For the first time in his life it occurred to him that he had never dreamed about missing his father, only his mother. How strange. Even stranger and crueler was Aunt Maudelle’s silence. All those years growing up and she never said a word.
But after his long talks with his father, he began to understand how much it must have hurt his aunt that he didn’t show more appreciation for her sacrifice. Every time he told her he missed his mother, she must have suffered because she had tried so hard to be a mother to him.
Part of him wished he had never heard her confession. Now it was too late to go back and tell his aunt how sorry he was that he hadn’t understood.
Wasn’t there an old adage about ignorance being bliss?
Up until her confession, his life hadn’t necessarily been blissful, but he had made a comfortable living, most of which had been invested. There was no question that he’d been able to pursue his education and continue the adventurous lifestyle he craved.
Now suddenly he was grounded for the moment to a piece of land no man owned, in a landlocked desert which might as well be on another planet.
If he had felt no sense of identity before Aunt Maudelle’s confession, he felt it even less now that he’d come face to face with his own father.
They were total opposites.
His father loved the Rocky Mountains. He loved growing things. A flower, a four-leaf clover, those were miracles to him. He craved the stability of one location. A simple man with simple tastes who liked to work with his hands and accepted his daily lot without question. A cheerful, obedient, temperate individual who didn’t need a woman. A man who believed God existed.
How could Andre have come from such a man?
For that matter, how could he have come from a mother who had no schooling past the eighth grade, who had no dreams, who was forced to go to mass once a week and was content to sew dresses for wealthy ladies?
According to his father she was a beautiful young woman who had many admirers, but fell in love with a man who wanted to be a monk. None of it made sense to Andre.
Possibly this was how some adopted children felt when they learned about the lives of their birth parents. They simply couldn’t relate.
He wiped his jaw with a towel, noting the rasp of his beard. A shave was in order. He’d get cleaned up when it was time to meet with Ms. Mallory at nine. Once he had approved the layout of her article, he would send for a taxi and head for the airport.
No matter how kind the brothers had been, he was a stranger here. It was time to move on.
However, as long as he had come to the States, he decided now would be the right time to fly to Los Angeles and sign on a freighter making runs to Alaska, a place he had never visited. New sights were what he needed. For the time being, he craved the open sea, particularly the calm, sunny waters of the Pacific.
At a loose end, he decided to dress and join the brothers out in the orchard. They were up and on the job by five. Three or four hours of hard labor would make the time go faster. In the mood he was in, a book wouldn’t hold him. It was better to keep physically busy so he wouldn’t think.
Throughout Andre’s extensive travels he’d met many exotic, mysterious women. He’d had relationships with several of them. But living at the monastery with his ailing father had been a different proposition altogether.
Apart from being at sea for long periods with the men, he supposed this was the longest time he had ever gone without having the slightest interest in a woman. Therefore he had to assume that Ms. Mallory’s image kept intruding because unlike the other female visitors to the monastery, he linked her presence with his father and knew she would be back to finish up the interview.
Four hours later the woman in question walked into the gift shop with a large folder tucked beneath her arm. Andre was not pleased to discover that he’d been listening for her footsteps. Nor was he very happy about the sudden race of his pulse when he finally acknowledged her presence.
So much for following in his celibate father’s footsteps.
She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. But there was something different about her. Even in the dim light, she glowed with health, as if she’d brought the essence of the day with her. That had to be the missing ingredient in the others.
“Good morning.” Her voice had taken on a husky tone that reached to his insides.
“Ms. Mallory. Go ahead and lay it on the counter.” He moved a few jars to make room.
She opened the folder, then turned it to face him. “As you can see, there’s a colored picture of Father Ambrose at the head of the article. The archives department of the Catholic administrative offices donated it.
“I understand it was taken at least twenty years ago. He was a very handsome man in his robes. You’ve been so kind to allow us to do the article, I had the original framed as a gift for the monastery. It’s m—the magazine’s way of thanking you for your time.”
Andre caught the brief slip she’d made before she propped the framed picture on the counter next to the folder. His thoughts reeled as he stared into the burnished face and dark blue eyes of the man who had sired him.
One look erased the haunting memory of the much older, worn-out monk who had struggled with every breath until he’d died in Andre’s arms.
Ms. Mallory had spoken the truth.
In his father’s younger days, he’d been a good-looking man. He stood tall in his monkly vestments, and appeared very distinguished. An unexpected rush of filial pride shook Andre to the core.
Those leaf-green eyes of hers darted him an anxious glance. “I-Is it all right?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes,” came the gruff response. Andre no longer felt the desire to bait her, particularly not when she’d given him a gift beyond price.
There was a slight hesitation before she murmured, “Please— take your time looking over the article and pictures. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back shortly.”
