by Linda Barlow
“I was getting through to Paolina, I think,” Annie said. “But when she found out who I was, she felt betrayed. We’ve lost her now.”
Barbara Rae came up behind her and gently squeezed her shoulders. “We can’t save all of them, Annie. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know that,” she agreed, but still she shook her head, wishing she could.
“Listen to me, honey. What you need is a nice big piece of girdlebuster pie.”
“Please! I’ve been trying to lose five pounds for months!”
“Nonsense. You need to gain at least that much. Now, you come home with me tonight for a proper home-cooked supper. Gotta get some meat on your bones, girl!”
Annie smiled. “What exactly is girdlebuster pie?”
“Well, I’ll tell you the ingredients, but don’t ask me how many grams of fat it has, honey, or we’ll both be too frightened to eat a bite!”
“I’d love to come, Barbara Rae,” Annie said. “But I’ve really got to get back to the office tonight.”
Barbara Rae sighed. “They sure keep you busy over at Brody Associates.”
“No, it’s me. I’ve turned into a workaholic.”
Again, Barbara Rae squeezed her shoulders. Her back massages were heavenly. “You’ve had a lot of losses, honey. That’ll do it to anyone. You need your security, and no one can blame you for that. I just worry about you, that’s all. You’re still young, and you’re missing out on life’s pleasures. A man, some leisure time, a piece of girdlebuster pie…”
Impulsively Annie stood and gave her a hug. Despite the ravages of age and a fondness for rich foods, Barbara Rae had a slim, sturdy body. At fifty-five, the indefatigable minister and shining light of the United Path Church congregation was vigorous and energetic, and she was rapidly becoming something of a legend in San Francisco.
Barbara Rae had a gift for reaching out to people and touching their hearts and minds. Her work among the poor, the sick, and the disadvantaged citizens of San Francisco had earned her the reputation of an American Mother Teresa, but she could be pragmatic and hardheaded when dealing with the wealthy and the sophisticated folks whom she approached for funds. Barbara Rae was one of those rare people who are charismatic in every stratum of society, projecting herself in a manner that made people blind to her sex, her religion, her race, and her class.
Annie had met her in the aftermath of Charlie’s death and the loss of Fabrications. Early one morning, unable to sleep and feeling as if she was losing her mind, she had gotten up from her lonely bed and wandered the hilly streets of downtown San Francisco. She’d climbed Nob Hill and, panting from exertion, seen the gray stone of Grace Cathedral, an Episcopal church. She’d entered the huge old building, finding it nearly empty and very dark, the morning sunlight just beginning to brighten the magnificent stained glass. She’d sat in one of the pews at the back and tried to pray. But Charlie’s death remained a bitter taste in the back of her throat, and she felt abandoned by God.
Barbara Rae Acker had sat down behind her, and later, when Annie rose, weeping, to stagger out of the beautiful Gothic church that, for her, was empty of the presence of God, Barbara Rae touched her shoulder gently and stopped her. “Before you leave,” she said, “there’s something I want you to try.”
Annie looked into her face and thought that if God didexist, He was looking out at the world through the wise, kind eyes of this tall, plain woman with kinky gray hair and thick, work-calloused hands. All the compassion in the world was contained in those chocolate-brown eyes; it shone through her like a beacon.
“Try what?” Annie asked.
Barbara Rae pointed to the floor on which they were standing. On it was a pattern, a massive circular design consisting of a large number of broken concentric circles. “The labyrinth,” she said. “It’s a reproduction of a similar ancient design in the floor of the cathedral at Chartres. It’s a walking meditation. You simply enter the maze there, at the beginning, and follow the circular paths back and forth, around and around, until eventually you arrive at the center. It’s not really a maze, since there are no false trails. Once you start, you will always find your way.”
“Why?” Annie asked halfheartedly, wanting only to leave and lacking the faith for any serious attempt at meditation.
“Try it,” Barbara Rae said gently but insistently, so Annie did.
