The Expected One Page 7

  Tammy reached into her neon orange tote bag to pull out an elegant envelope. She waved it tantalizingly in front of Maureen’s nose before sliding it across the table at her. “Here, I wanted to show this to you in person.”

  Maureen raised an eyebrow at her friend as she saw the now-familiar fleur-de-lis design combined with the odd blue apples patterned on the envelope. She removed an engraved invitation and began to read.

  “It’s an invitation to Sinclair’s very exclusive annual costume ball. Looks like I finally made the big time. Did he send you one of these, too?”

  Maureen shook her head. “No. Just the weird message about meeting him on the summer solstice. How did you get this invitation?”

  “I met him during my research in France,” she said pointedly. “I’m petitioning him for funding to finish my new documentary. He’s interested in creating one of his own, so we’re negotiating — you know, I’ll scratch his back if he scratches mine.”

  “You’re working on a new film? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You haven’t exactly been around lately, have you?”

  Maureen looked sheepish. She had neglected her friends terribly during the career craziness of the past months. “Sorry. And stop looking so bloody pleased with yourself. What else aren’t you telling me? Did you know about this Sinclair thing? About him…stalking me?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I’ve only met him once but damn, I wish he wanted to stalk me. Worth a billion — that’s billion with a B — and gorgeous to boot. You know, Reenie, this could be really good for you. For Chrissakes, let your hair down and go have a great adventure. When was the last time you were even on a date?”

  “Not the point.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  Maureen waved off the question, trying to withhold her exasperation. “I don’t have time for a relationship. Nor did I get the impression that I was being asked out on a date.”

  “More’s the pity. There is no more romantic place on the planet.”

  “So that’s why you’ve been spending so much time in France lately?”

  Tammy laughed. “No, no. It’s just that France is the focal point of Western esoterica and the melting pot of heresy. I could write a hundred books on the subject or make as many films and still just scratch the surface.”

  Maureen was finding it hard to concentrate. “What do you think Sinclair wants from me?”

  “Who knows? He has a reputation for the eccentric and the outrageous. Too much time on his hands and too much money to waste. I’m guessing something in your book got his attention and he wants to add you to his collection. But I have no idea what that would be. You’re work isn’t exactly his thing.”

  “Meaning what?” Maureen was feeling a little defensive. “Why isn’t it his thing?”

  “Too mainstream and too academic. Come on, Maureen. When you wrote that chapter on Mary Magdalene you were so careful, so politically correct. Mary Magdalene may have had a relationship with Jesus but there’s no proof, blah, blah…blech. You just played it so safe. Believe me, there is nothing safe about what Sinclair believes. That’s why I like him.”

  Maureen shot back a comment that was a little more sharp than she intended. “You’re in the business of revising history based on your personal beliefs. I am not.”

  Tammy was touching a nerve today, but in her usual style she refused to back down and kept after Maureen.

  “And what are your beliefs? Sounds to me like you don’t even know. Look, you’re a good friend and I’m not disrespecting you, so don’t get mad. But you know as well as I do that there is evidence that Mary Magdalene was in a relationship with Jesus and that they had children. Why are you so afraid of that possibility? You’re not even religious. It shouldn’t threaten you.”

  “It doesn’t threaten me. I just didn’t want to go down that path. I was afraid it would taint the rest of my work. Your standards for ‘evidence’ and mine are clearly not the same. I spent most of my adult life researching that book and I wasn’t going to throw it away on some half-baked and unsubstantiated theory that I’m not the least bit invested in.”

  Tammy shot back. “That half-baked theory is about divine union — the idea that two people honoring each other in a sacred relationship is the greatest expression of God that there is on earth. Maybe you should consider getting invested in it.”

  Maureen cut her off, changing the subject abruptly. “You promised to tell me what you know about blue apples.”

  “Well, if you’ll excuse my half-baked and unsubstantiated theories…,” she began.

  “Sorry.” Maureen looked sincerely contrite, which made Tammy laugh.

  “Forget it. I’ve been called much worse. Okay, here is what I know about blue apples. They’re a symbol of the bloodline — yes, that bloodline, the one you and your academic friends want to pretend doesn’t exist. The bloodline of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene as established through their descendants. Various secret societies have used different symbols to represent the bloodline.”

  “And why blue apples?”

  “That’s been debated, but it’s generally believed that it’s a reference to grapes. The wine-producing regions in the south of France are famous for their large grapes, which could be symbolized by blue apples. Make the leap with me here: the children of Jesus equal the fruit of the vine, which are grapes, which are blue apples.”

  Maureen nodded. “So therefore Sinclair is involved with one of these secret societies?”

  “Sinclair is his own secret society.” Tammy laughed. “He’s like the godfather down there. Nothing happens without his knowledge or approval. And he’s the bankbook for a lot of research. Including mine.” Tammy raised her glass in a mock toast to Sinclair’s generosity.

  Maureen took a sip of her tea and contemplated the envelope in her hand. “But you don’t think Sinclair is dangerous?”

  “Oh, Lord, no. He’s too high profile for that — although he certainly has the money and influence to hide the bodies. That was a joke, so stop turning green. And he’s probably the foremost expert on Mary Magdalene in the world. Could be a very interesting contact for you should you choose to open your mind a little.”

