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I was determined to fit into the Irish Catholic setting—tulips, windmills, blonde hair, and all. A few weeks after I started, I got my first challenge. The dean told me to meet her the next morning at Queen of Martyrs. I had no idea what this meant, and she was gone before I could ask. I gave myself a Twenty Questions quiz. Person, place, or thing? Face cards came to mind: Queen of Hearts… Spades… Clubs… Diamonds. No Queen of Martyrs.

I didn’t want anyone to know I didn’t know. So when Vivian, my secretary, asked if I needed help with anything, I said, “Yes. Tomorrow morning. Queen of Martyrs. Where do I park?”

“Right in back of this building. Where you park now. You can walk across.”
Great, that was helpful. Queen of Martyrs was a place, across something. But what? A bridge? The parking lot? The street?

When I left work that day, I spotted the Queen of Martyrs sign at a church across the street. I sighed with relief. I could save face, but not for long.

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