Dancing with Gravity Page 11

  She held out her hand and he took it in both of his. He ran his thumb over her papery skin and thought about how he held her hand when he was small. She had worn unlined kid gloves, even in the coldest weather. He remembered how he loved to watch her pull them on—how she would intertwine her long, slender fingers to push the gloves onto her hand. A ritual of sorts. Her knuckles were large now, and her broad fingernails were ridged and reddened, as though she’d had her hands in too-hot water. After a few moments, Lillian pulled her hand away.

  “Now, come on, Sammy, make yourself another sandwich.”

  In the weeks leading up to the blessing, Whiting did not return to the motherhouse and did not visit the circus performers. Although he was excited about his assignment, he was also nervous. He had not forgotten his encounters with Childs Littleton and Father Devereaux, and he wanted to avoid opportunities for conflict as long as possible. To his mind, that meant avoiding the circus. Sarah must have sensed his reluctance, because she volunteered almost immediately to serve as his go-between on all matters relating to the circus. He eagerly accepted the offer.

  Sarah had always impressed Whiting with her competence, but her work on the circus revealed an intensity and excitement that he found contagious. How had she learned so much so quickly? Not just facts and figures—but nuance too. He struggled to keep up, but in all of his reading, he could not seem to match her knowledge and understanding. Sarah entertained him with stories about circus traditions that were of such rich detail that Whiting had once asked her—only half in jest—whether she had come from a circus family. She had responded with a delighted laugh that he found utterly charming. It was a moment that he often replayed when his thoughts turned to her, which, more and more, they did.

  Sarah often stopped by his office or called him to talk over ideas for the blessing. But it wasn’t just the frequency of her calls that was new between them. There was new warmth—melodiousness—to her voice, as if she’d just been singing. When she entered his office, she brought an almost palpable energy. He gave himself over to the pleasure of her company and, in doing so, their meetings quickly became the central event of his workday.

  One morning, Sarah brought him a folder of clippings about the Finch bequest.

  “And now, to give you the full picture of just what you’ve gotten yourself into, I thought you’d like to do a little reading about the estate. You’ll especially like Childs Littleton’s comments.”

  “He’s taken the battle public?”

  Sarah laughed. “Of course not. He says he’s ‘deeply grateful for the Finch largess’ and ‘thrilled with the opportunities for the hospital.’”

  “I assume you’re the one who arranged the interview?”

  Sarah offered a slight bow.

  “How on earth did you get him to agree to it?”

  “You don’t understand the power of ego. But don’t worry, because I do. That’s why I’m so good at my job.” She gave him an adolescent wink as she turned away. If she had worn a ponytail, it would have bounced and spun like a lariat. Her cynicism shocked and enthralled him. She closed the door and was gone.

  The clippings—placed in descending order with the most recent items on top—offered a study in wealth and acquisition. The most recent piece had appeared just two days earlier in a slick society weekly, St. Louis Lists. Whiting knew and disliked the magazine. It reduced intrinsically important issues—research into childhood leukemia, for example—into nothing more than VIP guest lists complete with glamour photos of event attendees wearing tuxedos and evening gowns and holding wine glasses. The work of the charity was rarely mentioned by the blonde women—they seemed always to be blonde—and tanned men with impossibly manicured teeth.

  The magazine featured an eight-page spread on the Finch estate that highlighted the home’s historical and architectural significance. Other clippings—from the St. Louis Daily Telegraph and smaller newsweeklies offered an overview of the Finches’ world-class art collection and many vacation homes. Of particular interest to the media were Loretto’s Cartier jewels—many of which were heirloom pieces that dated from the earliest days of the jeweler and were considered nearly priceless. He skimmed the catalog of possessions with little interest, then read the initial announcement about the bequest. The final item in the folder was the full-page obituary of Loretto Piersoll Finch. Whiting carefully unfolded the article.

