Chapter Text
20 September, 1963
You should've known better than to believe Scott was going to leave his wife for you.
She isn't even especially pretty, you think, staring at your reflection in the taxi's grimy window. What's her name again? Joan? Jean? Something like that. You never cared enough to learn. She's always just been Mrs. Summers to you, more an obstacle than a real, living person.
On the other side of the window glass, the sun is setting on the countryside as it streaks by, the rolling hills all painted in the greens and golds and browns of the encroaching autumn. Summer is leaving as you are being forced to leave Summers. The irony isn't lost on you.
Neither is the ridiculousness of it. Scott's been the mayor for years, and the next election isn't until 1966. It might've blown over by then, you might've been embraced, a new, younger, prettier First Lady of Albany, but now you'll never know.
You should be back in New York, on the arm of your unfortunately already married beau. He was supposed to take you to see the leaves change in Vermont this weekend, you'd had a lovely bed and breakfast booked and everything, but instead, you're being shipped off to some convent in West Germany. It's so absurd it's almost funny.
"Oh, but it's a convent in the Alps!" your mother had said as she'd helped you pack, a phony smile plastered across her face all the while. She's as ashamed of you as your father is. Freshly nineteen and already making a mockery of the family name? It's got to be some kind of record. "It's not far from Garmisch-Partenkirchen!" Her accent had butchered the name, and you'd wrinkled your nose at her. She either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared enough to comment. You may only be second-generation wealthy, but at least you aren't so nouveau riche that you stumble over names every rich person ought to already know. "So posh!"
You'd rolled your eyes and asked, "How posh could a convent be?"
Judging by the gates at the edge of the property, not very. The wrought iron fencing has gone to rust, sitting unevenly upon the ground and surrounded by towering birch and spruce and maple trees.
It had probably been a pretty place, once upon a time. It's constructed of yellowish brick and connected to the church via a buckling breezeway, but the whole place is falling apart beneath its coat of ivy now, the leaves gone gold and blooming.
Not far to the left, reaching nearly the same height as the church's spire, a massive, twisted yew tree grows, its gnarled roots popping up between the bricks of the driveway. A stone bench sits at its feet, though it's covered in spiderwebs and looking thoroughly disused. Maybe it's a memorial, though to whom, you can't say. From this distance, you can see no indication of a plaque or marker of any kind.
Like the yew's roots, the grass is overgrown around the driveway stones, rumbling terribly beneath the tires of the taxi as it passes.
A nun waits before the ironclad wooden doors, standing ramrod straight, her eyes sharp and cold despite the cozy glow of the sunset. There's no question about it: She's the woman in charge, and she already doesn't like you. You don't care, really, but she could at least get to know you before she starts hating you. It's common courtesy. Though, to be fair, you don't much like her, either. This is going to be a wonderful visit.
"Wir sind hier," the driver says, and the taxi coasts to a stop on the paving stones.
He's been smoking all through the trip, with the windows closed, even, and the smell of cigarette smoke overwhelms the L'Air Du Temps you'd dabbed on before you'd settled into the back seat. The vinyl is sticking to your legs now, but you hesitate for a long moment, your hand on the handle of the door. Your nails, manicured the previous day at a fancy salon in New York City before your entire life had gone pear-shaped, are painted green, a perfect match for your Mary Quant dress. You've no idea when you'll be able to get your nails done again. Are there nail salons here? Are you allowed to go to them? Are you even allowed to have your nails painted?
Staring out through the window, you debate your options.
You could pay the driver to take you somewhere else, if you had money, but you've effectively been cut off from your family's bank account, and you don't speak enough German to get a job back down in the city. You aren't even sure you're here legally, though your father had assured you that arrangements had been made. What's there to do but stay?
You hand over what you hope is enough to cover the trip and a tip, steeling yourself before you hop out onto the driveway. The air is fresher than anything you've ever smelled, and you wrinkle your nose. Your kitten heels disagree with the terrain immediately, and you stagger as you make your way around to the back of the cab. The trunk is popped open, but the driver makes no move to get out and help you with your bags. You'd heard Germans were rude, but this is ridiculous. You hope you hadn't given him much of a tip.
The woman doesn't offer to help, either. Instead, she raises one immaculately groomed ginger brow at you, saying, "You won't be needing all that."
All that is a four-piece luggage set, stuffed to overflowing with makeup and clothes and shoes. You'd brought practically your entire wardrobe with you. "Won't I?" you shoot back. You aren't about to show respect to someone who hasn't earned it. Scott's always liked that about you: You're a challenge. The ring he'd given you sparkles on your right hand despite the dying light. He'd promised to marry you, the dirty liar.
How much does this woman know about him and the situation he'd gotten you into? It had been a massive scandal back in Albany, the mayor having an affair with his barely-legal secretary, but would a nun in West Germany care? Had your parents told her about it before they'd shipped you off? Was she aware that the affair had started when you were freshly eighteen and working as an unpaid intern? Did she know that Jean was pregnant with the miracle baby she'd been struggling to conceive for years? Did she know that you'd been pregnant, too, and that it was only a carefully wielded wire hanger that had stopped it from coming to fruition?
"I am the Mother Superior here," the woman says. Her voice is regal, but she sounds American, like you, with no trace of an accent. She's pretty, too, tall and statuesque beneath her dowdy habit, and her eyes are so bright a brown that they're almost gold, like the leaves littering the convent's grounds. Her nails are carefully manicured, like her eyebrows, and she's even wearing a touch of lipstick. Is that allowed? You'd been too blindsided to do much research before you'd been badgered onto the plane. At least you'd had plenty of time to do your makeup during the flight. Your hair is a little flat, but there's really nothing to be done about that right now. "While you're here," she says, "you answer to me."
That, you know, can't be right, and you ask, "I thought nuns are supposed to answer to God?"
Mother Superior shrugs, a lazy one-sided thing. There isn't so much as a hint of reverence in the way she moves or the way she speaks. She says, "If you believe in that sort of thing."