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has.” I was in too much of a romantic mood to discuss my experience at the convent at that moment. I figured I'd confide in Jack at a more appropriate time.
    “Hmmm,” he said, resuming his exploration of my face with his lips. Jack would normally have pursued the question like a dog who had treed a squirrel, but we both had our priorities at the moment. We made our merry way down the hall, so attached to each other that we probably looked like some sort of mythical, many limbed creature. When we fell on the bed I was almost dizzy with desire.
    “We have to be quick,” I insisted again.
    Jack laughed into the fuzz of my sweater. “We've got time,” he mumbled. “How do you get this off?”
    I sighed deliciously, giving in. He was cooking, after all. I had all the time in the world.
    Later, as we lay there smiling at the ceiling, Jack said softly, “There's something you're not telling me. Something's bothering you about this whole Joanna thing.”
    I hesitated. Now wasn't really the time to go into it. Jack needed to start on dinner, and I didn't want to rehash the whole story while we worked. My hesitation put a little furrow of hurt into Jack's brow, which I saw immediately when I ventured a glance at his face. He reached for his pants.
    “Jack,” I said. “It's just that I want to tell you when we have no distractions.”
    Jack looked around the room dramatically. “I don't see any distractions, Madeline.” He began to pull on his clothes. "Maybe you just don't want to trust me with some of the things that you've stowed away in that little private box in your mind. I thought we were past this, but whatever. I need to start on dinner." He walked out of the room, and I heard him begin to work in the kitchen. He didn't slam things, as I might have done. I had to face it: Jack was just a more mature person than I was.
    And worse yet, he was right.
    Chapter Three
    By seven o'clock my family was all there, sans Gerhard: Fritz, in a fairly nice shirt and tie that he wore with jeans and a smug expression; my parents, clothed in their Sunday best and looking as excited as if they were about to be granted an audience with the queen; and Jack, my beloved, whose eyes somehow seemed still narrowed and whose voice was still cool, ever since our little non-discussion of Sister Moira. I had changed into a pair of black pants and a pale green mohair sweater Jack had given me for Christmas—he'd told me it matched my eyes. I wore an apron over this as I struggled to pull apart slices of frozen garlic bread and put them on a pan.
    I'd made a lovely centerpiece out of some branches from Mr. Altschul's largest pine (he cut them for me himself) and a warm orange candle. I was looking at this, trying to absorb its serenity, when the doorbell rang. I felt like screaming, “Posts, everyone!” but my family took their positions without being told, standing in a formal greeting line and waiting to see who walked over the threshold.
    It was Gerhard first, holding the hand of a petite brunette woman of about my age—twenty-seven or so. They walked in, rosy-cheeked, and Gerhard introduced her as Sandra, and my mother was just starting to say something about Sandra Dee when the couple moved aside to grant entrance to a tiny third visitor, who walked regally behind them in a pink T-shirt and matching tu-tu. She wore white hose and white shoes and sported a tiara on her dark curls. She looked very proud of herself, and seemed expectant of praise and attention, which was suddenly lavished upon her from all sides in the form of oohs and aaahs.
    “This,” said Gerhard with an indulgent smile, “is Veronica.”
    “Veronica,” said my mother with wonder as she knelt in front of the little girl. “Do you know, that was the name of my best friend, when I was a girl in school? And do you know, I thought it was the prettiest name in the world?”
    “What do you think now?” asked Veronica, surprisingly eloquent for her teensy