  Loretto Piersoll Finch—Last of a Shimmering Dynasty

  Loretto Piersoll Finch, a St. Louis beauty born to great wealth and privilege, died in Texas on January 2. The cause was cancer, according to a cousin, Cici Bowersox. Mrs. Finch (nee Piersoll) was born in St. Louis on April 22, 1946 to the late Priscilla Jayne (Newbridge) and Stanley Remington Piersoll, IV. A former debutant and Fleur de Lis Queen (1964), the former Loretto Regina Piersoll was married June 10, 1968 to David James Finch, VI at the Basilica St. Louis. More than 2,000 guests attended the ceremony. Dubbed “the wedding of the decade,” the event was covered by media from across the United States and Europe. The Finches had one daughter, the late Anna Mary, born September 30, 1974.

  Loretto Piersoll Finch was the daughter, granddaughter, and niece of diplomats. She attended Saint Anne’s Day School for Girls in St. Louis, followed by studies at the Sorbonne in Paris. She returned to the United States and obtained her Master’s Degree in Philosophy from Saint Louis University. It was there that she met David James Finch, the only surviving child of Franklin and Cambria Finch and heir to the Finch minerals fortune. The couple’s stunning good looks, connections, and vast wealth made them favorite subjects for society photographers. But their advantages could not shield them from tragedy. David’s brother Kenneth was killed in a sailing accident during the Moorlands Regatta in 1968. Loretto’s parents and uncle (Gregory Finch) were killed when their private plane crashed during a storm over the Atlantic the following year. The family had been en route with friends to Paris, where Gregory was scheduled to receive an award for his years of diplomatic service as an Ambassador to Belgium and later, France. Their bodies were never recovered. These deaths, combined with the family’s wealth and tradition of public service earned them the moniker, “The Kennedys of St. Louis.”

  Mrs. Finch was preceded in death by her husband and daughter. David and Anna Finch were killed by a lighting strike August 17, 1980 during a father-daughter picnic at Saint Anne’s Day School. The picnic, a tradition since the founding of the school, was organized to welcome in the term. Anna was to begin kindergarten at the school the following Monday. The tragic deaths soon took on sensational overtones. Some witnesses reported seeing one swiftly moving cloud pass over the field where David and Anna Finch had gone to pick bottle gentian. Others insisted the lightning came from a cloudless sky. All agreed that the sky took on a spectacular shade of blue at the time of the accident. The color—described by many as ‘overwhelming’—caused some minor hysteria among eyewitnesses. It was also reported to emerge as the overriding theme in the artwork of Anna Finch’s classmates during grief counseling and art therapy in the days following the event.

  After the death of her husband and daughter, Mrs. Finch retreated from the public eye. She was known to be living out of the country and rumored to be in Paris. It is not known how long she resided in Texas or whether she had gone there seeking medical treatment for her cancer. Mrs. Finch was cremated and her ashes placed beside the graves of her husband and daughter, who are interred in the Finch family mausoleum at Christ Resurrection Catholic Cemetery in North St. Louis County. The ceremony was private. There are no immediate survivors. Disposition of the estate is pending.

  The obituary included several small family photos, but it was Loretto’s portrait that captivated—even troubled him. A young woman with light brown hair and large dark eyes stared directly into the camera. Her expression was somber. It was as though she already knew what the future held for her.

  When the morning of the blessing finally arrived, Whiting went to work earlier than usual. He walked br
iskly into each patient room, kept his interactions brief, and checked his watch every few minutes. He cast sidelong glances down the halls as he stepped from each doorway, aware that Father Devereaux could make a last minute appearance. Devereaux had been noticeably absent since their encounter in the library, but news of his dismissal preceded him everywhere he went and Sarah worried that his simmering resentment might lead him to a confrontation. Whiting had been so moved by her concern that he sometimes wished for an altercation to report—if only to watch her reaction.

  Since Whiting’s first trip to the hospital with Jerry, he had spent a number of afternoons visiting at St. Benedict House and had tried to explain his and Sarah’s apprehension about Devereaux. But his explanation was met with ridicule.

