epilogue

Five months later, underneath a small grove of maple trees blushing with fall colours on Mr. Rausch’s farm, Jim Whitehall pronounced us Mrs. and Mrs. Cameron Blair. A country barbeque for an intimate group of family and friends followed the simple ceremony and boasted locally raised beef, corn on the cob fresh from Mr. Lieber’s fields, and apple crumble pie directly from Mrs. Lieber’s kitchen.

The next day, Cam and I drove off on the black motorcycle to spend a week touring the mountains. Well, that was the plan, but we found a remote cabin with a breathtaking view and a huge stone fireplace the second night on the road and never moved from it for five days.

We ended up selling the Hickory land (I never could refer to it as truly mine, though Cam insisted that it was my idea to help Wild Bill and he only supplied the means), and that turned out to be another story in itself. Over the course of many lunch hours spent poring over records at city hall, I managed to trace the history of the property back to a fledgling group of monks who had purchased several acres of wooded land outside of what were then the city limits in order to start a new religious house devoted to prayer. These dedicated men soon encountered intense opposition from a developer in the city who was intent on turning the area into an exclusive suburb with large estates. They were eventually forced to sell the forested site in order to avoid the escalating financial burden of keeping the developer at bay. They pulled up roots and moved east to establish a small brotherhood close to Boston's city centre.

Cameron used his detective contacts to help me track down the struggling community of monks that still survived in Boston. I visited them in a neglected part of the city and found them generous, welcoming, and uncomplaining, despite living in very, how should I put it, "simple" circumstances. I was surprised and somewhat angered to hear that they had just been given notice that their entire block was being demolished to make room for high-rise condos. Well, two could play the rezoning game.

I convinced Roman to use his influential position and natural charisma to get the Hickory land zoned back to its original use, and the monks gratefully accepted my serendipitous offer to sell the charred land back to them for a fraction of what they would receive from their Boston buy-out. They began construction on the Wild Bill House of Prayer (my nickname for it) two days after Cam and I were married.

Shirley Besti, the unlikely agent who made my dreams come true, continued to live with the Whitehalls and found a job as a caregiver in a retirement home. It was a vocation that she seemed to have been created for. She filled the stale and depressing rooms with a profusion of compassion and laughter that surprised even her. I have never seen a clearer example of the saying that a person who has been forgiven much, loves much. I am still hoping that she’ll meet a nice widower at church who has two children and a big family home with a back yard. And maybe a dog. Well, one can dream, can’t they?