Sam didn’t care that Dani and Tony and likely the whole rest of the world didn’t understand his abandonment of the Internet. They didn’t need to understand, they just had to accept it. It wasn’t going to change. It wasn’t a fad or a passing fancy or a silly notion he’d outgrow in time. It was survival. Maybe other men with his problem could learn to trust themselves, but he couldn’t. And even if he could, he wanted Melanie to know, absolutely, without an instant’s doubt, without any of those lingering fears and insecurities that had led to migraines and stomach ulcers during their last months together, that he was not looking at pornography.
It didn’t matter to Sam that they weren’t living together. It didn’t matter that Melanie hadn’t asked him about it, not once, since she’d left. It wouldn’t matter if forty years passed, and they never spoke again. He wanted her to have that one absolute, that knowledge she’d begged him for, and he’d denied her, over and over.
Things were about to get a lot tougher, though. Losing Melanie had brought him lower than he could have imagined he’d go. In the aftermath, he’d established all the strict rules for himself that still governed him today. He’d traded in his smartphone for what Dani dubbed his drug-dealer phone, had scrubbed his laptop and desktop computers before donating them. And he’d begun policing his mind, bringing up images of his beautiful Melanie whenever other bodies intruded, dwelling on her soft curves and fantastic curves when he was alone.
He didn’t know how he’d fare when he finally moved forward with his plan to file for divorce. It seemed disrespectful, cruel, somehow, to continue to use her for his own pleasure in private once they’d thoroughly divided their ways. But he didn’t know if he could stop. Didn’t know who—or what—he’d become if he did.
Shuddering, Sam lowered the barbell to rest over his chest. Stronger. He just needed to get stronger. The possibility of retreat, of relapsing into that dark world of guilt and overwhelming lust and self-loathing, was unbearable. He might never hold Melanie again, but he would look her in the face with clear eyes. Never again would she have to face him and know his gaze was stained with the suffering of the exploited and unvalued. He wasn’t that man. He wasn’t that man. He was himself.
He was Sam Geisler. He wasn’t that man.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sam decided discretion really was the better part of valor when he spotted the illustrious Lord Lannister in line Monday morning. Also, if his sister knew what was coming, it would ruin all the fun. He had to be patient, though. When Ian Lannister reached Dani to order his lemon bar and coffee to go, five people were lined up behind him. Clearly even he recognized this was not a good time to vow his undying love. So Sam kept his mouth shut, clearing tables and steaming milk for cappuccinos until the line dissipated. Sam figured with all the time Lannister had spent supposedly doctoring his drink over at the sugar bar, his coffee was at least room temperature if not downright cold by the time he made it back to the counter. Sam dodged into the kitchen and eavesdropped shamelessly.
“Oh, did you need something else?” Dani asked politely.
“No, not exactly.” Sam could just picture the blood starting to rise in the guy’s neck. “Your brother probably already warned you about the crazy stalker who’s been mooning after you for months.”
Sam barely snatched back a whistle before it escaped his lips. Ballsy. He had to give the guy props for going at it straight on.
He heard Dani make a noise that fell somewhere between laughing and choking to death. He figured she might be blushing now, too.
“Umm. Yeah. He did mention something about that.”
“I thought I’d introduce myself in case you need a name and description for the police report. I’m Ian Lannister.”
“Dani Geisler,” Sam’s sister managed.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come up with a way to make this less weird, but meeting someone anywhere other than on an app or a computer screen feels somehow imposing. Like you’re violating their privacy.”
“I am feeling a little exposed right now,” Dani said with her customary directness.
“I figured. So, maybe we can start slow. Now that you know my name, you can Google me and see just how weird I am. Or, maybe you’re so disinterested that you won’t even remember it after I walk out of here. But I’m hoping that since we’ve met, if I ask you out in a week or two, it won’t seem as weird as it seems right now.”
