Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

Copyright 2010 by Mary Higgins Clark

In my last book I wrote about the medical miracle of a heart transplant and that the recipient may have taken on some of the characteristics of the donor.

This story concerns a different miracle, one that medical science cannot explain. Last spring I attended the Beatification Ceremony of a nun who founded seven hospitals for the aged and infirm and is credited, by the power of prayer, with saving the life of a child.

At that beautiful ceremony, I decided I wanted to write about that subject as part of this novel. I have found it to be an insightful journey-one that I hope you will enjoy sharing.

As always Im indebted to the faithful mentors and friends who make smooth the path as I labor at the computer.

It has been a constant joy that Michael Korda has been my editor for thirty-five years. From page one to The End, his guidance, encouragement, and enthusiasm have been an unfailing source of strength.

Senior Editor Amanda Murray has accompanied us every step of the way with her wise suggestions and input.

Thank you always to Associate Director of Copyediting Gypsy da Silva; my publicist, Lisl Cade; and my readers-in-progress Irene Clark, Agnes Newton and Nadine Petry. What a grand team I have.

Many thanks to Patricia Handal, coordinator of the Cardinal Cooke Guild, for her invaluable and generous assistance in discussing the canonization process.

Many thanks to Detective Marco Conelli for answering my questions about police procedure.

Thanks also to patent attorney Gregg A. Paradise, Esq., who advised me about patent laws, an important element in this story.

It is high time that I give a tip of the hat to marvelous photographer, Bernard Vidal, who for twenty years has journeyed from Paris to take my cover photo and to Karem Alsina, master hair stylist and makeup artist, who allows me year after year to put my best face forward on the back cover of the newest book.

No accomplishment would have any meaning if it were not being shared with my husband, John Conheeney, spouse extraordinaire, and our children and grandchildren. You know how I feel about all of you.

And now my readers and friends, I hope you curl up and enjoy this latest effort. Happy Reading and God bless you one and all.

On Monday morning, Olivia Morrow sat quietly across the desk from her longtime friend Clay Hadley, absorbing the death sentence he had just pronounced.

For an instant, she looked away from the compassion she saw in his eyes and glanced out the window of his twenty-fourth-floor office on East Seventy-second Street in Manhattan. In the distance she could see a helicopter making its slow journey over the East River on this chilly October morning.

My journey is ending, she thought, then realized that Clay was expecting a response from her.

Two weeks, she said. It was not a question. She glanced at the antique clock on the bookcase behind Clays desk. It was ten minutes past nine. The first day of the two weeks-at least its the start of the day, she thought, glad that she had asked for an early appointment.

He was answering her. Three at the most. Im sorry, Olivia. I was hoping

Dont be sorry, Olivia interrupted briskly. Im eighty-two years old. Even though my generation lives so much longer than the previous ones, my friends have been dropping like flies lately. Our problem is that we worry well live too long and end up in a nursing home, or become a terrible burden to everyone. To know I have a very short time left, but will still be able to think clearly and walk around unassisted until the very end is an immeasurable gift. Her voice trailed off.

Clay Hadleys eyes narrowed. He understood the troubled expression that had erased the serenity from Olivias face. Before she spoke, he knew what she would say. Clay, only you and I know.

He nodded.

Do we have the right to continue to hide the truth? she asked, looking at him intently. Mother thought she did. She intended to take it to her grave, but at the very end when only you and I were there, she felt compelled to tell us. It became for her a matter of conscience. And with all the enormous good Catherine did in her life as a nun, her reputation has always been compromised by the insinuation that all those years ago, just before she entered the convent, she may have had a consensual liaison with a lover.

Hadley studied Olivia Morrows face. Even the usual signs of age, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, the slight tremor of her neck, the way she leaned forward to catch everything he said, did not detract from her finely chiseled features. His father had been her mothers cardiologist, and he had taken over when his father retired. Now in his early fifties, he could not remember a time when the Morrow family had not been part of his life. As a child he had been in awe of Olivia, recognizing even then that she was always beautifully dressed. Later he realized that at that time she had still been working as a salesgirl at B. Altmans, the famous Fifth Avenue department store, and that her style was achieved by buying her clothes at giveaway end-of-the-season sales. Never married, she had retired as an executive and board member of Altmans years ago.

He had met her older cousin Catherine only a few times, and by then she was already a legend, the nun who had started seven hospitals for handicapped children-research hospitals dedicated to finding ways to cure or alleviate the suffering of their damaged bodies or minds.

Do you know that many people are calling the healing of a child with brain cancer a miracle and attributing it to Catherines intercession? Olivia asked. Shes being considered as a candidate for beatification.

Clay Hadley felt his mouth go dry. No, I hadnt heard. Not a Catholic, he vaguely understood that that would mean the Church might eventually declare Sister Catherine a saint and worthy of veneration by the faithful.

Of course that will mean that the subject of her having given birth will be explored, and those vicious rumors will resurface and almost certainly finish her chance of being found worthy, Olivia added, her tone angry.

Olivia, there was a reason neither Sister Catherine nor your mother ever named the father of her child.

Catherine didnt. But my mother did.

Olivia leaned her hands on the arms of the chair, a signal to Clay that she was about to stand up. He rose and walked around his desk, with quick steps for such a bulky man. He knew that some of his patients referred to him as Chunky Clay the Cardiologist. His voice humorous, his eyes twinkling, he counseled all of them, Forget about me and make sure you lose weight. I look at the picture of an ice cream cone and put on five pounds. Its my cross to bear. It was a performance he had perfected. Now he took Olivias hands in his and kissed her gently.

Involuntarily she drew back from the sensation of his short, graying beard grazing her cheek, then to cover her reaction returned the kiss. Clay, my own situation remains between us. I will tell the few remaining people who will care very soon. She paused, then, her tone ironic, she added, In fact Id obviously better tell them