The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson Page A

goodness.”
    â€œShe said he wrote it years ago, when he was planning on dying the first time. But then . . . well, it’s easy to see how she forgot about it after all that time.”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œBut she also said something about her mother’s old recipe book too. I don’t know, MM. She was babbling a little. I can’t guarantee anything’s there at all.”
    I set down my knitting. “I think it would mean the world to her if we got that book for her, don’t you?” Inside, the thought of hearing from Jude again, across time, gave a greater sense of urgency. And yet, he might have removed it himself decades before. I knew better than to get my hopes up. I learned that lesson long ago.
    â€œIt could be a wild goose chase.” He screwed up his brow. “Only the Coast Guard checks up on that place anymore. And it needs a fresh coat of paint in my opinion. They just don’t care about the old gal like we did.”
    â€œThey probably won’t be there on a Saturday. We’ll have to sneak by Janice, though, don’t you think?”
    â€œShe’s one cranky nurse.”
    No sense in delaying.
    â€œOkay. We don’t have much time.” With the way Hattie was slipping. “Can you get yourself dressed?”
    â€œStrangest thing. I’m feeling pretty darned good. Better than I have in a good five years or so.”
    Oh Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. I should have known Gerald would rally.
    Don’t take my relationship with Christ the wrong way. I may be familiar with him, like a loving spouse is familiar with her husband, but I have the utmost respect. I realize he created all things and is the second person of the Godhead; that somehow he is one with the Father, though I don’t feel the same closeness to Person One.
    Now, the Holy Spirit and I have been getting to know each other for some time, but still this mysterious Person Three looks on from afar, the scout at the ridge, the captain in the wheelhouse. I know the Father has his eye on me and the time will come when he steps forward and demands equal billing, but I do feel that time will come when I say that final prayer on my knees and he pulls me in like a fish in a net.
    God the Father knows I have father issues. And maybe he cares about that. Or maybe it’s too late for any of that to be resolved here on earth. Who knows?
    But still, I uttered a little prayer to him as I pulled my Wellies on over my gardening jeans. Today was typical October on the Eastern Shore—warm with a little nip sewn round the edges like tinfoil lace. I buttoned on a dark blue flannel shirt, figuring it would be best if I blended in with the water. Then I made a call.
    â€œCinquefoil’s.”
    â€œShrubby?”
    â€œYeah. That you, Mary?”
    â€œYes. I need to borrow your boat.”
    â€œYou goin’ fishin’?” He started in on our old joke.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou got worms?”
    â€œYeah, but I’m goin’ anyway!”
    We laughed.
    â€œJust need the one with the outboard.”
    â€œOh, okay. What you want to do with it?”
    Shrubby’s one of the last of the old-style watermen. Rugged but kind. Drinks too much, smokes too much, looks like an old leather portmanteau but with more expression and robin’s-egg-blue eyes where the buttons should be. He needs a wife, but it would take a very unique brand of woman to marry old Shrubby.
    â€œI want to run Gerald out to the light.”
    â€œYou could get in trouble for that and you bein’ a nun, well, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
    â€œI’m a religious sister and we get in trouble all the time. People just don’t know about it.”
    He paused. Shrubby’s not exactly the king of comebacks. “I’ll bring it around,” he finally said. “Want me to bring it up to your dock?”
    â€œI’d be grateful.”
    â€œBecause that way, you’d