The House on Harbor Hill

by Shelly Stratton

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Siblings

Synopsis

She's generous, kind, and compassionate—yet Delilah Grey will forever be an outcast in the small seaside town of Camden Beach, Maryland. She takes in women shattered by abuse, poverty, illness, or events beyond their control. But no matter how far she's come or how many she's helped find their way back, there is no safe place for Delilah. Acquitted of her rich husband's mysterious death decades ago, she lives in her beautiful mansion consumed by secrets—and mistakes she feels she can never atone for...until she takes in desperate mother Tracey Walters and her two young children.

Tracey won't say where she's from or what sent her into hiding. But her determination and refusal to give up reminds Delilah of the spirited, hopeful girl she once was—and the dreams she still cherishes. As Tracey takes tentative steps to rebuild her life, her unexpected attraction to Delilah's handsome, troubled caretaker inadvertently brings Delilah face to face with the past. And when Tracey's worst fears come brutally calling, both women must find even more strength to confront truths they can no longer ignore—and at last learn how to truly be free.

Resonant, moving, and unforgettable, The House on Harbor Hill paints an unforgettable portrait of two women struggling to forgive themselves, take a chance on change, and challenge each other to finally live.

Release date: March 27, 2018

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

When Tracey first saw the envelope taped to her front door—a four-by-six-inch yellow square set against blue paint made gray by decades of unrelenting sun—she instantly thought it was an eviction notice.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered under her breath, shifting her sobbing thirteenth-month-old farther up her hip.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” her son, Caleb, asked as he swung his Batman backpack back and forth, making it look as if the caped crusader was about to take flight. He wiped his runny nose with the back of a chubby hand already smudged with some drying substance that could be chocolate or mud. Wide, blue eyes gazed up at her innocently. The vulnerability in those eyes almost broke her heart.

Sorry, sweetheart. Mommy’s failed you yet again.

The boy had been fed a steady diet of disappointment for the past eleven months.

Tracey painted on a smile and turned to him. “Nothing, honey! Nothing!”

She had to shout to be heard above her daughter’s ear-piercing screams. She bounced Maggie up and down, but the screams didn’t subside; they only increased in intensity.

“It’s all right, honey. It’s okay,” she whispered against the child’s wet, flushed cheek. She then reached for the envelope and yanked it from the front door. There was no address label, so she flipped it over and inspected the back.

“To Tracey Walters,” it said in a script so elegant she wondered if it had been written with a calligrapher’s pen, “from the woman you met at Chesapeake Cupcakery.”

Who?

Tracey’s brows furrowed as she stared, flummoxed, at those words.

When was the last time she had been at Chesapeake Cupcakery—the little shop on Leonardtown Avenue her friend Jessica owned? And what woman had she met there? Invisible fingers groped into her memory, but latched onto nothing.

“What is it, Mommy?” Caleb asked.

Tracey opened her mouth to answer, but Maggie screamed again, making her wince. Tracey hastily tucked the envelope into her purse along with the rest of the mail. She dug out her house key, inserted it into the lock, and shoved the front door open.

She was in no mood for cryptic messages, but at least it wasn’t an eviction notice—though she would probably get one of those any day now.

Her landlord, Mr. Stapleton, had been harping on her for the past few months about the piecemeal rent payments she would slip through his brass door slot late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. Not checks, because he no longer trusted in the validity of any checks she wrote, and frankly, she didn’t blame him. Any check with her signature had more bounce than the red inflatable castle her son liked to play in at Jasper Jumpers—whenever she could afford to take him to Jasper Jumpers, that is. So when Tracey paid her rent, it was either crumpled bills in denominations of twenty and ten that smelled of sweat and peanut oil from the hotel restaurant where she worked or money orders wrapped in a sheet of paper with an apologetic note attached.

I’m sorry I can’t pay more, the last note had read, scribbled in the purple ink of one of her son’s oversized magic markers. I SWEAR I’ll get the rest to you sometime next week!

His response had been that her rent was eight hundred and fifty dollars a month. “Not six hundred! Not five hundred! And certainly not four hundred and fifty dollars!” He said she should look elsewhere for somewhere to live because he had several potential tenants on a waiting list that wanted to live in the home she was renting.

