Sacred Trust. Meg O'Brien

expression. “Jealous? Me?”

      “You.” I poke him lightly on the nose with my finger. “You’re the one who wanted me to tell you.”

      He sobers and falls back, lying on his side again. “I meant that. Tell all.”

      I sit and reach for the glass of ice water I brought earlier to the bedside table. The ice is melted, and the water tastes like chlorine. But it wets my lips, which helps. Seeing Marti drained of blood, my own seemed to drain away as well. That was hours ago, but inside I still feel like old parchment that has begun to crumble. Even making love with Ben has not changed that, only added a touch of moisture, a small ray of hope that one day I might be myself again.

      “Marti,” I remember with a small smile, “was usually the instigator when it came to breaking the rules. She was the brave one. When some of the other girls wanted to sneak out during recreation at night and go to the woods to smoke, Marti was right there with them. In the lead, in fact. Sometimes I tailed along just so I wouldn’t seem too square. Not that I smoked, never liked it even then. The thrill of breaking the rules was enough for me.”

      I reach up, adjusting the pillows behind me so I can sit. “Finally, when we’d been caught far too often, and the usual penance of prostrating ourselves on the chapel floor for twenty minutes while reciting umpteen Hail Mary’s didn’t work, they got Sister Helen to come from the high school to talk to us. Besides being our teacher in high school, she was our sponsor into the convent, and she was livid when she found out what we’d been doing. Sister Helen was a nun from the old school, and she still wore her long black habit in 1980, even though most nuns in active orders were in civilian dress by then. She said she had worked too long and hard to receive her habit and wasn’t about to give it up.”

      “And did she give you a whuppin’?” Ben asks, stretching out on his back with his hands laced behind his head. “Or a whack on the knuckles with a ruler? That’s what my teachers at St. Thomas’s used to do.”

      “Neither,” I say, turning to rest my head on his shoulder, my fingers by habit stroking the wiry brown hairs on his chest. His arm comes around my shoulders and pulls me close. “She just told us in no uncertain terms how disappointed she was in us. She said if we’d had any respect for our vocations, we never would have behaved so abominably, and in fact she was convinced now that we didn’t even have vocations and shouldn’t become nuns at all.”

      “Ouch. What did you and Marti say?”

      “Not much. But Sister Helen was right, and we knew it. We didn’t even have to talk about it. The next day we met in the hallway outside the novice mistress’s office and went in there together to tell her we were leaving.”

      “How did the good Sister Helen take that?”

      “I don’t know. I never saw her again. I went home for a few weeks, then moved down to Berkeley, to college. Marti went East to school. We kept in touch, but I think both of us felt bad, like we’d wrecked our one chance to do anything really great, or at least selfless, in the world.”

      I pause, thinking. “On hindsight, we may not have wanted to see each other for a while for fear we’d be reminded of our failure. I know that personally it took me a long time after that to get back into the world, so to speak.”

      “But you and Marti have been in touch over the years.”

      “Yes. That year in the convent faded, and we got back together.”

      I see his look. “As friends,” I emphasize. “In fact…”

      “What?”

      I shake my head. “Just an old memory, that’s all.” Maybe when Marti has been gone longer, I can tell him about her baby.

      Sighing again, I reach for the glass of water and drink deeply.

      “So, are you shocked?” I ask Ben.

      “That you had a schoolgirl crush on Marti Bright? No, those things happen. It’s more like I’m intrigued.”

      I throw my pillow at him. “You men! You love the idea of women being together, don’t you?”

      I have meant only to tease him. But a shadow falls over his face, and I remember too late that I’ve hit a sore spot.

      Darcy, Ben’s ex, had a wild affair with the owner of the Seahurst Art Gallery in Carmel, Daisy Trent. When Daisy ran off with several artists’ money and Darcy ran after her, all the way to Paris, Ben was left to pick up the pieces. The scandal was in the papers for months, and Ben—for some reason he’s never felt it necessary to explain—made reparation to the artists for the money Daisy, his ex-wife’s lover, stole. This all occurred before I met him, and he doesn’t like talking about it.

      “Sorry,” I say.

      “That’s okay.” But the playful mood is gone.

      After a moment I wonder aloud where Marti’s funeral will be and who will arrange it.

      “She didn’t have family?” Ben asks.

      “A brother, as I remember. They weren’t close.”

      The phone rings next to the bed. Ben lets it ring, but then the machine comes on and a male voice says tersely, “Ben, it’s Arnie. It’s important. Pick up.”

      Ben groans and reaches for the receiver. Grunting a hello, he listens. At one point he frowns and looks over at me.

      “What is it?” I ask when he hangs up. Arnie, I know, is a fellow cop on the Carmel P.D., and a friend.

      He hesitates.

      “Ben?”

      “Uh, Arnie talked to Sheriff MacElroy. He says it looks like Marti was dragged from a car to that place where they found her. There are signs of a struggle in the brush off to the side. Marti—or someone—scrawled a name in the dirt there.”

      I sit up, and for some reason I can’t explain except that I feel suddenly exposed, I hold the sheet against me, covering my nakedness. “Really? What name?”

      Instead of answering, he gives me a funny look. “Abby, when was the last time you saw Marti?”

      “I don’t know, months ago.”

      “Can you be more specific?”

      “Sure. Around three months ago. August, I think.”

      “She lived in New York City, right?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do you know why she was here?”

      I shake my head, perplexed. “She was doing a magazine piece about the homeless, and I think she was talking to people at the rape crisis center in Seaside. Why?”

      “You saw her frequently when she was here?”

      “A few times.”

      “Did you and she have an argument?”

      I stare at him, turning cold. “Ben, what the hell is going on?”

      He slides out of bed and begins to dress. A wall seems to build itself between us. “I tried to reach you several times early this morning before I finally got hold of you, Abby. Where were you?”

      “Out walking Murphy along Scenic,” I say, becoming angry now at his tone. “Why?”

      He doesn’t answer.

      “Ben, why are you suddenly sounding like a cop?”

      Dragging a dark green blazer out of the closet, he puts it on over khaki pants, then a tie. When he stands before me again he is all-business. The wall is complete. “Abby, I’ve been working Homicide fifteen years. There are certain patterns you come to look for. And when someone who’s being murdered scrawls a name in the dirt…Look, I’m not saying it’s always the case. But one thing we’re taught as cops is that it’s most likely to be the name of her killer.”

      There