The Lost Bird by Margaret Coel Page B

of a memory came to him. Breakfast a couple of mornings ago. Elena stirring oatmeal at the stove and prattling on about an upcoming party. And he—he grimaced at the thought—half listening, sipping at his coffee, perusing the morning paper. “Besides,” the housekeeper was saying, “you need to have a good chat together, just the two of you. Don’t need no outsiders listenin’ in.”
    “I wouldn’t call you an outsider.”
    “Don’t see me with red hair, do you?” Slowly she ran a brown hand over the clumps of Megan’s red hair, as if to feel the color. Then, giving the young woman’s shoulder a little pat, she whirled around and slipped past the door.
    Father John bowed his head over the stew, drawing in the hot, pungent odor as he said the grace out loud.
Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts
 . . . The words familiar, ingrained in his heart. Then he added, “Thank you, O Lord, for bringing Megan here today, and keep her and all of the people at St. Francis Mission safely in your care.”
    Megan said nothing, eyes cast downward, like those of a convent girl whose thoughts were elsewhere. Wisps of steam lapped at the sprinkle of freckles on her face. He kept his gaze on her as he took a bite of the stew. It was delicious, a sharp reminder of the hunger he’d tried to ignore as he’d driven across the reservation this afternoon. She was poking her fork into her bowl, absentmindedly stirring the thick brown gravy and chunks of beef, carrots, and potatoes, eyes still cast down. Finally she raised her fork and nibbled at a chunk of potato.
    From the kitchen came a scuffling sound, the rattle of keys. Elena stuck her head through the doorway. “I’ll be goin’ now,” she said. “Leave the dishes. I’ll tidy up tomorrow.” An announcement, he realized, that she
would
return tomorrow. And then she was gone, footsteps clacking in the hall, front door shutting.
    Father John turned his attention to the young woman beside him. “What brought you here, Megan?”
    “Didn’t I tell you? I wanted to see you.” There was a hard edge to her tone.
    Father John took another bite of stew and waited for her to go on. When she didn’t he said, “Is everything okay between you and your fiancé?”
    “Jay? This has nothing to do with Jay.” A mixture of amusement and anger flashed in the blue eyes. “He insisted I come. He’s been very supportive, even when I quit my job.”
    “Quit your job?” Father John set his fork down and stared at her. Whatever lay beneath the confident exterior was darker and more troubling than he’d guessed.
    “My boss said I could take two weeks.” A defensive tone. “What if I needed more time? I wasn’t sure how long I’d want to stay.”
    “What’s troubling you?” His voice was soft. “What’s going on?”
    Tears had begun to pool in her eyes and trickle along her cheeks, blurring the freckles. She raised a hand and wiped at the tears, leaving a sheen of moisture that caught the candlelight. Finally she said, “You really don’t know, do you? You don’t have a clue. All these years you’ve been busy being a priest, teaching and working at a mission . . .” She stopped and looked away. He realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the rest: drinking, trying to recover in Grace House.
    She brought her gaze back to his. “You’ve gone on with your life,” she said. He felt a rush of gratitude she hadn’t completed the litany of his life. “Didn’t you wonder? Didn’t you ask yourself any questions?”
    He had a sense of floundering, as if he were lost in the expanse of the plains, where everything looked the same, and he couldn’t spot a point of reckoning. “What is it I should understand? What is it I should know?”
    She threw her napkin into the center of the table, pushed the chair back, and jumped to her feet. “That you have a daughter,” she said. “You should know that.”
    Father John felt his mouth go dry, the air he was breathing