Then times must be harder than I had imagined, she mused, because the two-bedroom, one bath, ramshackle rambler where they lived wasn’t exactly a mid-century modern luxury rental in Palm Springs.

The temperature of the water in their only bathroom was so unpredictable that if you turned on the shower faucet, it was a roll of the dice whether the water would come out icy cold or scorching hot. (She had the scalded shoulder to prove it.) The beige carpets were so threadbare she’d started to cover them with a patchwork of throw rugs to mask the holes. The paint along the ceilings had a maze of cracks like a web of veins and capillaries. The electric outlets sometimes worked, sometimes didn’t. The cockroaches were so numerous she was on the verge of asking them to chip in for the rent. And no matter how high she turned up the heat during cold months, there seemed to be a blustery draft that made its way from the front door to the back porch, causing goose bumps to sprout on her arms and legs whenever she ventured from her bedroom without wearing a robe.

But the house had a roof, a door, and four walls. It had running water and electricity. Her humble home had the essentials, even if it wasn’t perfect. And it was one of the few rentals in this middle-class neighborhood, with its low crime rate and grade-A school district, that she could afford on her meager salary.

Tracey wanted to make more money; she had no romantic illusions about the life of a pauper. She’d applied for other, better paying jobs—even jobs where the hours weren’t ideal or the location was so far away from her home she would have developed a stiff neck and a bad back from driving for so long every day. Cashier at Burger King, manning the check-in desk at a seedy motel off Route 4, receptionist at an office building downtown . . . she had applied for them all, but her applications either got lost in the shuffle or she didn’t make “the cut,” according to whomever was holding the scissors. No one seemed eager to hire a college dropout and former full-time, stay-at-home mom.

Desperate, Tracey had even swallowed her pride and tried to apply for financial assistance three months ago. The county caseworker had handed her a clipboard with a form attached, asking not only for her name, address, and the names of her children, but also for their father’s name and address.

“Why do you need this?” Tracey had asked, pointing at the blank space on the page with the tip of her ballpoint pen.

“We need it because the state isn’t going to pay to take care of your kids unless their father can’t to do it,” the woman had answered bluntly as she popped her gum.

Tracey had caught a whiff of spearmint as she spoke.

“Wait. You’re going to contact him? You’re going to make him pay child support?”

The woman had nodded. “Either he pays you or he pays us.” She’d inclined her head. “Look, if you don’t know for sure who the father is . . .” She had paused to glance at Maggie, who had been sitting on Tracey’s lap, sucking her pacifier, and Caleb, who had stood in the corner, making explosion noises as he banged his Incredible Hulk action figure into the wall plaster. “Or if you don’t know who the fathers are,” the caseworker had said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully, “you can always give the names and addresses of your best estimation.”

Tracey had lowered her pen, too stunned by the woman’s words to be insulted.

“It’s no big deal. You wouldn’t be the first. Flip it over and write as many names as you have to on the back of the form.”

The caseworker had then turned back to face her computer screen. As she clicked away at her QWERTY keys, Tracey had stared at the back of the woman’s blond head. She’d silently placed the clipboard back on the woman’s desk, risen from her leather chair, and grabbed her purse.

“Caleb, let’s go,” she’d whispered.

The trio had fled from the welfare office, much like she had fled from her home with the children in tow almost a year ago. They had been at a near run by the time they reached the parking lot.

Tracey still had no intention of returning.

She didn’t want child support from her husband—not one single dime. And she certainly didn’t want to reveal to him where she and the children now lived. If she did, he’d come for her; he’d come for all of them. He’d try to make her come back, and she was never, ever going back.

“Homework before television!” Tracey shouted half-heartedly over her shoulder as Caleb raced down the short hall to their living room. She veered toward the eat-in kitchen.

As Tracey walked through the kitchen entrance, out of the corner of her eye she saw Caleb beeline for the television, grabbing the remote from their second-hand IKEA coffee table and tossing aside his backpack onto their love seat. He turned on Nickelodeon, ignoring his mother’s command. The sound of lasers and explosions suddenly filled the house.

Tracey’s lips tightened in frustration. She should order him to turn off the television, but Maggie’s screams of agony took precedence over Caleb’s blatant disobedience.

“What he needs is a good smack on the rear end,” she could hear her mother say. “Spare the rod, spoil the child, Tracey!”

