“I never thought otherwise,” Joseph assured her. The roseate bloom could have no better setting, though her beauty needed no embellishment. Joseph swallowed and lowered his eyes again.Admire her—chastely—on the vine, he reminded himself. Even if he were free, she was not—there was the child, living proof of her union with another. “Your lullaby—it was Irish?”
“’Twas.”
“It was beautiful.” In a few days, he would be granted the grace of the Priesthood, and he would no longer struggle like this.
The young mother was blushing anew as she caressed the red hair of her sleeping son. She was particularly lovely when she blushed. “I had to do something to calm him. Thomas and I had quite a fright earlier; we saw a snake. We don’t have them in Ireland, thanks to Saint Patrick.”
If Joseph could not look without lust, he must not look at all. “Was the snake dark with yellow stripes?”
“Yes! You’ve seen it here before?”
With his eyes on the earth, he could still hear her mellifluous voice. From her lips, the simplest of phrases were like caresses.She is not pleasing you purposefully.“It’s a garter-snake. They’re harmless.”
“Thomas will be relieved.”
She is a mother.She is your sister in Christ.
“And who is this watching over us?” At the corner of his vision, the young mother nodded toward the statue at the center of the garden.
“Saint Rose of Lima. She was the first American saintanda gardener, so I thought her appropriate.”
“Lima in Peru?”
“You know your geography.”
“Remember, I’m a schoolmaster’s daughter. I helped my father with the younger children. But I never knew there was a Saint Rose. Can you tell me anything else about her?”
Perfect. Recalling the saint’s mortifications would help chastise his own flesh. “Rose was a mystic and ascetic. That crown of roses on her head—underneath, it’s full of metal spikes.” Joseph kept digging. “Rose fasted constantly, surviving only on gall, bitter herbs, and the Blessed Sacrament. Sometimes she slept on a bed of thorns and broken glass. God rewarded her with ecstasies that lasted for hours. Rose also made a vow of chastity, but she was as beautiful as her name, so men still pursued her. Finally she offered her beauty to God by cutting off her hair and burning her face with lye.”
“To be that strong…”
When Joseph glanced up, the young mother’s eyes were closed, her brow troubled, as if she also felt the saint’s pain. He wanted to comfort her.
The child was safe to look at. He was still sleeping.
“Are there any saints from the United States?”
“None have been canonized yet. They may be living among us.” Joseph measured the hole he’d dug.
“What are you planting now?”
“A pomegranate.”
“I remember a pomegranate in the myth of Persephone. They’re in the Bible as well?”
Joseph nodded before he lifted the sapling from the wheelbarrow. “They’re mentioned in the Canticles—but more importantly, many scholars believethiswas the Tree of Knowledge.” He lowered the pomegranate into its new home. “Apples don’t grow very well in Mesopotamia, where the Garden of Eden must have been.”
“The forbidden fruit was really a pomegranate?” Her voice skipped with delight, the way his heart did every time something marvelous took him by surprise. The way his heart was skipping right now.
“Quite probably, yes.”Fill the hole. Whatever you do, do not look at her.“When you see one, you’ll understand—pomegranates are even more appealing than apples.”
“I cannot wait to tell my fatherandmy brother. If it weren’t for you, we’d never have known.”
“Pomegranates are also messier than apples—the juice leaves permanent stains.” Joseph forced himself to layer water and soil around the little tree.
“Beside me, is this a pear?”
He glanced up again automatically. At the moment, the pear sapling bore neither flowers nor fruit, and few leaves remained. “You have a good eye.” Was she a gardener, too?