He didn’t know if she was just being sensitive to his mood, or if she needed to use the ladies’ room, but he was grateful for a few minutes alone.
Once she’d left, he read every word, marveling over her grasp of his father’s life’s work. The photos captured the tranquillity and beauty of the church and its surroundings.
A deep pain seared him because his modest parent hadn’t been able to hang on long enough to enjoy reading this wonderful tribute to the monastic life and his contribution to the community in general.
The article made his father come alive in a brand-new way. Deep in thought, he hadn’t realized that Ms. Mallory had come back in the room until he caught the flowery scent of her perfume.
“Is there anything you want changed? Anything you don’t agree with?” Her eyes searched his.
“No. If the Abbot were alive, he would have cherished this.”
“I’m glad,” she said quietly before looking away. “When it’s published, I’ll bring several copies for everyone.”
I won’t be here, Andre mused to himself. “The brothers will be pleased.”
He heard her suck in her breath. “Good. Then I won’t keep you any longer. I need to get back to the office straightaway. Goodbye.”
She closed the file folder and put it under her arm. The action drew his attention to the alluring shape of her body beneath the yellow suit before she started out of the room.
Andre should have answered her, but the word stuck in his gullet. Rather than escort her outside, he remained behind the counter, as if it were his refuge.
One less memory to deal with.
Andre didn’t like Salt Lake and had no intention of coming back.
Fran might have had a dozen errands to run in preparation for her upcoming assignment to cover the Salt Lake Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s tour to Los Angeles and Australia. But she’d been counting the minutes until the July issue of Beehive Magazine was off the press. She hadn’t slept all night waiting for this morning so she could take several copies to th
e monastery.
After her last trip out there, she’d made up her mind that she would send the magazines in the mail. It would be the right thing to do. The moral thing to do considering she’d been having fantasies about a Trappist Monk.
But some force beyond her will couldn’t or wouldn’t let it go at that.
I have to see the monk one more time. I have to.
Her mother would be shocked if she knew the truth. Fran herself was shocked by her own behavior.
If the pastor of her church knew, he would tell Fran the adversary was devious and knew how to get to people when they were at their most vulnerable. She’d heard it all before from the pulpit, but had never placed any credence in those words.
She still didn’t. But there was no doubt in her mind that going to see the monk this time was wrong.
“You’re not the first curious female to cross over this threshold, intrigued by a man’s decision to remain celibate. No doubt someone with your looks would find that decision incomprehensible.”
Fran’s face always went hot when she was embarrassed or ashamed. It was hot now just remembering those words.
The monk had known more about her than she had known about herself. Indeed he had very calculatingly revealed her to herself without batting an eye.
What was really humiliating was the fact that she was going back to the scene of the crime, possibly for more of the same treatment. Was she a masochist, or simply a twisted woman who craved this celibate monk’s attention though she would deny it to her dying breath?
Even though there were eighty or so monks in residence, she only brought a couple of dozen copies. The brothers weren’t allowed to keep any personal possessions, so an individual copy wasn’t necessary. But this way there would be enough to circulate and still keep several on hand in the gift shop for any visitor interested in learning more about the history of the religious shrine.
Now that it was the first of July, different trees were in flower on the monastery grounds. The brothers had to be worn out working in this intense ninety-degree heat. During her interview, she had discovered that there was no air-conditioning inside. Fran couldn’t imagine living without refrigeration.
She couldn’t imagine living at a monastery, period!
This time when she parked her car, she noticed other cars and a Greyhound touring bus. People were milling about. This meant there would be more tourists inside the gift shop.
A frown drove her delicately arched eyebrows together. She hadn’t counted on an audience when she delivered her gift.
You wanted to be alone with him.
Francesca Mallory, you’re a fool!
Without another moment’s hesitation she got out of the car and started for the chapel entrance, the magazines in her arm.
As she had suspected, the gift shop teemed with people in sunglasses, carrying cameras, buying everything in sight. Two elderly monks waited on people, but the one who haunted her nights was nowhere in sight.
Her heart dropped to her toes. She waited in the corner until most of the room had emptied before approaching the one closest to her.
“I’m Fran Mallory from Beehive Magazine. I told the monk who granted me the interview on Abbot Ambrose that I would bring by some copies for all of you.”
He gave a slight bow. “You’re very kind.” Then he reached for the magazines. This wasn’t going the way she had planned it. Now she had little choice but to hand them over.
“Would it be possible to speak to the monk I interviewed?”
“He’s no longer with us.”
Fran blinked in astonishment. “You mean he’s been sent to another monastery?” she cried before she could stop herself.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Her skin prickled unpleasantly. “Of course not. I only meant that I’m disappointed that I couldn’t thank him in person for all his help.”
“I’ll pass the message along.”
“Th-Thank you. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Shaken by the news, Fran hurried out to the car but didn’t immediately start the motor.
