Page 89 of The Kiss Keeper
“Jake, this handsome gentleman is Dominic. He’s our gardener over at the convent,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder.
The young man nodded to him, then turned to the nun. “All right, Sister, one drink while I run a few errands for Sister Anne, and no funny business, like the last time.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “What did she do last time?”
“She signed the convent up for Netflix,” the gardener answered.
Sister Evangeline threw up her hands. “You can only pray for so many hours a day.”
“Be good,” the man warned, but his easy smile said he was fond of the feisty gal.
“So, Jake, why are you moping in your beer?” she asked as the gardener left the bar.
He sighed. He couldn’t lie to a nun. “I’m cursed, and I lost Natalie.”
“Cursed?” the nun repeated.
He traced a bead of condensation down the side of his glass. “Yes, have you heard of the Kiss Keeper Curse?”
“That first kiss business with the well near Camp Woolwich?” she asked as Trevor carefully set a martini with three olives in front of her.
Jake took a sip of his beer. “Yep, that’s the one. Fifteen years ago, Natalie and I were supposed to kiss at that well. But we didn’t, and now, I’m here, and she’s done with me.”
Sister Evangeline popped an olive into her mouth. “You’re not cursed.”
He reared back. “How would you know?”
“Because of Otis and Muriel,” she answered, plucking another olive off the martini pick.
“What about them?” he pressed.
The nun leaned in and waved him to come closer as a sly grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Muriel Boothe never got on that boat headed back to England.”
Nose to nose with a nun, Jake gasped. “How do you know that?”
“Muriel and Otis ran away together, all the way to California. To keep up appearances, the Boothe family let everyone believe that she was back in England,” she said, sitting back and popping an olive into her mouth.
He wasn’t sure if she was messing with him or not. He crossed his arms. “What proof do you have? It was ages ago.”
“My great-great-grandmother was Muriel’s cousin. They wrote to each other for many years. Muriel and Otis lived well into their eighties and had three daughters. The letters have been passed down in my family.”
“Who has them now?” he asked.
“I do,” she said with a demure sip of her drink.
Flabbergasted, his jaw dropped. “You do? Does anyone else know this?”
The nun shook her head. “I don’t think so. It was just by luck that I was sent to Maine to teach in the parochial school in Portland,” she answered casually as if she hadn’t changed the course of Camp Woolwich history.
He ran his hands through his hair. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”
Sister Evangeline lifted the martini to her lips, took another sip, then met his gaze over the rim of the glass. “People like legends, Jake. Stories bind people together. They weave their way into our communities, our minds, and our hearts.”
“But it’s not real?” he shot back incredulously.
The nun narrowed her gaze. “Does knowing that the legend isn’t real lessen your connection to Natalie?”
A lump formed in his throat. “No, it doesn’t.”
