After three abruptly ended marriages - hippie husband Tim, stoned one
minute and dead the next, fell off a balcony; architectural historian Cecil
fell into Venice's Grand Canal (he couldn't swim); tax inspector Hugh fell
off a cliff at Land's End - Aurora is ready to lose her dreary black
trouser-suit and kick over a few distressing traces. Myths, though, have a
way of being subverted by reality for Aurora. It's her new eau de nil frock
that she sheds, however, when she finds herself in the hotel room of the
disconcertingly magnetic Father Michael. He's wearing yellow paisley socks.
He also rides a Harley Davidson, and he may not be a priest at all. Nor may
the charming, exquisitely tailored museum director, Frederico Pagan, be
quite so thoroughly heterosexually disinclined as Aurora thinks. One thing
is certain, Aurora's old friend and erstwhile radical feminist Leonora is
now the local convent's abbess, even if Aurora can't imagine what an abbess
might want with a gun. What she can image, vividly, by the end of this
tale, is exactly what to do with it.