ready for painting."
"I noticed cars parked outside. How many others will
be on the job?"
"Three others-you'll be meeting them soon."
Three others? she thought with little enthusiasm. That's
not much of a work crew for this big dirty dump.
"I see you've brought your laptop," he added. "If we're
lucky enough to find a working phone line, maybe you
could e-mail some of your fellow students at the university . We can use all the help we can get, and it's an easy
three credit hours."
Easy? She doubted it. And she doubted that any of her
friends at school would want to abandon their summer
for such a job.
"While I'm thinking of it..."-the tall priest handed
her a key on a cord-"wear this at all times, and any time
you exit the building lock the door behind you."
Venetia put the key around her neck. Is he afraid of burglars?
"This area's never been known for much crime,"
Driscoll elaborated, "but there are a lot of valuable books
in here, some quite old." He briefly showed her the front
doors. "First thing we did was put high-quality locks on
all the exit doors, and alarm tape on the windows."
It seemed undue paranoia to Venetia. This is New Hampshire farmland, not downtown DC. "I suppose in this day
and age we can never be too security-conscious."
"Exactly," he said, and led her on.
Before her parents left, her mother had made her promise to call every night on her cell phone. Venetia wondered
what her parents' reaction would be if they'd seen the inside of the place. But she truly believed that things happened for a reason, and that God was often behind those
reasons. God must really want me to get dirty, she mused.
"I can guess what you're thinking, Venetia."
"I'm sorry, Father?"
"You're thinking that you've walked into a real clunker
of a job. I can see it on your face."
Venetia laughed. "It's nothing like that. I'm just a little
shocked. It's not what I expected from a Tessorio building."
"So you're familiar with his work?"
"I have several picture books of his monasteries and
convents-"
"They're magnificent, aren't they?"
"Yes.;"
"And this place ... isn't."
She giggled. "No, it isn't. Tessorio was known for fancy
Gothic Revival and Edwardian designs, right?"
"Pretty much." Driscoll frowned, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "And I'm afraid what he wasn't known
for was air-conditioning."
Venetia only noticed that now. It was very hot inside.
More self-consciousness assailed her. Am I sweating? Are
my underarms damp? "At least the nights are usually cool.
They don't even have window units here?"
"hope. The boiler's fine for heat in the winter. My boss
at the diocese says he's going to have some fans sent out,
but who knows when that will happen. We have a lot of
hot work waiting for us, I'm afraid."
Venetia didn't mind. As a child she'd always looked forward to the brief New Hampshire summers; warm
weather always made her feel purged. "So the prior house
was built in 1965? 1 think that's what the sign said on the
main road."
Driscoll led her around the atrium's outer skirt, passing
bookcase after dust-filmed bookcase. "That's right. It only
took eight months to build, even as big as it is. The atrium
alone is almost five thousand square feet."
Venetia gazed across the great expanse. There were
probably several dozen couches and chairs set out, some
covered with sheets, some not. "Pretty simple design. It's
just not what I expected. I went to services once at the
Convent of Regina Pacis just before it closed, and I've visited the Gomang Monastery in Nashua several timesoh, and also the abbey at Saint Anselm College. They're
all beautiful pieces of architecture."
"This isn't supposed to be anything more than a place
for priests to decompress. The burnout rate's pretty high."
"I know. I remember reading about it in the Catholic
Standard. High suicide rate, too, I think."
Some of the tile flooring could be seen between the
throw rugs; the dust was so thick,
"I noticed cars parked outside. How many others will
be on the job?"
"Three others-you'll be meeting them soon."
Three others? she thought with little enthusiasm. That's
not much of a work crew for this big dirty dump.
"I see you've brought your laptop," he added. "If we're
lucky enough to find a working phone line, maybe you
could e-mail some of your fellow students at the university . We can use all the help we can get, and it's an easy
three credit hours."
Easy? She doubted it. And she doubted that any of her
friends at school would want to abandon their summer
for such a job.
"While I'm thinking of it..."-the tall priest handed
her a key on a cord-"wear this at all times, and any time
you exit the building lock the door behind you."
Venetia put the key around her neck. Is he afraid of burglars?
"This area's never been known for much crime,"
Driscoll elaborated, "but there are a lot of valuable books
in here, some quite old." He briefly showed her the front
doors. "First thing we did was put high-quality locks on
all the exit doors, and alarm tape on the windows."
It seemed undue paranoia to Venetia. This is New Hampshire farmland, not downtown DC. "I suppose in this day
and age we can never be too security-conscious."
"Exactly," he said, and led her on.
Before her parents left, her mother had made her promise to call every night on her cell phone. Venetia wondered
what her parents' reaction would be if they'd seen the inside of the place. But she truly believed that things happened for a reason, and that God was often behind those
reasons. God must really want me to get dirty, she mused.
"I can guess what you're thinking, Venetia."
"I'm sorry, Father?"
"You're thinking that you've walked into a real clunker
of a job. I can see it on your face."
Venetia laughed. "It's nothing like that. I'm just a little
shocked. It's not what I expected from a Tessorio building."
"So you're familiar with his work?"
"I have several picture books of his monasteries and
convents-"
"They're magnificent, aren't they?"
"Yes.;"
"And this place ... isn't."
She giggled. "No, it isn't. Tessorio was known for fancy
Gothic Revival and Edwardian designs, right?"
"Pretty much." Driscoll frowned, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "And I'm afraid what he wasn't known
for was air-conditioning."
Venetia only noticed that now. It was very hot inside.
More self-consciousness assailed her. Am I sweating? Are
my underarms damp? "At least the nights are usually cool.
They don't even have window units here?"
"hope. The boiler's fine for heat in the winter. My boss
at the diocese says he's going to have some fans sent out,
but who knows when that will happen. We have a lot of
hot work waiting for us, I'm afraid."
Venetia didn't mind. As a child she'd always looked forward to the brief New Hampshire summers; warm
weather always made her feel purged. "So the prior house
was built in 1965? 1 think that's what the sign said on the
main road."
Driscoll led her around the atrium's outer skirt, passing
bookcase after dust-filmed bookcase. "That's right. It only
took eight months to build, even as big as it is. The atrium
alone is almost five thousand square feet."
Venetia gazed across the great expanse. There were
probably several dozen couches and chairs set out, some
covered with sheets, some not. "Pretty simple design. It's
just not what I expected. I went to services once at the
Convent of Regina Pacis just before it closed, and I've visited the Gomang Monastery in Nashua several timesoh, and also the abbey at Saint Anselm College. They're
all beautiful pieces of architecture."
"This isn't supposed to be anything more than a place
for priests to decompress. The burnout rate's pretty high."
"I know. I remember reading about it in the Catholic
Standard. High suicide rate, too, I think."
Some of the tile flooring could be seen between the
throw rugs; the dust was so thick,
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