Later, Annie had tried to understand what had happened that morning—why Barbara Rae had managed to reach her when God could not. Part of it was simply the serenity of the walking meditation. As she’d walked the narrow pathways on the floor, she’d felt a sense of connection with all the generations of people who had walked there before her, both in San Francisco and in Chartres where the labyrinth had originated.
And Barbara Rae was right in that the maze appeared to be complex and full of mysterious twists and turns and dead ends, but once you began walking, you saw that there was only one true path, and that it led, without fail, to the heart.
When she reached the center, Annie felt lighter somehow, as if her burdens had been lifted from her shoulders. She didn’t see Barbara Rae when her journey was over, but when she left the church, the woman was waiting for her in the garden outside. “I come here often, although it’s not my church,” Barbara Rae explained. “God can be found in many places.”
Impulsively, Annie had hugged her, and they’d exchanged addresses and phone numbers. It was the beginning of a friendship that had become central to Annie’s life.
“It’s going to be a fine cathedral, isn’t it?” Barbara Rae said now, as they looked out the window of the youth center toward the towering building that had taken shape next door.
“It surely is,” Annie said.
“A living symbol of heaven’s beauty and our human striving toward the divine. Beauty touches us all; even those with the hardest of hearts can be moved by beauty.”
Annie smiled. “No one has a hard heart around you, Barbara Rae. It’s just not possible.”
“There is some darkness in every heart,” the minister replied. “Some of us are more resistant to it, so the evil remains nothing more than an unrealized potential. But the temptations of life are great, and, like young Vico, most of us have done something we sorely regret at some point in our lives.”
Annie smiled. Barbara Rae was her moral barometer. “But not you. I can’t imagine that an evil thought would ever enter your mind.”
Barbara Rae shook her head sadly. “Ah, then, my child, you do not know me. I assure you, the blackness of my soul seems at times to me darker than the hue of my skin.”
Nonsense, Annie thought. “I just can’t believe that.”
But Barbara Rae looked serious and sad. “I found God at a time when I was just about as low as a body can go. Truly I died and went to hell, but somehow, through God’s grace, I was born again.”
Despite being a minister, Barbara Rae didn’t usually use much religious imagery, but when she did she was utterly serious about it. Annie realized that she knew little, if anything, about Barbara Rae’s life before she had found her calling.
She did know that she came from somewhere in the South, and she suspected, given her age and her race, that she had not had an easy life. But it was difficult to imagine that Barbara Rae had ever done anything that could truly be called evil.
“Well, I can sure relate to starting out wrong in life and then, through the grace of someone, straightening out,” Annie said with a wry smile.
Barbara Rae nodded, then gave’her a quick hug. She was one of the few people to whom Annie had talked about her past, one of the few people who knew that the well-educated, well-dressed, reasonably successful, and extremely competent architectural designer had once been as deeply troubled as any of the teenagers she counseled.
Charlie had saved her, and she in turn was determined to extend that same helping hand to others.
Surely there was something she could do for Paolina and Vico.
*
Annie stoppe
d at the supermarket on the way home that night. When she got to her apartment, she set the bag of groceries on her kitchen counter and began flipping through the day’s mail.
The letter looked perfectly ordinary—a business-size envelope with her name and address printed in block letters. There was no return address, and it looked like a piece of junk mail. It was the sort of thing anyone else might have tossed, but Annie was meticulous about opening all her mail.
Inside was a single sheet of 8 ½-by-11 paper, printed, like the envelope, in large block letters. At the top it read: THE WORK OF THE DEVIL.
It is a SIN in the eyes of the Lord to build a monument to human GREED and PRIDE. All those millions should have gone to help the poor and the sick, not to this puffed-up Babel of vanity.
Stop the building. Tear it down and feed the poor. If you fail to heed the command of the Lord, behold, the Tower will crack, tumble, and crash to the earth as the God of Hosts strikes down evil-doers.
Take heed that it fall not on ye, Mrs. Anne Jefferson, ye harlot of Satan.
Jehovah’s Pitchfork
Wonderful, Annie thought. Threats, misogyny, religious mania. And he knew her name.
Chapter Eight
“You’re awfully quiet Sam. Is something the matter?” Darcy asked.
