Part 1

A Gathering of Angels
by Katherine Valentine

In A Miracle for St. Cecilia's, Katherine Valentine created a charming Connecticut town where ordinary people experience extraordinary things. Now in A Gathering of Angels the citizens of Dorsetville continue to discover the daily wonders of faith.

While Father Flaherty toys with taking up kickboxing to trim his growing waistline, another town expansion proves more ominous: Barry Hornibrook, driven to build a riverfront hotel, turns to questionable sources for desperately needed money. But this is Dorsetville, where anything is possible and by the time this beguiling tale is over, a tragic fire, a German shepherd, and an influx of dentists will all play a role in changing the community forever.

Full of delightful surprises, A Gathering of Angels proves to be another heart-warming tale of hope.

Chapter 1

It seemed the town green had been filled with the sound of hammers, diesel trucks, rock music and hordes of construction workers in various modes of undress for months. In fact, it had been eighteen months since both the Sister Regina Francis Retirement Home and St. Cecilia's renovations had begun. Although the retirement home had been completed right on schedule, due exclusively to Mother Superior's vigilance, the repairs on the church and the rectory had barely begun, due to Father James's constant indecision and unwillingness to hold anyone accountable to a timetable.

"Sometimes things take longer than we think they should," he had told Mrs. Norris, the housekeeper, whose expression showed she wasn't buying it.

The rectory kitchen and most of the rooms downstairs had remained in a type of renovation limbo since the project had begun, suspended somewhere between being ripped apart and being put back together. The refrigerator stood on the back porch, where it had been moved last fall so the tile man could examine the kitchen's subflooring. Since that time only the plywood flooring had been replaced but new linoleum had yet to be laid. Father James couldn't decide between a brown brick pattern, which didn't come in no-wax finish but was a heavier grade, versus the gray slate pattern that was no-wax but was much thinner. Mrs. Norris had watched Father James, slumped over the tile samples for weeks, looking as though the decision might be eternal and therefore never subject to recall.

"If we get the no-wax, that will certainly cut down on your workload," he told her. "But the other will last longer and be more beneficial to the church's long-range budget. I don't know, Mrs. Norris, what do you think?"

She had told him repeatedly it didn't matter to her in the least what he chose. Pick whatever one you want, she said. She wouldn't be around long enough to care one way or the other.

Mrs. Norris had decided that she was dying ever since embarking on a family genealogy the previous fall that uncovered the gruesome fact that none of the women on her father's side of the family had ever lived past the age of sixty. Mrs. Norris was sixty-two, which could only mean that her death was already two years overdue. Although Doc Hammon had been unable to diagnose what she was in peril of dying from, Mrs. Norris held firm to her belief.

"Genes don't lie," she said, tight-lipped.

And it was a good thing she was dying, she told Father James, because if she wasn't she would have quit as soon as the first construction worker laid siege in her kitchen. But, since she was dying, she had decided to conserve her energy for things that really mattered like finding the four-quart bowl of ambrosia that she had made yesterday afternoon before going home and which was now missing. It was meant for the luncheon this afternoon after the retirement home's dedication ceremony. The entire town had been invited. Even the bishop was to attend.

"Well, it just didn't get up and walk out of here." Mrs. Norris was bent at the waist, her head deep inside the refrigerator, as she moved items back and forth as if a four-quart bowl could be hidden easily. "No, it's just not in here."

Father James could hear the refrigerator door slam shut, then Mrs. Norris's heavy footsteps march back into the kitchen. He also noticed that Father Dennis, seated beside him at the kitchen table, seemed inordinately engrossed in the Lifestyle section of the morning's paper.

Hands on hips, right foot slightly extended, tapping out a malevolent code on the plywood flooring, Mrs. Norris asked in her most testy voice, "Which one of you took it? Fess up."

She looked straight at Father James, who, through habit, involuntarily slid guiltily down in his chair.

"I doubt that it was you, Father James."

He sat up higher.

"Not that you wouldn't be above taking a taste here and there. You didn't get that pouch by eating just celery. But since the doctors put you on that restricted diet, you've been pretty good about staying away from the things that might tie your intestines up in a knot again."

Father James wondered how long his intimate bodily functions would be up for discussion. Since the discovery of his severe case of diverticulitis, coupled with a cholesterol reading of 280, Father James's diet had been greatly curtailed. Even his beloved coffee had been denied him. Worse yet, everyone in Dorsetville seemed to know about it, which gave him precious little opportunity to cheat.

"No, Mrs. Norris, I didn't take your dessert," he said mournfully.

"That's what I thought," she said, turning to stare at Father Dennis, who appeared oblivious, completely engrossed with the newspaper. She tapped his sleeve.

"Did you say something to me?" asked Father Dennis, as though surfacing from the depths of some great tranquil ocean. "I'm sorry. I wasn't listening. This is such an interesting article."

The housekeeper leaned over Father Dennis's shoulder and read, "How to Create Crochet Antimacassars of the Depression Era.' You really expect me to believe that you've taken an interest in chair coverings?"

In response, Father Dennis meekly lowered his head and awaited further blows.

"So it was you! How could you? You knew it was for this afternoon's luncheon."

Father Dennis bowed his head even farther toward the table. "Forgive me, Mrs. Norris, for I have sinned."

Father James repressed a smile while asking, "Who did you feed this time?"

"The construction workers next door," he said meekly.

Father James looked at Mrs. Norris. She appeared as though she were about to explode. Father Dennis was in for it now. If only the young prelate had listened to his warning. "Take anything you want from the rectory but never invade Mrs. Norris's kitchen," he had said. Apparently his words had landed on deaf ears.

Last week the young priest had snatched a chocolate sheet cake to surprise his fifth grade catechism class. He was under the mistaken assumption that Mrs. Norris had baked the cake for the two priests. Unfortunately, it had been promised to the seniors' Wednesday night Bingo game. Mrs. Norris had rained down fire and brimstone over that one. The seniors hadn't been too happy either.

Father James commended Father Dennis for his big heart and his acts of charity, but Mrs. Norris's kitchen was a place that he feared even the Lord Himself wouldn't tread without permission.

Father Dennis hastened to explain. "They worked so hard putting in that last piece of marble behind the altar. I thought a little celebration was called for." He quickly added: "You might as well know that I used up all the ice tea, too."

Mrs. Norris pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down with a plunk. "Father Dennis, you are hastening my demise. I don't know how much longer I can hang on with this type of constant aggravation."

Neither man argued or tried to convince her otherwise nor stated what they knew to be fact Mrs. Norris was healthier than the Platt family's stable of Morgan horses. Both men had watched her clean the rectory from top to bottom in less than three hours without getting winded. Was that the profile of someone near death's door?

They had tried reasoning with her in the beginning of June when she had first concluded her fate. Their arguments hadn't made the slightest impression. Nothing could convince Mrs. Norris that she was not soon for the grave. By July they had given up trying and learned to simply ignore her histrionics.

"I might not even make it to the dedication ceremony this afternoon." She began to fan herself with the ends of her apron. "I certainly don't have the strength to go to the market, buy more ingredients and make a new batch of ambrosia. And what will I tell Mother Superior and the sisters, who are counting on my dessert?"

© 2004 Penguin, a division of Penguin Putnam, used by permission.

About the Author

Katherine Valentine is an American folk artist who has been a regular guest on Lifetime's Our Home show and an instructor with the New York City Museum of American Folk Art and the Brookfield (Connecticut) Craft Center. Her 1980 near-death experience, the subject of several books, has been featured on television shows, including Good Morning America.