But her mother hadn’t done much spanking, let alone disciplining, during Tracey’s own childhood. And since leaving her husband, Tracey hadn’t had much of a stomach for corporal punishment. The idea of raising her hand to Caleb made her almost nauseated.

Tracey dropped both her purse and the diaper bag onto the kitchenette table before falling back into one of the wooden chairs and setting Maggie on her lap. She fished around in the bag’s inner pockets.

“Where is it? Where is it?” she muttered amid the soundtrack of wails and blaring cartoons before finally locating the plastic tube of Orajel. She’d had to buy a spare since Maggie’s babysitter kept losing them.

“Does the woman think I’m made out of money?” Tracey mumbled to herself before covering the tip of her index finger with the bubblegum pink gel and swabbing it on her daughter’s inflamed gums. Gradually, the screams and tears subsided. The baby thumped her head back against Tracey’s collarbone in relief, making her mother wince, then smile.

“All better?”

“Eat! Eat!” Maggie shouted.

Tracey kissed her crown and rose to her feet just as the doorbell rang. She glanced over her shoulder again.

“Eat! Eat!” Maggie chanted as the doorbell rang a second time, followed by a loud knock.

Tracey rushed out of the kitchen and down the hall, perching Maggie on her hip as she did so. She swung open the front door and took a step back in surprise.

Mr. Stapleton stood on the doormat with his fist raised and his hairy knuckles poised to knock again. When he saw Tracey standing in the doorway, he lowered his hand.

He was a short man who resembled a melting candle—his pale, bald head sank into his thick neck, which sagged into his bowed shoulders, which then turned into a doughy frame and finally ended in two stubby feet encased in unremarkable cheap, leather shoes.

“Ms. Walters,” he said, shoving his wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, squinting his watery gray eyes at her.

“Mmm-Mr. Stapleton,” she stuttered, pushing the door farther open. “Umm, look, I know I told you I’d give you the rest of this month’s rent early this week, but I’m going to need a little more time.”

He quickly shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not here to collect your rent.”

“You aren’t?”

He shook his head again. “No. I was hoping you’d be here so I wouldn’t have to dig out my key.” He held up a key ring and jingled it, showing an assortment of more than a dozen keys of all shapes and sizes. “The damn thing isn’t here. I must have left it back at the house. It’d be a pain to have to go back there now. I’d hate to have to postpone the tour.”

She frowned. “Tour? What . . . what tour?”

Tracey watched as Mr. Stapleton suddenly turned and beckoned a couple she hadn’t realized had been standing there the whole time. They were waiting at the end of the driveway near a red hatchback missing one of its hubcaps. The woman had her arms wrapped around her and her head bowed. The man had his hands shoved into his pockets and looked anxious. When Mr. Stapleton waved at them, they immediately shuffled across the yard toward the wooden steps.

“What tour?” Tracey repeated, though she already knew the answer.

Mr. Stapleton turned to her and grinned. “I’m giving a tour to the new tenants.” He extended a folded sheet of paper toward her. “This is your one-month notice to vacate.”

That night, after the children had gone to bed, Tracey sat alone at the kitchen table, staring at the notice. A chipped glass sat beside her, half filled with a Lodi zinfandel the hotel manager had given to her for Christmas. He’d given a bottle to all the wait staff, a splurge meant to reward them for a stellar year filled with happy tourists who readily opened their wallets and plunked down more than twenty bucks for frozen scallops and overcooked lobster at the hotel’s restaurant.

She hadn’t opened the bottle when she’d received the gift, deciding to save it for some special occasion, keeping it in its feather-fringed gift bag and tucking both in the cabinet underneath the sink next to the bottles of 409 and Pine Sol. But tonight, she pulled the cork and finished a third of the bottle. She figured losing your home was a rare enough occasion to warrant getting drunk on a decent wine.

Tracey twirled the gift bag around and around her index finger and raised the glass to her lips. As she sipped, she tossed the bag aside and began to write on the blank side of the eviction notice how much money she had left. As soon as she’d begun to dream of her great escape, she had squirreled money away like acorns to last her through the cold, hard winter. Now, less than a year after leaving Paul, Tracey was already at the last of it—a sum total of three hundred and twenty-seven dollars.