  “It’s all too melodramatic,” Jerry snorted. “It’s the same dynamic as people who are having an affair. All the sneaking about.”

  “But—”

  “Really, Sam, it’s much more intriguing if there’s the threat of disapproval from a third party—someone who has some sort of claim on one of the participants. Perhaps a disapproving parent or a spouse who’s being cuckolded. What’s Devereaux really done to warrant your suspicions?” Whiting colored at the analogy and could offer only weak rebuttals. During slow hours after lunch he often replayed Jerry’s words, but he never relayed these conversations to Sarah.

  Whiting left his last patient room just after nine a.m. As his made his way to his office, he whispered a prayer to St. Gregory the Wonderworker asking that Devereaux would not be waiting for him and that Carla might be on the phone or on break so he could retrieve his prayer book and briefcase without a confrontation. I’m sure Carla knows about the blessing. All the secretaries in the administrative offices talk. But she had not mentioned it to him, and he, for his part, hadn’t said a word.

  He checked his watch again—he had little more than an hour until the ten thirty blessing—then sprinted the last few steps to Pastoral Care and pushed the door open wide. Carla’s desk was empty—he could hardly believe his good fortune. Hurrying into his office, he grabbed his briefcase from beside his desk, placed his prayer book inside, and turned to leave. Carla was standing at the filing cabinet behind his door. He let out a cry of surprise. She jumped, which, in turn, caused a stack of folders on top of the cabinet to slide. She clamped her fist down hard to stop them and glowered at him over her half glasses.

  “You startled me,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” She held a manila folder in her right hand and steadied the wayward stack with her left.

  “I have an appointment—outside the hospital.” Whiting shifted his briefcase behind his back. “I have to hurry or I’ll be late.” He brushed past her and was halfway to the door when she called to him.

  “You didn’t sign out.” She followed him to the outer office and stood before the white board that held the department schedule.

  She’s baiting me. He walked over to the board and moved his magnet to the slot labeled Other.

  “And if anyone needs you?”

  Was that a sneer in her voice? He clenched his jaw. He wanted to leave the office without answering, but could not bring himself to do it. “I’ll be at the motherhouse. I’ll be gone for two or three hours.”

  Carla gave her attention to the folders. “I’m surprised the blessing will take so long.” She did not look up as she returned to his office and closed the door—leaving him alone, clutching the handle of his briefcase.

  Whiting hurried down the corridor and out to his car. He took several deep breaths to calm his irritation. I’m glad Carla knows about the blessing. It proves my independence from her. She might know my appointments, but I don’t have to confide in her or let her know any details. And now he was free of her—for a few hours at least. A sense of relief flowed through him. His shoulders relaxed.

  The warm spring morning rewarded him with a surge of anticipation. He increased his pace and wondered at the energy surging through his body. He hadn’t felt so exhilarated since … since he couldn’t remember when, and he was overwhelmed with the desire to break into a run. As he passed the ambulatory care clinics, he caught sight of a row of shrubs, cut across the lawn, and broke a slender section from one of the bushes. Delighted, he held it aloft in the sunlight and continued to his car.

  As Whiting pulled up to the circus tent, he caught sight of Sarah. She hurried over to his car as he was still parking at the end of a makeshift row.

  “Oh Sam, I’m so glad you’re here! Don’t we have the most perfect day?” She hugged him when he got out of his car, as she had that first day in the tent. The scent of her perfume remained with him as she turned away.

  “You’re certainly a match for a spring morning.”

  Sarah wore a bright red suit. By its touch, he was sure that it was silk.

  “Do you like it?” She made a turn in front of him. “It’s new, you know. And look at my shoes.” She extended her right foot and presented a red, open-toed shoe and a slim, shapely ankle. Whiting noticed her toenails were painted a blazing red as well. Her gesture delighted him. Everything about Sarah delighted him today. “I had the shoes dyed to match. Circus people believe red brings good luck.”

  Whiting nodded toward the tent. “And will we be in need of luck this morning?”

