her since I’d told her I would not be entering the convent, the day after I’d answered Nate’s first letter.
I was in awe of her and intimidated beyond measure.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said quietly, eyes downcast as I sat with her on a warm cement bench during the postulant recreation time after lunch.
Her gown rustled beside me and I felt her soft palm cover the knot my hands had become in my lap. “We’ve known each other a long time, my dear. You’re always welcome.”
I wished so badly that would continue to be true. Despite my excitement over the future, a future I’d sacrificed everything to have, my heart ached for what I was leaving behind.
The postulants were playing a rousing game of basketball not too far away. I could hear them. And, in that moment, envied them. Two of my dormitory sisters were there, too.
“I’m getting married.”
“I guessed as much.”
My eyes darted up at that, meeting the serene blue of hers. “You did?”
“There are only two reasons a young woman as committed as you were decides against taking her vows,” she said. “Either she finds that her heart’s direction was not true, or she finds a man whose pull is stronger than the Church. I have no doubt your heart is true.”
“That makes me sound weak. Disloyal.”
“Not at all, my dear. It makes you alive.”
“Do you think less of me?”
“For following your heart? I do not.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m turning traitor to my calling? I love him—so much—but I feel as though I haven’t been true to my purpose for being on earth.”
“Let me ask you this, Eliza. Do you think you’re being untrue to yourself? Or do you know you are?”
“I’m so confused at the moment, I’m not even sure I could tell the difference.”
“Tell me why you’re doing this. Leaving the life you’d chosen in order to marry this man.”
“Because I have to.” I answered without analyzing. And then heard what I’d said. “Not…have to,” I quickly explained. “He asked me and even though I tried, I couldn’t say no. I listen to my parents, to my sister, and my head knows that much of what they say is correct. I understand their fears for me. I cry myself to sleep at night because I miss them. And still, I can’t tell Nate that I won’t marry him.”
“Why not?”
“I feel I have to do this.” I gave that worthless answer because it was all I had.
“Ahhh.”
Sister Michael Damien’s smile was kind—and knowing.
“What?”
“You feel,” she said. “That, my dear child, is your heart speaking. Your head is confusing you, but you’re being guided by the inner knowing that will always direct you. It brought you here to us for a time, for a purpose, and now your heart will lead you elsewhere, for the next stage of your journey.”
I wasn’t sure I understood.
“But how can marrying Nate be my calling if it takes me away from service to the God who made me?”
And this was the crux of my dilemma. I was going to marry Nate. But did that mean I’d be less than I was born to be? Less righteous? Less loving and spiritual? Less Godly?
Was I a spineless creature? Giving in to earthly pleasure because I wasn’t strong enough to sacrifice for a greater purpose?
“When a girl is deciding between the life of a nun or a life of marriage and family, Eliza, there is no better or worse. No choice more righteous than the other. God needs dedicated wives and mothers just as badly as He needs Sisters. Mothers are the core of family life, and family is the core of God’s work. Both callings serve Him equally—a mother in a more intimate setting and a Sister in a broader way.”
It was as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud.
“My calling is to serve God, but to do it in a different capacity than I first envisioned?”
“I believe so. Yes.”
I was elated, relieved—and then stopped short.
“What if he’s been married before?”
“He’s a widower?”
“Divorced.”
Sister Michael Damien didn’t say a word. And a few minutes later, when I stood to go, her concerned gaze followed me down the walk.
The day I got married, Jane Asher broke her engagement to singer Paul McCartney on live television.
Nate and I had a small wedding at the home of his friend and boss, resort owner Walt Blackwell, and as I was changing into my short, simple white dress that evening, Walt’s oldest daughter, Mary, told me about Asher and McCartney. I was pretty sure she was hoping I’d follow Jane’s example, minus the television crew. Walt and his family didn’t seem all that happy about me as Nate’s bride.
“Nate and your brother just arrived,” Mary said, taking the sponge rollers out of my hair. The squishy little tubes were the only curlers my short strands could fit around, and I’d had them in all afternoon. I hadn’t seen Nate since he’d picked me up from the airport and dropped me at the Blackwell home.
A door opened off the hall outside the guest suite where I’d spent most of the day with the myriad people Nate had hired to help me get ready for my wedding.
“Be happy for me, Walt.” All my senses came alive at the sound of Nate’s voice in the hall. Since the moment I’d met him, I’d craved his presence.
“She’s nineteen, son.”
“Soon to be twenty.” The voices came closer as the men passed our door.
Mary’s hand stilled, holding a strand of my hair straight up.
“A child,” Walt said.
“She’s already finished college and certified to teach.”
“I just hate to see you go through what you did when Karen left.” Walt’s voice was kind, fatherly and growing fainter.
“Trust me, Walt, Eliza isn’t like Karen.”
“She’s a kid with nothing looking to you for security.”
“She comes from a working-class family, but I wouldn’t say they’ve got nothing. Besides, she had her life settled, had more security than most of us will ever have, before I came along.”
“And offered her a better way of life.”
“I love her.” Nate’s voice grew in intensity, making it easily heard, and I tried not to cry.
“Are you sure you aren’t just itching to get her in the sack and marriage is the only way to do that?”
The voices faded before I could hear Nate’s reply.
“My father thinks we’re downstairs already.”
My eyes met Mary’s in the mirror. Hers were filled with pity. Mine with tears.
Twenty minutes later, as I entered the beautifully decorated living room on my brother’s arm, I saw that Arnold had flown in for the wedding. My high school friend, his sister Patricia, was with him. I’d had no idea she was coming and seeing her there with the dozen or so other people sitting in rented chairs made me start to cry again. I remembered the silly high school game we’d played, writing notes back and forth as though we were the characters in Brontë’s novel. We’d both loved that book and it gave us a private, and I think creative, way to express our feelings. I’d always been Jane—because I was the one who’d go against the crowd. She’d been different characters, the tragic Helen, who’d died of consumption. Or the lovely Blanche Ingram. Or even the first Mrs. Rochester.
Looking at her now, I couldn’t remember a time I’d been so emotionally on edge.