She then calculated how much money she would need to move to a new place: first month’s rent, deposit, hiring movers, etc.

There’s a big difference between those two numbers, she thought forlornly.

She reached for her purse. It was still sitting on the kitchenette table. She shoved her hand inside in search of her latest bank statement among the bills that had arrived in her mailbox that day, foolishly hopeful she had more money than she remembered. Instead, she pulled out a yellow envelope. She stared at it in bewilderment, wondering why this was in her purse, and then she remembered.

The elegant script on the back . . .

The woman from Chesapeake Cupcakery . . .

She examined the envelope, laughing softly to herself. The parchment was thick, and you could spot its woven pattern even with the naked eye. It looked like something you would send to invite someone to a wedding or an induction ceremony. How could she ever have mistaken this for an eviction notice?

She opened it and tugged out the letter inside. As she read it, her smile disappeared.

Delilah placed a brown, wrinkled hand over her heart as she watched the men load the suede love seat onto the back of the truck. Instead of feeling her breast under her palm, she felt the soft give of baggy cotton, then her bare chest, as she tried to soothe the ache swelling there, the ache she felt at saying good-bye yet again.

Though this phantom pain probably would never go away, her breasts had disappeared years ago. They hadn’t been there since she’d had her double mastectomy in 2009. Delilah didn’t wear the prosthetic breasts the doctor had given her after her surgery. They sat abandoned in a box, sealed in the original plastic wrapping, somewhere on a shelf in her walk-in closet. They would remain there because she did not—and would never—care for such things. People mattered; fake breasts did not.

She continued to watch the two movers slowly walk up the metal ramp as they carried the love seat, one shouting directions she couldn’t hear clearly from behind the second-floor bedroom window. Sweat stains were along their backs and armpits, darkening their tan shirts with Vs. Their pants sank low on their hips, as young men’s pants often did nowadays, each revealing two to three inches of boxer briefs. After they loaded the sofa onto the truck, they both trudged down the ramp and walked toward a stack of cardboard boxes in the driveway with large labels on them. KITCHEN one box said in big black letters. BEDROOM said another.

Keeping a watchful eye on the movers was a redhead who stood off to the side with her freckled arms crossed over her chest. As if she felt Delilah’s eyes on her, she turned and looked toward the bedroom window. She and Delilah momentarily locked gazes. The young woman waved, and Delilah raised her hand from her chest and waved back.

Delilah remembered when she’d first seen Claudia standing on her front porch. It had been raining that night all those many months ago, much as it had rained the night decades before when Delilah had first arrived at Harbor Hill hand in hand with her future husband. But unlike Delilah, who had sauntered up the stairs to her new home, Claudia seemed to hesitate to even ring the doorbell. The poor girl hadn’t had a coat or umbrella. She had been soaked from the downpour—from her long, stringy hair to her mud-stained canvas shoes.

Claudia had shouted over the sound of thunder in the distance, above the sound of pelting rain as her thin shoulders had trembled, either from the cold or the fear of lightning. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, ma’am, to just show up like this, but I got your note! I had nowhere else to go!”

That night, Delilah had seen the same desperation in Claudia’s eyes that she saw in all their eyes—that she had seen reflected in her own eyes decades ago. But that’s why she had chosen her, wasn’t it? It was why she had sent her the note that she had sent to many others, always ending with the same words: Please accept my invitation for help of any kind. My door is always open. She’d done it because of that frightened animal look and because Claudia seemed to believe there was no one in the world to whom she could turn for help.

Seeing her there, Delilah had wordlessly pushed the door open and ushered Claudia inside her home.

But now the aura of desperation was gone. Standing in the driveway, Claudia looked confident, content. She seemed renewed. She wasn’t that scared little animal anymore, frantically burrowing into a hole. She was finally ready to leave her four-thousand-square-foot nest on Harbor Hill.

Tears started to well in Delilah’s eyes.

“It’s always sad to see them go, ain’t it?”

Delilah jumped at the sound of the voice behind her, though she shouldn’t have. It was a familiar voice—one that had spoken to her for the past several decades. But she didn’t remember hearing it quite so clearly before. It was like the voice had been using a tin can and waxed yarn to reach her and suddenly decided to upgrade to an Apple iPhone.