Sam was taken aback. The guy had seemed like such a mouse the other night. Sam really wanted to peek around the corner and see just how red Lannister’s face had gotten by now, but he restrained himself. With difficulty. He wasn’t surprised by Dani’s immediate response, though.
“I don’t date much. I just don’t have time. I’m sure you’ve seen my son in here, and this shop takes all my energy. I appreciate the thought. I’m flattered, but I don’t go out.”
“That’s all right. Maybe you’ll change your mind in a week or two. Maybe you’ll turn me down and break my heart. We’ll find out when we get there. In the meantime…have a good day. I’m sure I’ll see you in the morning.”
A few seconds later, the bell chimed, signaling Lannister had left the café. Dani came around the kitchen corner in a storm, shoving Sam backwards in the chest with both hands as soon as she spotted him.
“You asshole!” she fumed. “You knew that was him, and you didn’t say a word. Whatever happened to sibling loyalty?”
“I’m loyal. Mostly. I was just thinking it would ruin all the fun if you knew what was coming.”
“All. The. Fun?” Uh-oh. Once Dani started talking like William Shatner, Sam knew he was in trouble. He plowed ahead anyway.
“Sure, fun. If I’d warned you in advance, he might have never gotten his chance.”
She shoved him again, but he was prepared this time and barely shifted on his feet.
“That was totally embarrassing!”
“Embarrassing? How come? You said you were flattered.”
“Naturally you were eavesdropping the whole time.”
“Naturally. How often do I get to hear my sister get asked out? So what do you think? Gonna go?”
“Well, I think he’s not nearly as funny-looking as you made him sound. But no, I’m not going to go anywhere with him. What I told him was absolutely true. I don’t have time. Especially not if we’re going to stay open later on weekends.”
“I can watch Parker. You can go out on a Thursday night. Smaller crowds and better drinks specials, anyway. Besides, we agreed that if this weekend thing turns out to be a success, you’ll hire somebody.”
“If. If. That’s a big if. And they’ll need training. It’s not as if I’m suddenly going to have all of this free time.”
“I’m just saying, we can make it work if you want to.”
“Why would I want to? Parker and I are perfectly happy. The only hiccup in our lives besides his occasional mad fit at school is this obnoxious big galoot living in our spare room.”
Sam threw his hand over his heart. “I’m wounded. Deeply.”
“Puh-lease.”
“So…not that funny-looking, huh? No shades of crimson?”
To his delight, Dani herself flushed vermillion. “Well, yeah, he does seem to blush a lot, but he’s reasonably good-looking. Definitely not the hopeless geek you made him out to be.”
“In my defense, he did reference Game of Thrones in our first conversation. And maybe you just have a weakness for hopeless geeks.”
“Clearly I have a weakness for you, since you’re still standing here and not nursing a mortal injury.”
“I’m going to assume you are striking out at me because you’re feeling vulnerable.”
This time he dodged. That fist did not look friendly.
“You know I hate that word!”
“What word? Vulnerable? Wittle bitty vulnerable?”
“Stop it!”
Sam retreated up the stairs, triple-timing the steps as she howled after him. People would never beli
eve all the counseling work he’d done if they could hear him tormenting Dani. But Sam figured sisters were exempt from empathetic listening.
He needed to hit the sheets for his mid-morning nap, anyway. The weekend schedule had been brutal, and he needed to be fresh for tonight. He’d called Clay Sunday afternoon. Tonight, after Clay got home from work, Sam was going to see him. He had a plan, an idea he thought just might work. A plan that would involve breaking no confidences and betraying no secrets, but might finally answer the question everyone had been asking.
Why?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sam had debated the advantages of inviting Rufus Ffaukes to go to the Randolph house with him. He wasn’t sure when he’d begun thinking of the older man as an ally. He still didn’t have Ffaukes figured out—there was clearly much more to him than met the eye. Sam had been stunned when Melanie had told him about the new sex addiction support group. When he’d confessed his own struggles to the church, most responses had ranged from politely suppressed outrage to embarrassment to contempt. The general consensus had been that people wanted it all to simply go away, that it was too uncomfortable a subject to be bandied about. He wondered what had changed. Was it possible that his own disgrace had somehow provided an impetus for change he hadn’t even been aware of?
