Mask of the Andes. Jon Cleary
one day be Pope. McKenna had done his best to scuff up the suitcase before arriving in Bolivia, but he had been very conscious of the sardonic glances cast at the suitcase by the priests at the mission up in La Paz where he had stayed for his first week.
The butler, unrecognizable in a black cardigan, a cast-off of his master’s that hung on his thin frame like a poncho, was already up. He let McKenna out the front door, then crossed the courtyard to open the big gates. McKenna drove the Jeep out, then pulled up sharply as he saw someone come out the front door and run across the courtyard after him. It was Carmel, dressed in slacks and a mink coat. Oh God, he thought, hasn’t our family ever heard of sackcloth?
‘I’ve decided to come to Mass. Okay?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and felt a sudden warmth that threw off the chill of the morning. ‘It’ll make it a personal Mass for me.’
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