“So, so sad,” the voice continued.

She sniffed, blinked back her tears, and looked over her shoulder, though she knew no one would be waiting for her there. Her eyes settled on her ornate oak four-poster bed, where her brown and black tabby lounged, grooming himself with one leg stuck straight up into the air.

“Did you say something, Bruce?” she asked, raising her gray brows.

At her question, Bruce stopped licking the long hairs on his tummy and narrowed his yellow eyes at her.

“Of course he didn’t say anything, you silly girl,” the voice drawled. “He’s a cat! He didn’t say it—I did.”

Delilah walked toward the bed and sat down, exhaling as she landed on the mattress. Bruce hopped to his feet and sauntered toward her, his small paws leaving light indentations in the plush velvet duvet. He then climbed onto her ample lap and began to purr as she stroked him.

When she’d brought Bruce home from the local animal shelter six years ago, he had been a scruffy little thing—a mass of dandelion-like fur and oversized ears. Now he was an overweight prima donna who had a penchant for fresh tuna and had declared eminent domain over her bedroom. The bed, carpet, chaise lounge, and every other cloth-covered surface seemed to have a permanent coat of Bruce’s cat hair.

“You’re one persistent little man,” she said as she rubbed Bruce’s back, feeling his rib cage vibrate beneath her palm as he purred contentedly. “Can’t stand for your mama not to pay attention to you, can you?”

“Can you blame him? Who would want to compete with all the other strays you drag in off the street?”

Delilah’s hand stilled.

“Delilah and her strays,” the voice continued merrily in a singsong voice. “If it’s mangy, dirty, and from the dregs of humanity, she’ll offer you a couch, a shower, and a glass of lemonade. Won’t you, Dee?”

Bruce raised his head and turned to gaze at her. He nudged her wrist with his brow, urging her to pet him again. She obeyed and resumed stroking the cat’s back.

The voice released a deep, throaty chuckle. “You can drag home your tired, your poor, your beaten, and your broken, but it still doesn’t change anything, you bitch,” the voice said with an icy coldness.

The ghostly voice would usually start off enticing; it had an almost saccharine sweetness that would lull her into thinking it wasn’t that bad. So what if she’d had a voice whispering in her ear for the past forty and some odd years? It was so charming, so kind. Who wouldn’t want its company? And then the voice would grow needlepoint teeth and claws, and she couldn’t get away from it fast enough.

“Good morning, beautiful,” it would whisper to her when she stood in front of the bathroom mirror in the morning, brushing her teeth. Then she would pause to spit the minty froth into the sink, and it would shout, “Didn’t you hear me talking to you, you lying cunt?”

“Isn’t it a lovely day today?” it would ask cheerfully as she worked in her garden, patting soil into a clay pot filled with geranium seeds. “Not that you deserve it, bitch.”

She had tried to get rid of the voice over the years. She had been blessed by her minister and read the Bible until her vision blurred, seeking guidance from the holy word for some recipe that would make the voice go away.

Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.—Book of James, chapter 4, verse 7.

She had gone to a mystic healer who’d waved burning sage over her and around the rooms of Harbor Hill while mumbling some mumbo jumbo.

The old woman had promised she wouldn’t be haunted anymore just before tucking the two hundred dollars Delilah had given her into her bosom.

Delilah had even confided in a doctor, telling him how the voice tried to instigate fights with her, though she refused to take the bait.

“Really?” the doctor had asked, furrowing his dark, batwing-like brows as he scribbled on a notepad. “Does the voice tell you to do things, Delilah?”

She had frowned at his question and the presumption he had taken at calling her by her first name. “What do you mean?”

“I mean does the voice tell you to hurt yourself or hurt others?” the doctor had asked, nibbling on the tip of a pen already covered with gnaw marks. He studied her like she was one of the pages in the many journals on his mahogany office shelf.

“He’s told me to go swimming in the Chesapeake Bay and just stay there, if that’s what you mean,” she answered dryly.

“He?”

“Yep.”

“And who is he, Delilah?”

She had fallen silent. The tick of the doctor’s wall clock and the noise of a garbage truck passing by the building several floors below had been the only sound in the room as they had stared at one another and the doctor had waited for her answer.

