Page 117 of Play With Me
“Um…” I feel heat rise up my neck as I desperately try to swallow. Why did I take such a big bite?
“My wife?” Jude asks. “Oh, I don’t have a”—Jude sucks in a breath as I kick him under the table—“Ow!”
I cringe. Under my breath I remind Jude that this is a convent. “You know,” I whisper. “A religious convent?”
Someone says something in German, and Carolina clears her throat to translate. “You are married, yes?”
I can tell this question came from a prim, older sister who hasn’t said much, but looks slightly alarmed as her eyes dart between us and our naked fingers.
Jude looks slightly panicked, like he doesn’t know what to say.
My stomach drops. Is it because he’s truly confused? Or does he that badly not want to even pretend to be married to me? I know that thought is unreasonable, but I can’t help thinking it.
I lift my chin. Fine then. We can tell them the truth. My pulse picks up. “No—” I begin.
But at the same time, Jude says, “Of course.”
For a moment an awkward silence extends. Then, out of nowhere, the woman on the rocking chair, the oldest of them all, bursts out laughing.
It’s the strangest sound—a dry cackle—but it disarms me. It seems to relax everyone. Her face has completely transformed, smile lines spreading across her weathered place.“Lass die jungen leute in ruhe.”
Carolina smiles. “She says, ‘Let the young people be.’”
The rest of the group laughs then, all except that uptight nun who asked the question. She gets up, huffing and mumbling something under her breath. The sister next to her hands her her dish, which only makes the grumpy one pinch her lips together.
I offer to help, but Carolina insists we stay put. To my surprise, the woman in the rocking chair is ambling over to the table now.
She slides into a seat next to Carolina with the help of the younger woman and says something to her.
“Sister Ilsa asks if you’ve been to the cottage next door,” she says.
Jude and I exchange a glance. Do we admit it? Technically, we were trespassing. But we have questions, too. That’s why we came.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Do you know it?” I direct my questions to the old woman, who takes a sip of tea another sister brings over for her. The rest of them are in the kitchen.
Carolina translates her next words. “I know some things. I was born in this convent; my aunt was a sister here before me. She knew more.”
“Do you know the people who lived there?” I add eagerly.
“No,” she says.
My heart sinks. Then again, it makes sense. She’s very elderly, but even if she were a hundred years old, she wouldn’t have known Eleanor Cleary. She still would have died before this woman was born.
“But I knew their daughter,” the old woman says.
My pulse jackhammers. Jude and I exchange a wide-eyed glance. “Their…daughter?” Jude asks. “What were their names? All of them?”
The old woman takes another sip of her tea. “It was my aunt who knew them. She brought the child to the orphanage. The child, she was called Clea.”
“Their parents…” She closes her eyes as if trying to remember.
“Eleanor?” I say, hopefully.
“Eleanor.” The woman nods. “And…”
She considers, while Jude, Carolina, and I look at her anxiously.
“James,” she says after a moment.
