A Gathering of Angels

In Katherine Valentine's A Miracle for St. Cecilia'sthe citizens of Dorsetville saw their prayers answered when their beloved church was saved from destruction. Now, in A Gathering of Angels, new beginnings are in the air. The redoubtable Mother Superior and her nuns bustle to open a renovated mansion as a retirement home. Harry at the Country Kettle-absorbed in a budding romance with the lonely town spinster-welcomes a take-charge waitress from New York (though some customers find her less homey than his famous coffee and mismatched plates). Father James Flaherty faces new challenges-along with the ones he's all too familiar with-from lagging repair work at St. Cecilia's to parishioners who urge him to combat his growing waistline and climbing cholesterol with, of all things, kickboxing. But when a young girl is in danger and out-of-town mobsters menace Barry Hornibrook's half-built hotel, it's time for all Dorsetvillians to pull together. When they do, there's no telling what miracles are in store.

Katherine Valentine is an American folk artist who has been a regular guest on Lifetime's Our Home show and an instructor with the New York City Museum of American Folk Art and the Brookfield (Connecticut) Craft Center. Her 1980 near-death experience, the subject of several books, has been featured on television shows including Good Morning America.

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Chapter 1It seemed the town green had been filled with the sound of hammers, diesel trucks, rock music and hordes of construction workers in various modes of undress for months. In fact, it had been eighteen months since both the Sister Regina Francis Retirement Home and St. Ceciliais renovations had begun. Although the retirement home had been completed right on schedule, due exclusively to Mother Superioris vigilance, the repairs on the church and the rectory had barely begun, due to Father Jamesis constant indecision and unwillingness to hold anyone accountable to a timetable.iSometimes things take longer than we think they should,i he had told Mrs. Norris, the housekeeper, whose expression showed she wasnit buying it. The rectory kitchen and most of the rooms downstairs had remained in a type of renovation limbo since the project had begun, suspended somewhere between being ripped apart and being put back together. The refrigerator stood on the back porch, where it had been moved last fall so the tile man could examine the kitchenis subflooring. Since that time only the plywood flooring had been replaced but new linoleum had yet to be laid. Father James couldnit decide between a brown brick pattern, which didnit come in no-wax finish but was a heavier grade, versus the gray slate pattern that was no-wax but was much thinner. Mrs. Norris had watched Father James, slumped over the tile samples for weeks, looking as though the decision might be eternal and therefore never subject to recall. iIf we get the no-wax, that will certainly cut down on your workload,i he told her. iBut the other will last longer and be more beneficial to the churchis long-range budget. I donit know, Mrs. Norris, what do you think?i She had told him repeatedly it didnit matter to her in the least what he chose. Pick whatever one you want, she said. She wouldnit be around long enough to care one way or the other. Mrs. Norris had decided that she was dying ever since embarking on a family genealogy the previous fall that uncovered the gruesome fact that none of the women on her fatheris side of the family had ever lived past the age of sixty. Mrs. Norris was sixty-two, which could only mean that her death was already two years overdue. Although Doc Hammon had been unable to diagnose what she was in peril of dying from, Mrs. Norris held firm to her belief. iGenes donit lie,i she said, tight-lipped. And it was a good thing she was dying, she told Father James, because if she wasnit she would have quit as soon as the first construction worker laid siege in her kitchen. But, since she was dying, she had decided to conserve her energy for things that really matteredolike finding the four-quart bowl of ambrosia that she had made yesterday afternoon before going home and which was now missing. It was meant for the luncheon this afternoon after the retirement homeis dedication ceremony. The entire town had been invited. Even the bishop was to attend. iWell, it just didnit get up and walk out of here.i Mrs. Norris was bent at the waist, her head deep inside the refrigerator, as she moved items back and forth as if a four-quart bowl could be hidden easily. iNo, itis just not in here.i Father James could hear the refrigerator door slam shut, then Mrs. Norrisis heavy footsteps march back into the kitchen. He also noticed that Father Dennis, seated beside him at the kitchen table, seemed inordinately engrossed in the Lifestyle section of the morningis paper. Hands on hips, right foot slightly extended, tapping out a malevolent code on the plywood flooring, Mrs. Norris asked in her most testy voice, iWhich one of you took it? Fess up.i She looked straight at Father James, who, through habit, involuntarily slid guiltily down in his chair. iI doubt that it was you, Father James.i He sat up higher. iNot that you wouldnit be above taking a taste here and there. You didnit ge