The sense of loss was too staggering.
By the time she left for Los Angeles two days later, she was furious with herself for having allowed his memory to interfere with her work. As she boarded one of the two specially chartered 747s to carry the Choir and staff, she made up her mind to leave all thoughts of him behind and concentrate on her work.
This trip was not only going to be a great adventure, it was vitally important to her career. She wasn’t about to jeopardize her work because of a monk she had no business thinking about.
With her mind made up, she found the excitement contagious as she, along with the Choir, arrived at Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles by bus for their concert given to a sellout crowd.
Being a fan of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old Choir, Fran had attended dozens of their home concerts. For years she had listened to their international Sunday broadcasts, and was familiar with much of their repertoire. Certain songs thrilled her, others moved her to tears.
But there was one song in particular that always left her and the audience weeping. Afterwards, there would be this electric silence before the crowd rose to its feet in thunderous applause. To Fran, that awe-filled silence proved the greatest ovation of all.
Tonight she was ready with her camera to capture the enchanted expression of some attendee’s face. The right picture always told the tale.
She wanted to find that one photograph which exuded the magic of the night. Barney was counting on her. If she were successful, it would go on the front cover of Beehive Magazine, a coup she hadn’t yet accomplished, but maybe this time.
The song she’d been waiting for came soon after the intermission. She’d obtained permission to set things up near the orchestra where she would be out of the way, yet obtain frontal shots with her telephoto lens.
The choir leader stepped to the podium and raised his baton. When everything grew quiet, the sopranos began singing their moving entreaty. The heartrending music pierced a part of Fran’s soul not reached in any other way. It happened every time, not just to her, but to everyone in the listening crowd.
Slowly she panned the audience, snapping one picture after another. By the time the full swell of male voices began, she happened on a face glowing with pure joy. There wasn’t another word to describe it.
A woman in her midsixties maybe, gray hair, a sweet expression on what looked like her Eastern European features.
The tears rolled down her rosy cheeks. Her eyes seemed transfixed by the music.
Fran swallowed hard and took a dozen pictures in succession. There was no need to look anywhere else. Something told her that this woman was the one she’d been hoping to find in the audience, the one who reflected the feelings of everyone around.
Maybe Fran could find a subject this perfect in Australia, but she doubted it. The moment was an illuminating one. She felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck.
Driven by a compulsion she didn’t understand, she was anxious for the concert to be over so she could approach the woman. There had to be a story behind that face. Fran wanted to get it, not only for the article, but out of a burning curiosity.
After the Choir sang their last number, the audience must have clapped for a solid five minutes. No one wanted the concert to be over.
With purposeful steps, Fran insinuated herself into the crowd and waited at the end of the row for the woman to exit. While everyone around was expounding on the remarkable performance they had just heard, Fran approached her.
“It was a beautiful concert, wasn’t it?”
The woman whose face glistened with fresh tears threw her head back. “It was as wonderful as I remembered it back in Germany.”
“You heard the Choir there?”
“Oh, yes. Many years ago. When I was a little girl growing up in East Berlin, my mother told me that if I ever got the chance, I should get away to a place where I cou
ld be free to worship God. I didn’t know what she meant.
“Then many years later came détente. I fled with my family to Frankfurt. It was there I heard this beautiful music for the first time. Later, when we moved to Zurich, in Switzerland, I heard the Choir again. That’s when I found God.” She shook her head. “You can’t imagine.”
But Fran could. She’d even captured the woman’s ecstasy on film. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” she whispered. “I work for a magazine in Utah and have been taking pictures tonight. I took some of you. Do I have your permission to use them and your story?”
The woman smiled. “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you,” Fran murmured as she watched the woman rejoin her family slowly making its way out of the row into the crowded aisle.
With her own eyes tear-drenched, Fran turned to go the other way and found herself face-to-face with a man who could have been the monk’s twin, except that his hair was longer and he wore a suit and tie.
Hadn’t she read somewhere that everyone on earth had a double?
There seemed to be an air of unreality about the entire evening. Her heart was really being given a workout. First the woman, now this haunting face from the past, a face she’d tried in vain to forget.
Angry with herself for staring at him, she averted her eyes and attempted to step past him.
“Ms. Mallory?”
Fran froze in place. That voice.
“If you’re afraid I’m an apparition, I assure you I’m not.”
She whirled around, confused and disbelieving. “When I took the magazines to the monastery, one of the monks told me you were no longer there. I had no idea you’d come to Los Angeles.”
“I left the day after your last visit.”
Her breathing had grown too shallow. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You didn’t seem to fit the mold.”
His lips twitched. “You’re right about that.”
Once again his honesty disarmed her. “Did you run away?”
There was an almost imperceptible nod of his dark head. “In a manner of speaking.”
Husband Potential Page 3
