The Book of Love by Kathleen McGowan

Instead, she had made a life and career as a priest’s housekeeper, beginning with her years as a teenager in County Mayo. When the priest she worked for was transferred to Rome, she came with him, and never left. She had been here for fifty years.
    When Father Bernard passed away last year, Maggie had proven herself so loyal and indispensable a fixture that she was kept on until a new position could be found for her. Her absolute devotion to the Church knew no limits.
    She had written to her family to tell them that it was her blessing from the Lord that this lovely man, Father Peter, had come to Rome at just the right time. That he was young and charming—and Irish—was an even greater boon to her. Maggie missed Ireland tremendously and often hummed the folk ballads of her native land while cleaning up after Father Peter’s busy day.
    Today she was humming something that startled Peter with recognition. He hadn’t heard it in years. It was a hymn written in the Irish language that he had learned as a boy at the Christian Brothers school. He surprised Maggie by joining in with her.
    “Céad mile fáilte romhat, a Iosa, a Iosa…”
    A hundred thousand welcomes, Jesus. It was a song about welcoming Jesus into our hearts and our lives. It was traditional, but Peter thought he remembered that it came from an ancient hymn dating back to the dawn of Christianity and the time of Saint Patrick. The Irish pronunciation of his name, Iosa , sounded like Easa .
    “Such a lovely song, isn’t it, Father?”
    “It is, Maggie. And it only just now occurred to me that Jesus in Irish is pronounced Easa . Did you know that he is called Easa, or Issa, in a number of languages?”
    “I can’t say that I knew that, Father, other than the Irish part. And only because of the song. I haven’t much Irish anymore, but the songs and poems stay with you.”
    “Aye, they do.”
    He let the subject drop. Maggie wasn’t one for discussions on anything alternative in her Catholicism. She was staunch in her orthodoxy, like many Irish countrywomen of her age and time, and like virtually everyone else whom Peter was surrounded by here in Rome. She likely wouldn’t want to hear about why Mary Magdalene called him Easa in her own gospel—that it was a familiar form of his Greek name, familiar because she was married to him. In fact, Maggie would probably inflict a penance of ten thousand Hail Marys on herself just for hearing such blasphemy from his lips. Her previous employer, Father Bernard, was an old-school traditionalist just as she was.
    Maggie was happiest when she was mothering Peter, delivering his food and tea and tidying up his living space, which doubled as his office. As long as he restricted their conversations to daily living and reminiscing about home, she was happy as a little lark.
    In addition to her duties as a Vatican housekeeper, Maggie was also a committed member of the Confraternity of the Holy Apparition, a group devoted to the understanding and promotion of the Virgin Mary’s appearances around the world. She carried a number of booklets and small paperbacks with her so that on her breaks she could study the accounts of these apparitions. At this particular moment, as she fussed over Peter’s tea, she had a dog-eared paperback sticking out of the wide pocket in her apron.
    “What are you reading?” Peter was always curious.
    “The life of the Holy Sister Lucia,” Maggie replied, pulling the book out of her apron to show it to Peter. Lucia Santos: Her Life and Visions.
    “Ah, Fátima. Are you preparing for the anniversary this year?”
    “We are, Father. Ninety years since the Blessed Virgin appeared before the little children of Fátima. We are having a special commemoration for it.”
    The phone rang in the adjoining hallway, and Maggie ran to answer it while Peter sipped his tea. He needed some peace now, to think about the earlier phone call he had received from Maureen. He was not only her closest living