“Sometimes, yes. But even when the words were in English I wasn’t quite sure what to make of them. Everything seemed to be in a minor key, even when they were singing about the joy of the Lord. It was as if they were somberly going through words that should have elicited the exact opposite response. For me, there was a disconnect between the mood of the service and the words of Scripture.”

“Interesting.”

“I’m not trying to be too critical or judgmental. Some of it just didn’t feel appropriate to me. I longed for more joy.”

“I hear you.”

The next photo showed a two-meter-high rock wall encircling a courtyard, and it brought to mind the paradox inherent in the ministry of these contemplative monks: they close themselves off from the world but then welcome the world in, one visitor at a time.

One by one, she explained each picture to me—the gardens and the statues, the Stations of the Cross, the meditation room, and the tranquil ponds across the road from the retreat center itself.

“I went to confession for the first time in my life,” she told me.

“Confession? Really?” I couldn’t think of a whole lot of sins that she might need to confess. “How did that go?”

“Good, I suppose.” She hesitated a long time, and I had the sense that she had more to say, but she chose not to, and I didn’t press her.

She returned her chair to the other side of the table. “Over the weekend, I was reading a book about memories and meditation, and it mentioned that people’s clearest memories often revolve around the first time they did something, the last time they did it, or the most unique time. So, for example, we don’t remember all of the thousands of times we’ve brushed our teeth, but most people would remember the last time they did, or a time when they were brushing their teeth and something unusual happened to interrupt them.”

“Memory conflation,” I said. “Yes. It often comes into play in eyewitness accounts and—”

She put her hand on mine. “Pat, let’s not talk about work tonight.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I just . . . It just came out.”

“It’s okay.”

She didn’t take her hand away, and that was fine by me.

“You were saying? Memories?”

“Something I want to do tonight. Something to share.”

“What’s that?”

“Think of the three most special memories you have of us being together.”

“How do I choose only three?”

“Keep talking like that and you never know where this evening might lead.”

I had some ideas. I liked them.

“I’ll go first,” she said. She lifted her hand to take a drink of wine. “The first time we met has to be on my list.”

“Under the umbrella. In the cool April rain.”

“Mm-hmm. My knees went weak when I first saw that scruffy face of yours.”