The Garden of Happy Endings Read Online Free PDF Page B

inscrutable. “Good morning, Tamsin. I’m so glad to see you.”
    “I have to tell you,” she said, “that field is an eyesore and dangerous and I think we need to do something about it.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “We? If you’d like to head a research committee to see what can be done, that would be terrific.”
    “Ha-ha.”
    “ ‘We’ doesn’t always mean somebody else. I can get you a few volunteers.”
    “I don’t even come to church.”
    “That’s all right.” He gestured for her to sit down and took a seat himself. “Lots of other people don’t come to Mass, either, but they do work around the church. What would you like to see done with the field?”
    “I don’t know, I haven’t thought about that. It’s just ugly and not very inspiring. Maybe it could be—” She paused, running through possibilities “—a community garden! Wouldn’t that be great?”
    He inclined his head, a quizzical expression on his brow. “Do you think it’s possible?”
    “Sure, why not? We’d have to raze it and bring in some topsoil and, I don’t know, make little plots.” She stopped. “Oh, no you don’t, Mr. Machiavelli. I know you.”
    “You don’t have to commit to anything right now, but what if you just looked into what exactly would be required, and got back to me?”
    Tamsin thought of the garden, the flat-eyed boys, and then the transformation. Maybe she did need a project. “I’ll look into it.”
    He smiled. “Thank you,” he said with emphasis, then sobered. “I asked you here today to talk about Elsa.”
    “Are you worried, too? I can’t put my finger on it, but she just doesn’t sound right.”
    “She’s stopped taking my calls. We usually talk at least once a week, sometimes more.”
    Tamsin blinked. “You do? Even after all this time?”
    As if he saw nothing strange at all in that, he nodded. “We’ve been friends for twenty-seven years. We share a calling.” He shrugged. “It feels very natural.”
    “So when was the last time you talked to her?”
    “She sent me an email about a week ago, but before that, it was at least a couple of weeks. I call, but she doesn’t call back.”
    “That’s not making me any happier.” Tamsin frowned. “She just sounds … weird. Flat. Like she’s not all there.” She made a decision on the spot. “I’m going to fly to Seattle.” She stood. “I’ll let you know what’s going on.”
    “Please. And ask her to get in touch with me. Tell her I’m worried.”
    E lsa had loved Sunday mornings her entire life. As a child, she’d even liked the ritual of a good long bath on Saturday night, and having her hair washed. Of course, she’d hated the pins and curlers her mother had put it up in, hated the way they interfered with sleep—her mother had been at war with Elsa’s hair from babyhood, when she was born with a headful of black corkscrews. But she’d endured even the discomfort of sleeping in rollers for the pleasure of church.
    On Sunday mornings, she liked getting dressed in special clothes, held just for this one sacred day, and then having a better breakfast than usual, after which she went to Sunday school. There she learned about the saints and Jesus and the Blessed Mother, who was always her favorite, with her pretty face and kind eyes. Jesus was good, but he seemed like a teenager, a little aloof and far away, as if he’d want to be with his friends andwould be annoyed if she bothered him, as her sister, Tamsin, often was.
    Although no one else in her family had particularly stuck with it—her parents had only gone out of duty—Elsa loved church even when she went alone. She never missed Sunday school, which was where she had met Joaquin in the first place. They were in the same Sunday school class in the fifth grade. He loved it as much as she did.
    Since becoming a minister, Elsa had grown to love Sunday mornings even more. She still had rituals. Her Sunday clothes had become simple linen slacks and tunics in