Thirty-Three
I AM AT MY DESK MONDAY morning when the phone rings.
“Hey,” she says. “Fancy a trip to Baltimore? I have a 3 p.m. appointment with David Markel.”
Looking at my calendar, I say, “Sure! People still aren’t used to Monday not being my day off right now. Pick me up from the Rectory right after the Noon Mass. I’ll tell Anna what’s going on.”
I pause a minute, then a thought occurs to me. “You know,” I say, “since we’re going to be in the city anyway, why don’t I see if the Archbishop is free afterwards? Lent’s almost half over, and a brief catch-up meeting with him together might be nice.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Tom,” she says, slowly, “I’m not sure . . . I mean, I don’t know what I’d say.”
I furrow my brow. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Everything is fine