  “So I take it you’re going to this party of his?”

  “Are you nuts? Of course I am. I already have my ticket. And the party is on June twenty-fourth, so that’s three days after the summer solstice. Hmmm…”

  “What?”

  “He’s up to something, but I don’t know what it is. He wants you in Paris on the twenty-first of June, and his party is on the twenty-fourth — that’s midsummer on the ancient calendar, but it’s also the feast day of John the Baptist. This is getting very interesting. I don’t believe for a minute that these dates are a coincidence. Where does he want you to meet him?”

  Maureen removed the letter from her bag, along with a map of France that had been included with it. She handed both to Tammy.

  “See,” Maureen pointed out. “There’s a red line drawn here from Paris down to the south of France.”

  “That’s the Paris Meridian, my dear. Runs straight through the heart of Mary Magdalene territory — and Sinclair’s estate, for that matter.”

  Tammy turned the map over to reveal another, this one of Paris. She followed the map with a crimson fingernail, laughing uproariously when she spotted the Left Bank landmark, circled in red.

  “Oh, my. What are you up to, Sinclair?” Tammy indicated the map of Paris. “The church of Saint-Sulpice. Is this where he is asking you to meet him?”

  Maureen nodded. “You know it?”

  “Of course. Huge church, second largest in Paris after Notre-Dame, sometimes called the Cathedral of the Left Bank. It’s been the site of secret society activity since at least the sixteen hundreds. I wish I had known this sooner, I would have scheduled my flight into Paris to arrive a few days earlier. I’d give a lot to witness this meeting of yours with the godfather.”

  “I haven’t said I’m going yet. It jus
t all seems so crazy. I don’t have any contact information for him — no phone number, no e-mail. He didn’t even ask me to RSVP. It just seems that he assumes I’ll be there.”

  “He’s a man who is very used to getting what he wants. And for some reason that I can’t quite fathom, he seems to want you. But you have to stop playing by the rules of normal society if you get involved with these people. They’re not dangerous, but they can be very eccentric. Puzzles are all a part of their game, and you will have to solve a few to prove yourself worthy of their inner circle.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be worthy of their inner circle.”

  Tammy threw back the rest of her margarita. “It’s your choice, sister. Personally, I wouldn’t miss out on an invitation like this for anything. I think it’s the chance of a lifetime for you. Go as a journalist, go to investigate. But just remember, once you step into this mystery, it’s like walking through the looking glass and falling down the rabbit hole.

  “So just be careful. And hold on to your reality, my conservative little Alice.”

  Los Angeles

  April 2005

  THE ARGUMENT with Peter had been more heated than she had anticipated. Maureen knew he would oppose her decision to meet Sinclair in France, but she was unprepared for how vehemently he defended his position.

  “Tamara Wisdom is a crackpot, and I can’t believe you allowed her to talk you into this. She is hardly a credible character witness for this Sinclair.”

  The debate had raged over most of dinner — Peter playing the elder brother and protector, concerned for her safety, Maureen trying to make him understand her decision.

  “Pete, you know I’ve never been a big risk-taker. I like order and control in my life, and I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that this terrifies me.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Because the dreams and the coincidences terrify me even more. I have no control over them, and it’s getting worse as they become more frequent and intense. I feel like I have to follow this path and see where it takes me. Maybe Sinclair does have the answers I’m looking for, as he claims. If he is the foremost expert on Mary Magdalene in the world, maybe some of this will make sense to him. There’s only one way I’ll ever find out, isn’t there?”

  At the end of an exhausting discussion, Peter finally conceded with one condition. “I’m going with you,” he declared.

  And that was the end of it.

  Maureen hit the speed dial on her cell phone for Peter’s number as she exited the Westwood Travel Agency the following Saturday morning. She hadn’t told Peter everything yet. Sometimes he treated her like she was still a child and he was her protector. Although she appreciated his concern, she was a grown woman who needed to make some important choices at this crossroads in her life. Now, with the decision made and the tickets in her hands, it was time to let him know.

  “Hi. We’re all set, and I have the tickets. Listen, I made a spur of the moment decision to fly into New Orleans before we leave for France.”

  Peter was silent for a moment, surprised. “New Orleans? All right. Then are we flying to Paris from there?”

  This was the hard part. “No. I’m going to New Orleans alone.” She rushed forward into the next sentence before he could interrupt. “This is something I have to do by myself, Pete. I’ll meet you at JFK the next day and we’ll fly to Paris together from there.”

  Peter paused very briefly before accepting with a simple, “Okay.”

  Maureen was feeling guilty about the deception. “Listen, I’m in Westwood, just leaving the travel agency. Can you meet me for lunch? Your choice. I’ll buy.”

  “I can’t. I’m holding refresher seminars for finals at Loyola today.”

  “Come on, you can’t get someone else to teach Latin for a few hours?”

  “Latin, yes. But I’m the only Greek teacher here, so it’s all on me today.”

  “Okay. Maybe one day you’ll tell me why twenty-first-century teenagers need to learn dead languages.”

