“I get it. I know I went into the convent for all the wrong reasons.” She’d lifted her ponytail and readjusted the band holding the thick hank of hair away from her face. “I’m just kidding about the other nuns. Some of the women there are so devout, their faith so secure, it makes me wish I had that same trust in God. I pray every day that I find it, but . . . I don’t know.” She’d shaken her head, a few lines evident between her eyebrows. “Sisters like Louise and Angela and Dorothy, they belong. Even if they’re all half in love with Father O’Toole—he’s the young, hot priest, and all of the sopranos seem to be under his spell.” She’d grinned. “Maybe even me.” She’d picked off a piece of chipped paint from the pole of the birdhouse.

“Seriously,” she continued. “But they’re good people. Take Louise, for example. She’s one of those terminally upbeat people I just don’t get. Musical, too. Always singing or humming, which bugs the reverend mother. Big-time.” Camille had smiled, as if amused at the thought. “She works with me at St. Elsinore’s sometimes.” She’d cast her sister a look. “I know, you think we should avoid the place, but I think it’s a good spot to start giving back.”

“Really?” St. Elsinore’s wasn’t a place she liked to think about too much. A parish far outside New Orleans and built on higher ground, St. Elsinore’s worked hand in hand with St. Marguerite’s, and together the two convents staffed the orphanage.

“Really.” Camille had flashed a bright smile. “See, I’m trying. But”—she’d shrugged, her grin fading—“the truth is, it’s a struggle to belong.”

“More than the others?”

“Who knows? Lots of the others don’t seem like typical nuns. Take Irene. I mean, she was a ballerina. Go figure. Athletic and strong and not particularly even-keeled.”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a diva nun,” Val had said.

“There shouldn’t be.”

“Meaning?”

“She has a dark side, I guess.” Camille’s face had turned pensive. “Maybe we all do.” She’d squinted and watched a hawk circle high overhead. “But the thing is, they all seem to think they’re doing the right thing—fitting in.”

“But not you?”

“Uh-uh. Not me.”

“No one’s put a gun to your head and said you had to stay. There’s plenty of time to change your mind.”

“And where would I go?”

“Anywhere, Cammie. You’re young and beautiful and smart as a whip. If you want to take your vows, fine. If the convent life is for you, great. But if you think you don’t belong there, then leave.”