“Yes, you have. Your mother put you on that couch”—she pointed—“and then put two of those chairs”—she pointed again—“up against it so you wouldn’t roll over and fall on the floor. You were a very active baby.”
Frade didn’t say anything.
“It was the night your mother and father took the train to Buenos Aires to take the Panagra flight to Miami. The train left at eight, so we had an early supper in here. That was the last time I saw you until you came to the convent today.”
Clete didn’t reply.
Mother Superior didn’t quite gulp the wine, but the glass was nearly empty much sooner than Clete expected it to be. Clete picked up the bottle, but she put her hand over the glass.
“I have to drive,” she said.
“Why don’t you take a couple of bottles—hell, a dozen bottles—with you?”
She didn’t reply to that. Instead, she said, “I was just thinking that despite what you think, rather than coming here for the first time, you are really coming home. And that Casa Montagna, after waiting so long for that to happen, has really been expecting you, is prepared for you.”
What the hell is she talking about?
Mother Superior turned to Dorotea.
“How far are you along?”
“Six months,” Dorotea said.
“I’ll have a look at you tomorrow. Everything, so far as you know, is going well?”
Dorotea nodded.
Mother Superior went behind the bar, took two bottles of the Cabernet Sauvignon from the rack, and put them into her medical bag.
“Sister Caroline is not impressed with the wisdom of Saint Timothy,” Mother Superior said. “And I don’t like to upset her.”
Clete chuckled.
“Enrico,” Mother Superior said, “if you were to somehow wrap or box or whatever a half-dozen bottles of the wine so that it doesn’t look like half a dozen bottles of wine, and put them in the van when I come here tomorrow, I would be grateful to you.”
“Sí, Reverend Mother. I will do it.”
There was half an inch of wine left in Mother Superior’s glass. She drained it and walked out of the room.
“That is a very nice woman,” Dorotea said.
“That is a very tough woman,” Frade said admiringly.
He turned to Sawyer.
“Do they teach Army officers how to lay in a machine gun? Fields of fire, that sort of thing?”
“Only the brighter ones,” Sawyer said. “Parachute officers, for example.”
“First thing in the morning, get with Enrico, see what’s available, reconnoiter the area, and let me know what you think should be done.”
“Yes, sir,” Sawyer said.
“I have already done that, Don Cletus,” Enrico said.
“Okay, then show Captain Sawyer how things are done by the Húsares de Pueyrredón.”
Enrico nodded.