  Peter knew Maureen was joking. Her respect for Peter’s education and linguistic abilities was immense.

  “For the same reason I needed to learn dead languages, and my grandfather needed to. It served us very well, now, didn’t it?”

  Maureen couldn’t argue with that, even in jest. Peter’s grandfather, the esteemed Dr. Cormac Healy, had been on a committee in Jerusalem that had studied and provided translations for some of the extraordinary Nag Hammadi library. Peter’s passion for ancient manuscripts had flourished as a teenager when he spent the summer in Israel with his grandfather. As part of an internship, Peter had participated in an excavation at the Scriptorium in Qumran, where the Dead Sea Scrolls were written. For years, he kept a tiny piece of brick from the Scriptorium wall in a museum case next to his desk. But when his cousin showed true passion and calling for her work as a writer, he felt it was appropriate for her to have it as inspiration. Maureen wore the brick fragment in a leather pouch around her neck every time she sat down to write in earnest.

  It was during his summer in Israel that the young Peter found his calling, both as a scholar and as a priest. He had visited the sacred sites of Christianity with a group of Jesuits, and the experience had a profound impact on the idealistic Irishman. The Jesuit order proved a perfect fit for his combined religious and scholastic passions.

  Maureen made plans to meet him later in the week. As she flipped her cell phone closed, she realized that she felt lighter than she had in months.

  The same would not prove true for Father Peter Healy.

  The West Coast of the United States has a rich vein of historical buildings in the California missions. Founded by the industrious Franciscan monk Father Junípero Serra in the eighteenth century, these remnants of Spanish architecture are generally blessed with beautiful gardens or are located in sites of natural beauty.

  Peter had a strong affinity for the Franciscan order, and he had made it his personal goal to visit all of the California mission locations since his arrival in the state. The missions blended history with faith, a combination that resonated in Peter’s heart and soul. When he needed time and space to think, he often escaped to one of the mission locations easily accessible to southern California. Each had a unique charm and represented an oasis of calm, a welcome respite from his hectic lifestyle in Los Angeles.

  He chose the San Fernando Mission today because of its proximity to his friend Father Brian Rourke, who lived nearby and was a leader of the Jesuit order based in the suburban San Fernando Valley. Peter’s history with Father Brian dated back to his early years in the seminary when the older man had served as a mentor. Now Peter needed a trusted friend; he was in search of sanctuary — even from the church he loved and obeyed. Father Brian had agreed to meet him on short notice, sensing the mild panic in Peter’s tone.

  “Your cousin, is she a practicing Catholic?” The elder priest walked through the gardens of the mission with Peter. The afternoon sun was blaring in the valley, and Peter wiped a bead of sweat with the back of his hand.

  “Lapsed. But she was very devout as a child. We both were.”

  Father Rourke nodded. “Anything happen to turn her from the Church?”

  Peter hesitated for a moment. “Family issues. I’d rather not elaborate on those.” He already felt that disclosing Maureen’s visions without her knowledge was something of a betrayal. He didn’t want to go into all of her family secrets as well. At least, not yet. But he was at something of a loss about what action to take next, and he needed sound advice from someone he could trust within the structure of the Church.

  The elder priest nodded his understanding of the confidentiality issues. “It’s very rare that these things ever turn out to be credited, divine visions. Sometimes they’re dreams, sometimes delusions from childhood. Probably nothing to worry about. You’re going to accompany her to France?”

  “Yes. I’ve always been her spiritual adviser, and I’m probably the only person she really trust
s.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. You can keep an eye on her then. Please call immediately if you feel this girl is becoming dangerous to herself in any way. We’ll help you through it.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Peter smiled and thanked his friend. The conversation dissolved into a discussion of the fierce heat in California versus the mild summers in their native Ireland. They chatted amicably about old friends and discussed the whereabouts of their former teacher and countryman who was now a bishop somewhere in the Deep South. When it was time to take his leave, Peter assured his old friend that he felt better after their discussion.

  He lied.

  Father Brian Rourke returned to his office that afternoon with a heavy heart and an embattled conscience. He sat for a long time, gazing at the crucifix hanging on the wall over his desk. Breathing a sigh of resignation, he picked up the phone and dialed the Louisiana area code. He didn’t have to look up the number.

  New Orleans

  June 2005

  MAUREEN DROVE her rented car through the outskirts of New Orleans, a map of the area spread on the vacant passenger’s seat. She slowed and moved to the side of the road, glancing at the map to be sure she was still on track. Satisfied, she eased back into the street. As she rounded the next bend, the aboveground, sarcophagus-style tombs and monuments for which New Orleans cemeteries are renowned came into view.

  Maureen parked in the lot, and reached into the backseat to grab her large handbag and the flowers she had purchased from a street vendor. She stepped out of the car, careful to avoid the muddy puddles that were the remnants of an early, pre-summer thunderstorm, and took in the landscape of manicured graves. Elaborate markers and floral wreaths stretched for acres. Taking a deep breath, Maureen walked toward the cemetery gates, carrying her own flowers. She stopped at the main entrance and looked up, but turned sharply to the left without entering the cemetery.