Рита Браун - Cat's Eyewitness

"Indeed it is, and I don't want to jump to conclusions. Would you mind keeping quiet about this? Now, I'm sure you've told a few friends. May I rely on you to ask them to also remain silent as a favor to the brotherhood? I'm afraid a premature announcement could send people here looking for, well, miracles, perhaps. We need more information first."

"Yes, I understand. Of course, I'll do what I can. Luckily, no one will want to drive the icy roads up the mountain today; you'll be alone."

"I appreciate that. God bless you."

"You, too, Brother Frank."

Harry called Susan first, since they had seen the tears together, and filled her in on the conversation.

"Not an unreasonable request." She reached for an ashtray. "What a time Ned had last night getting G-Uncle back to the monastery. We wanted him to spend the night, but he pleaded to go back up. He's a little obsessed with the statue—and perhaps a little dotty, too. Then again, I don't trust my own judgment these days. Maybe I'm dotty."

Susan was sneaking a cigarette, letting out a loud exhale. A recent gain of ten pounds had driven her back to her blue menthol Marlboros. Her worry over Ned accentuated her fretting over her weight. She thought her kitchen needed an overhaul and she was falling behind in the decor department. She was nervous about so many things.

"You're not losing it." Harry paused. "Something's wrong up there on the mountain."

"Harry, you're always looking for a mystery." Susan laughed, then coughed.

"I told you smoking isn't a good way to lose weight. Help me muck stalls or go to the gym. ACAC is really good." She mentioned a local gym.

"Who said I was smoking?"

"Susan."

"Oh, all right! One."

"Well, if you're going to lose weight, then one isn't going to do it, is it? Either light up or hit the gym. So there."

"You're a big help."

"What do you want me to say? I think you look great. You're the one who complains that your thighs rub together when you walk."

"Must you be so graphic?"

Harry giggled. "You look good. You and Brooks could be sisters."

"Liar."

"No. That's true. I'll forgo a lecture about smoking. It's your body. But back to this Virgin Mary thing. My sixth sense tells me something's not right."

"Your sixth sense has gotten us both into one mess after another. I wish you'd turn it off."

Harry was right, though. Brother Mark proved unable to contain his deep emotions. He snuck into the chandler shop when Brother Michael, a nearsighted man, was helping a customer. Since he'd grown up with the computer, using one was natural to him. Brother Mark fired off an e-mail to Pete Osborne, an executive at the Charlottesville NBC affiliate, Channel 29. Whenever he could he'd watch the local channel, since Nordy Elliott, his college friend, anchored the news. He'd learned who was who at Channel 29.

When Pete, a witty man, read the e-mail, he blinked and read it twice.

Pete, the Blessed Virgin Mother who overlooks us all from the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains is crying tears of blood. These are shed for the sins of the world. I have seen her weep with my own eyes. Some of the other brothers don't want people to know. They are afraid of what might happen. How can they be afraid of a miracle? A miracle from Our Lady, who is love and only love! The world should know that Our Blessed Mother is speaking to them. Brother Mark (Mark Croydon)

Pete reread the message, sat at his desk for a moment, tapping a yellow pencil against a large white coffee cup. True. Mark Croydon had scrambled his brains. Pete had met him once last year when the station ran a spring special on the apple blossoms in the orchard. He thought the young man quite peculiar. However, it would cost only one reporter two hours and a quarter tank of gas to drive to the top of Afton Mountain, then turn north for a mile to the iron-gated entrance to Mt. Carmel. Okay, maybe half a tank, because they'd need an SUV

He stood up, flung open the door to his office, and strode down to the newsroom. "Nordy!"

8

So, there you have it." Harry threw up her hands in quasi-defeat as Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter looked on along with BoomBoom, Alicia, Susan, Miranda, Big Mim, and Little Mim.

An impromptu gathering had occurred at Alicia's farm. Harry called around, and BoomBoom informed her that the state roads were plowed. Alicia's farm wasn't far off Route 250, so they gathered there.

The living-room walls, painted eggshell cream, and the woodwork, trimmed out in linen white, bespoke quiet elegance and warmth, like Alicia herself. Although she regularly visited the farm she had inherited, over the decades she'd changed it little from Mary Pat's taste. Once it was finally home, Alicia began to exert her own tastes, which proved bolder than Mary Pat's. Alicia, much as she loved sporting art and the great masters, wasn't afraid of modern art. Nor was she afraid of a splash of bright color here and there, like magenta silk moire pillows on the mustard-colored Sheraton couch.

Big Mim, arbiter of taste in Crozet, at first was shocked at Alicia's "statements," as she called them. Gradually, the controlling doyenne warmed to the color and airiness of the place. Her daughter, Little Mim, a contemporary of Harry's, reveled in Alicia's palette, style, cleverness. Little Mini, ever keen to differentiate herself from her mother, even painted her bedroom pale lavender, inspired by Alicia.

The women ate chicken sandwiches, a thin veneer of herbed mayonnaise on them, the bread freshly baked. Alicia, ever a thoughtful hostess, put out crisp vegetables to nibble on, a wide variety of cheeses, and an array of drinks, including a yerba mate tea that gave the girls a buzz. As a joke, she placed a tiny card with the calorie count by each item.

"No wonder you stay so trim," Big Mim, in her sixties and in excellent shape herself, noted.

"Work out, walk, ride horses, and stop eating before you're full." Alicia smiled her incredible smile, a bit crooked, which added to her high-octane allure. Even sitting there in men's Levi's 5 01 s, a crisp white Brooks Brothers' shirt, a farmer's red hanky tied around her throat, and wide gold Tiffany hoops in her ears, Alicia couldn't be anything but a movie star.

"Good genes." Big Mim reached for a raw carrot. "Good for the eyes, you know."

"Maybe that's why the horses like them so much," Harry replied. "What do you make of all this?"

Susan reached for her second sandwich. Her willpower, not her strongest feature, had faltered during the holidays—hence the cigarettes. Harry teased her that the real reason she visited the top of the mountain on November 24 was that it was Thanksgiving and she was praying she wouldn't eat too much.

"What do you make of Brother Frank's call?"

Big Mim spoke first, her custom. "Until he can ascertain whether this is something in the stone, something explainable, his request for a news blackout, if you will, is sensible. This so-called miracle could become terribly embarrassing."

"All God's work." Miranda smiled. "Whether it's explainable or not."

"Of course it is, Miranda"—Big Mim and Miranda were contemporaries, so Mim couldn't sway her friend by hauteur— "but if the monastery advertises the Miracle of the Blue Ridge, which is subsequently discovered to be nothing more than a vein of iron deep in the soapstone, the order will appear in a less than holy light."

"Can it be worse than priests molesting boys?" Alicia replied with a hint of sarcasm.

"And covering it up!" Little Mim smacked her sandwich on the plate. "You know what else? I think they're still covering it up."

"Why boys?" BoomBoom shrugged. "Are they all gay? For the last two thousand years we've been herded and prodded by a bunch of pederasts. Does that ever explain a lot—think about it."