Pride, he chided himself instantly. Always looking for a way to make it all about yourself. He was grateful, however it had come about, for whatever good Ffaukes could affect. He didn’t want anyone else to go through what he’d put Melanie through. He didn’t want anyone else to have the same hopeless outlook he’d had. He wanted people who felt buried to know there were shovels and helping hands just on the other side of the darkness. He wasn’t sure how much of an impact a support group could have, but it had to be better than not trying at all.
Sam was still amazed by the forbearance of the Jensens, to not have opened the letter from the woman accused of being their daughter’s killer. You could never underestimate the mystery and power of human relationships, he mused. Facing the worst possible grief that any parent could endure, multiplied by the horrific violence of Amy’s passing, burdened with the care of their grandchildren, desperate for answers, Adam and Lenore had nonetheless clung to the bond that they’d developed with the child Amanda as though it could not possibly have become a fiction. They hadn’t read her letter for the simple reason that she’d asked them not to.
Given that, it made perfect sense that they hadn’t turned the letter over to the police, either. That would have constituted an even greater betrayal than reading it themselves would have done. Preacher Sam had been the ideal solution, even if he was the biggest fiction of all. He only hoped he could do right by everyone involved.
So many variables that he couldn’t control. The biggest, of course, was exactly what secrets the letter contained in the first place. A horrible suspicion, too ugly to be named, had been niggling at Sam for a while now. He thought he recognized something in Clay’s isolation, in his ability to remain completely alone while surrounded by people. Everything that didn’t make sense, everything that didn’t fit, just might, if the worst of all possibilities were true.
From Sam’s point of view, he was answerable not only to Amanda’s trust but to the trust of the Jensens as well. He could no more betray that than they could. So he hadn’t read the letter either. And Clay’s reaction was a complete unknown. Sam’s relationship with the man had only ever been peripheral at best. If Sam had only known Amy on the surface, he hadn’t known Clay at all. The salesman had been an occasional prop on social occasions, an infrequent voice in Bible classes. For what felt like the thousandth time, Sam castigated himself for not digging deeper into the hearts that should have been his to safeguard and shepherd. Although, today, he dreaded unearthing what might lay throbbing in the dirt.
Another thought troubled Sam. If the letter really contained the answers they all wanted, how had it made it out of jail custody at all? Sam knew that the jail staff scanned all incoming and outgoing letters. It was stamped right on the outside of the envelope. “Scanned by” followed by an illegible scrawl that he assumed was meant to approximate initials. If the letter contained a confession or some evidence of criminal activity, it should have never made it into the mailbox. Maybe this was a wild goose chase. Maybe Amanda’s reasons for not wanting the letter read till after her conviction were purely emotional. Maybe there were no answers to be had at all.
There was only way to find out. One way that Sam was willing to attempt, anyhow.
He pulled into the driveway, noting that the grass was a good deal higher than the neighbors’. Even with the advent of cooler temperatures, Indiana was so wet and had such a long growing season that the last mow of the season often didn’t come till November. Idly, Sam wondered if Amy had usually mowed the lawn or if Clay had always done it. He’d bet the former. He’d long had the feeling that Clay assumed his husbandly duties were discharged by direct deposit. And to be fair, his frequent travel probably made it easier for Amy to handle most of the outdoor chores as well as the indoor.
He rang the doorbell. Long minutes passed. He was about to ring it again when slow footsteps sounded on the other side of the door.
Sam fixed a smile to his face and managed to keep it from faltering when Clay opened the door and an alcohol-scented breeze gusted out.
“Preacher Sam.” Clay sounded more resigned than contemptuous this time. “Come in. Can I get you a drink?”