  “The board will behave as long as someone’s watching,” she said.

  He removed his folded jacket from the back seat and put it on, then opened his briefcase to retrieve the leather case that held a vial of holy water. He slipped the case into his breast pocket and picked up his prayer book. He took comfort in the book’s perfect proportions, the beauty of its marbled edges, the balance between its physical weight in the temporal world and the religious gravity and meaning it held for the spiritual world. He squeezed the book and felt its soft leather give under his grip. He brought out the sprig of greenery that he had taken from the hospital and tucked it inside the book’s back cover.

  As he followed Sarah inside the tent, he saw that several of its canvas walls had been rolled upward and tied, making its interior much brighter than he had found it at his first visit. The pungent aroma had given way to the scent of fresh sawdust. Some thirty or forty people sat on benches or folding chairs. Others stood in the ring.

  “Before you get started, we need to share the blessings of the day. Give it your best, Sam.” Sarah gave him a wink, and then guided him toward a well-dressed foursome chatting at the center of the ring. A man stood with his back to Whiting and Sarah as he addressed the others. Whiting heard a reference to Italy and smiled. The speaker turned and Whiting saw that it was Childs Littleton. The blood rose behind his collar. Littleton arched an eyebrow at their arrival but did not interrupt his story. When he took a breath, Sarah seized the moment to enter the conversation.

  “Here’s someone else who will be very interested in your stories.” She held firmly to Whiting’s elbow as she addressed the group. “Father Samuel Whiting will give the blessing today, and he’s just back from nearly two months in Italy.” The group fell silent. Whiting squeezed his prayer book. “Let me make the introductions, won’t you?” she continued. “Father Whiting, you remember Childs Littleton, president of the board of directors of St. Theresa’s.” Whiting hoped that Littleton wouldn’t remember him from their near collision outside the boardroom. He offered a handshake to Littleton, who never fully turned to face him. “And this is Mrs. Martin Guerlin, also a board member.” Guerlin was a white-haired woman in her late sixties. She wore a green wool suit, with a matching purse, shoes and gloves. When Whiting stepped forward to shake her hand, she offered a slight nod in his direction and clutched her purse to her chest, as if to demonstrate that she was too encumbered to reach out. “This is David Hegerman, and to his right, Andrew Whittier, also board members.” The last two men offered handshakes and somber expressions. With the exception of Littleton, Whiting had not previously met any of them.

  The four resumed their conversation as though Whiting
and Sarah were not present. Sarah seemed unaffected by the rebuff, but Whiting found the experience painful. He shot Sarah a look that was a plea for help.

  “Oh—there’s our photographer. Excuse us, won’t you?” The four did not even acknowledge their departure.

  Sarah headed briskly across the ring with Whiting at her side.

  “Why on earth did you take me over there?” He was embarrassed and angry.

  “Protocol, Sam. He’s the president of the board.”

  “Well it couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. Why didn’t you give me some warning?”

  “Didn’t you realize it was him?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “You know I didn’t. He had his back to me.” Whiting was struggling to regain his composure. “Sarah, that was rude … and thoughtless.”

  She stopped and turned to him. “No, Sam. It wasn’t rude. He was. And as for making you upset, I am truly sorry. I had no idea he’d be so stupid. But the man is dead inside—I can prove it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Last December, our boy Childs tied the knot with wife number three—former best friend of wife number two. And guess where he chose as the perfect place for the wedding?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Flemington, New Jersey.” She was clearly pleased to offer the information. “Mean anything to you?”

  “No, why should it? I’m not even sure why you’re telling this to me.”

  “You’ve been too sheltered, Sam. Flemington is where the trial for the Lindbergh baby kidnapping took place.” She waited a beat so that this new knowledge might sink in. “Childs was not only married in the same courtroom, he was actually proud of it. Showed photos all around at the board meeting when he came back from his honeymoon. Actually had to explain the significance of it to a few of them.” She shook her head at the image. “His bride must be a piece of work herself, or she’d never have allowed it.”