“You’ve got ink all over your face,” Delilah had said as she pointed at the doctor, breaking their silence and reaching into her purse to withdraw a Kleenex.

“Oh, oh!” the doctor had said, sitting forward in his chair as he futilely wiped at the large glob of blue ink on his chin. He’d reluctantly accepted the tissue she’d handed him.

Soon after, the doctor had suggested more intensive therapy sessions and a multitude of pills to deal with her “hallucinations.” They would then see how she responded to the treatment and “take it from there.”

But Delilah didn’t come back to therapy or take any fool pills. How could she trust the word of a man who couldn’t even keep ink off his face?

The voice wasn’t a hallucination. The voice was real—as real as the sky above and the ground below. And it wouldn’t go away, not with therapy or pills or mystic hullabaloo or intervention from God himself.

She would just have to ignore it, to treat the voice like it was an annoying child acting out, clamoring for attention—treat it like the nuisance that it was. It would shout a few more times and then disappear. She planned to take the same approach today.

“It doesn’t mean a thang,” the voice continued to sing with a Tom Jones–like bravado as Delilah gazed out the windowpanes, still stroking Bruce. “Doesn’t mean a thang! It doesn’t change what you did. You hear me, Dee?” it barked.

She flinched and reflexively squeezed the hunk of fur in her hand. Bruce let out a yelp, then nipped her, leaving twin-sized punctures on her knuckles.

“Oww! Damn it!” she shouted, tossing Bruce to the floor and clutching her hand to her chest.

Bruce’s ears went flat as he squinted at her. Each gave the other a reproachful look before Bruce fled from the bedroom with his tail whipping behind him.

Delilah stared down at her hand, where two trickles of blood slid over the wrinkled skin and landed on her lap before fading into the yellow-and-blue flower pattern of her sundress.

“That won’t come out,” she murmured, remembering a similar stain from many, many years ago.

At the sound of a metal door being shut, Delilah tore her gaze away from the blood. She looked up and out the window.

The two movers walked back down the ramp, laughing and shouting to one another. They then raised the ramp before shoving it into a slot beneath the moving truck. Claudia walked toward a man who stood off to the side. He was also wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and sagging jeans like the movers, but he held a pair of garden shears in his hand.

It was Aidan, the landscaper and resident handyman for Harbor Hill. Aidan had called the expansive cottage his home when he was a teenager, when he and his mother, Rosario, had moved here after living out of their car for months. He had returned four years ago to help Delilah maintain the property.

And to hide, Delilah thought. Because Harbor Hill not only seemed to serve as a place for sustenance and healing, but also as a place where one went to bury things, and poor Aidan had more pain, scars, and loss to bury than most.

Claudia spread her arms, wide and welcoming, and walked toward where Aidan stood in the driveway, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. Should he hug her back? Should he kiss her? Should the kiss be chaste or something heated, like the ones they usually shared? What was a proper way to say goodbye to a woman you’ve slept with more than a dozen times but to whom you’ve never said, “I love you,” let alone “Wanna grab some breakfast in the morning?”

But then Aidan reminded himself this was during the day, not at night. He wasn’t slinking out of her bedroom at 2:00 a.m., careful not to wake Delilah, who was fast asleep three doors down the hall. Instead, he and Claudia were standing near her moving truck, and two twenty-something men—one with dreads and another with a faux hawk—were standing only a few feet away, loudly regaling each other with stories about last night’s basketball game.

So when Claudia wrapped her arms around him, Aidan responded in kind, keeping the gesture innocuous—simply a hug between friends. Because even though they had been fuck buddies, that still made them buddies. But he wasn’t prepared when Claudia whispered, “Thank you for everything, Aidan,” before brushing her lips across the beard stubble on his cheek.

“Thank you for what?” he asked, squinting down at her when she released him and took a step back.

“You know what,” she said with a knowing smirk and a wink before walking backward toward her car, which was parked next to the moving truck. She then gave him a wave, tossed her reddish-orange locks over her shoulder, and turned away.

He continued to stare at her in confusion, even as he watched her open the door to her Honda Civic.

It was Delilah whom the women usually thanked—not Aidan. She was their Mother Teresa, Florence Nightingale, and Princess Di all rolled into one. She was the one who deserved to be canonized for what she did for these p. . .