“Maybe a glass of water,” Sam replied by force of habit, although he doubted Clay would find a clean glass anywhere. As they walked into the living room, Sam saw that the traces of Amy’s touch he’d observed last time were all but gone. Pizza boxes and glass bottles of various sizes and colors littered the tables, and most of the pillows seemed to be on the floor for some reason. Glancing into the kitchen, Sam saw heaps of dirty Tupperware and foil baking pans, no doubt the remains of Chelsea Bromiglia’s well-meaning food brigade. Sam took a seat in the same chair he’d occupied last time. He didn’t really want to sit down, didn’t want to linger in this place that reeked of stress sweat and despair and pepperoni, but he knew there was no rushing through this moment.
Also, nobody liked to be loomed over, and whether he liked it or not, Sam’s height made him a definite loomer. What could feel intimidating to women was often challenging to men, and neither was useful to constructive conversation. So Sam had learned to take a seat as early into an interaction as possible. By far the majority of human communication was nonverbal, just like the animals. Given the sensitive and difficult nature of most of the confidences between congregants and their pastor, Sam figured he needed every advantage he could get. And this one was going to be a doozy.
He wasn’t looking for all the answers anymore. Some of the details—the discrepancies in the profits taken home by Amy and Amanda, the travel plans—were falling into place in his mind, like a puzzle that was fitting together but he’d lost the lid for and had no idea what the complete picture would look like. If Clay revealed today what Sam was fearing more and more every minute was true, then that image would snap into focus with a terrible precision that Sam dreaded as much as he needed.
Clay came out of the kitchen carrying a glass of water and another of those soda cans that Sam was sure held more vodka than sugar water. Sam took a hefty swallow to be polite, making a conscious effort not to look too closely at the smudged glass. Clay tumbled back onto the couch, sliding off his loosened tie and pulling out the tails of his buttoned-down shirt. He made no apologies for the house or his own appearance.
Sam thought the other man looked trapped in two simultaneous planes of existence. Clay had always affected a fanciness, a dandified air that had made him stand out among the other men at church. Not that he’d cared for their opinion—if you’d asked him about it, he’d have said without hesitation that he was dressed for success. It wasn’t anything effeminate, just louder—brighter, bolder colors, satiny fabrics, the occasional French cuff, ti
es that probably cost as much as Sam’s suit. Hints of that persisted even now. The purple and magenta tie with its shiny striping that lay on the couch cushions, the unbuttoned pale pink shirt, the gel that kept Clay’s blond hair in some semblance of style even with the finger marks clearly tousling its effect. But the bleakness of his expression, the chaos and filthiness of his home, spoke of a break that might never be mended.
Sam didn’t want to feel pity for this man. Not with the suspicions that had been eating at him since his visit with the Jensens. But sympathy stirred, nonetheless. Even devils suffer.
“First day back at work?” Sam asked.
Clay nodded heavily, taking a long sip from his can.
“How was it?”
Clay shrugged. “Same bullshit as always, I guess. Oh, sorry, Preacher.”
“No need to censor yourself around me. I always thought the Bible’s teachings on speech had a lot more to do with content and intent than vocabulary, anyway.”
Clay blinked at him for a minute, then seemed to abandon the effort at deciphering his meaning. “I went through the motions, but it all seemed kind of pointless, you know? I don’t know why I’m bothering anymore.”
“A man’s reputation can be a powerful motivator.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I thought it was for me. Now, I’m not so sure. I mean, who do I really care about? The guys at work couldn’t even figure out how to talk to me today. Most of them spent the whole day trying to avoid bumping into me. And it’s not like I’m exactly best friends with anyone at church. That was Amy’s gig.”
“Who is your best friend?”
Clay shook his head. “Bad turn of phrase. Not what I meant. I’m not in junior high anymore. What grown man has best friends? I just…I used to think it was so important to be thought of a certain way. Now I realize I don’t give two shits who thinks what.”
Preacher Sam Page 18
