Forty
THE MONDAY BEFORE PENTECOST, as I’m sitting down to another fabulous Anna breakfast—this time, french toast—my phone rings. I pull it out, thinking Helen’s calling for our usual morning conversation.
I gasp when I see the caller ID.
“What is it?” Anna asks.
Still looking at the phone, I whisper, “The Archbishop.”
Now it’s Anna’s turn to gasp. “Tom! Do you think?”
I shake my head. “He said we should hear by Pentecost, and that’s next Sunday,” I say as the phone continues ringing.
“Are you going to go to your office to answer?”
I look at her. “No. Can you stay here with me?” I say.
When she nods, my trembling finger answers the call. “Go—good morning, Your Eminence.”
Through the phone, I can hear him smile. “Yes, my son, it certainly is.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and break
