study to the guest room. Angie likes to sleep under the loving gaze of our Irish grandmother, Molly Barnes. And I checked that there were Angie-approved toiletries in the bathroom. Since London, she uses only Pears soap. High maintenance, but I love fussing over my sister.
A half hour later I woke from a nap on the couch when I heard the ding of the doorbell. There stood Angie, smiling broadly, her silky blond hair bouncing and curling around her heart-shaped face. Thatâs the face Iâve cherished since I was a preteen lovingly bottle-feeding my tiny little sister.
We spent the next hour assessing each other physically the way sisters do, arranging Angieâs luggage in the guest bedroom, and giving Angie a look around our home, of which I am unduly proud, since itâs mainly Toby whoâs furnished the place. We shared an initial Pimmâs Cup, hers neat, mine cut with lemonade, the way the ladies do it in London, Angie says. I thought the first thing she would ask me about would be the case I was working on, but she insisted on getting the haircut out of the way.
âSo, should I give you about the same cut that I did on Turkey Day?â
âFine. Except I like that it got longer.â
âHair tends to do that, especially when left neglected.â
âYes, I know you told me to deep-condition. We can do that tomorrow. Today just cut a little off. I like the longer length because I donât have to do anything with it. It just hangs there.â
âExactly. My darling sister, as we age, things start to just hang there. Jowls just hang there. Wiggly chins just hang there. The last thing we need is for our hair to just hang there and call attention to all the other parts that are doing the same.â
âSo what are you saying, that I need a facelift?â
She laughed. âA good cut with a little more complexity would give you all the lift you need. Even my nuns know that.â
âYour nuns?â
âDadâs nuns. You know.â
âYou mean the sisters at Grace Quarry?â
âThatâs right. Iâve been cutting their hair since I got back from London. Dad got me into it. You know how heâs always had a sweet spot for those sisters.â
âWell, he would, wouldnât he?â They practically raised him during that spell when his mother was ill. âBut they all must be ancient now. What are they doing getting your air-lift haircuts?â
âThe sisters have gone rogue. The bishop was bothering them about giving out communion and having Buddhist speakers. So they staked their claim.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âGrace Quarry was a gift to them from the Graces, the lady author and her Beacon Hill husband. You remember them. They were nice to Granddadâhired him as a chauffeur when he sold his garage.â
âSure, I remember when we used to swim at the quarry when we were kids. I asked Dad why there was an echo out there when we talked. He told me the story of Echo, the nymph who could only repeat what others had said. Dad claimed that Echo lived at the far end of the quarry, behind the trees.â
âThatâs just like Dad.â Angie smiled. âWell,â she continued, âwhen the Graces died, they left the property outright to the order. Now all these years later, when the nuns got feisty and the bishop threatened to shut them down, they declared themselves free of the churchâwent ecumenical.â
âGee, didnât the bishop raise hell?â
âIâll say he did, but he couldnât touch them. The order is independent of the Vatican.â
âI didnât know that.â
âYes, and theyâre doing great. There are a dozen sisters there, some Catholic, some Anglican, and a bunch of young nuns from the Philippines who visit and study. Plus the lay sisters who have gathered round. Thereâs a whole young community there.â
âAnd you do their
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