She and Sam Brody were sitting in a small restaurant in Sausalito, with a view of San Francisco Bay. Darcy had chosen the restaurant carefully, for its excellent food and its romantic atmosphere.
She’d hoped it would be a perfect dinner, followed by a leisurely evening of long, slow lovemaking. She wanted to re-create the mood of the first night they had spent together, just two months ago.
Sam had called her that evening and invited her to go for a drive over the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito; he had suggested doing a little shopping at the shops along the waterfront there, a proposition that amused and delighted Darcy. How many men actually invited a woman to go shopping? It was irresistible.
He’d taken her to a romantic seaside restaurant for dinner, and afterward, as they’d walked back along the shore road listening to the lapping of the gentle waves, Sam had pulled her into his arms and invited her to come home with him.
She’d made a token protest: “Sam, if something goes wrong—”
He had taken her hand lightly, his warm fingers caressing hers. She had felt the pull of his calm and confident sensuality. It had been easy to imagine how his hands would feel on her naked skin
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he’d asked.
She’d admitted it.
“So what do we do, then? Repress the attraction? Ignore it? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”
“That would probably be wise, Sam. I like working for Brody Associates, and God knows I need my job.” But even as she spoke, she had allowed her body to melt against his.
He had laughed in that lighthearted, joyous, delighted way that was so often heard around the office and said, “Hell, Darcy, I’ve always had trouble being wise.” Then he had bent his head to take her lips.
So it had begun. The most wonderful, passionate, and just plain fun love affair of her life.
But tonight Sam was in a strange, uncharacteristically quiet mood.
She reached out and gently stroked his hand. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s worrying you.”
He looked at her and slowly shook his head. “Jesus, Darcy.” He sounded miserable.
She heard alarm bells in her mind. She’d never before seen Sam in a bad mood. “This isn’t like you, babe,” she said.
He looked at their coffee cups, the silverware, his own hands—anything but her face. Several moments passed, then he shook his head again and raised his eyes to meet hers. “Look,” he said. “Oh, hell. It’s over, Darcy.”
Over? “What do you mean?” Her brain had absorbed his words, but her heart refused to heed them.
“I just can’t do this anymore. It was a mistake from the beginning. You work for me. We both know how foolish it is to mix the personal with the professional.”
“I’ve told you, Sam, it’s not a problem for me. I can separate those parts of my life.”
He sighed softly. “Well, I guess I’ve come to realize that I can’t.”
You ’re the one who was so quick to overcome my objections about that at the start! she thought, but she managed to stop herself from blurting out the words. It never did any good to point out to a man his blatant inconsistencies.
“Listen, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” she said soothingly. “We all have. It’s not the best time to be making decisions. Let’s go home and talk about it—or…” she gave him her sexiest smile, “let’s forget about it and see how we feel in the morning.”
Instead of responding in his usual lighthearted manner, Sam looked at her and shook his head. He reached across the table and took one of her hands gently in his and squeezed it. He smiled at her sadly.
It was then that Darcy realized he was serious. She knew that sad, regretful, guilty look—she’d seen it in the eyes of other men: It’s over, babe. I want you out of my life.
Darcy felt something shrivel inside her. Jesus! She’d had no warning. None. Two nights ago they’d been together and it had been wonderful. She quickly cast her mind back, searching for any little thing she might have said to put him off, anything that might have scared him into thinking that she wanted a commitment from him or that she was making demands. Men were so wary about that. One false move, and they were out the door.
But she honestly couldn’t remember making any false moves. She’d gone by the book on this romance, being warm and approachable, but independent; sensual, but not too eager; self-confidently assertive, but never in the least bit demanding. She wanted Sam, and she’d planned her campaign very carefully. She couldn’t believe that she’d failed.
“I’m sorry, Darcy,” he said. “I feel awful about this. But I can’t help how I feel. It’s just not working out.”
The hope inside her shriveled further. Shit! It was really over.
No, dammit, it couldn’t be.
Sam was perfect for her! She’d run his birth chart over and over, thoroughly analyzing all his angles against her own. They were well matched. Their charts combined into one of the most harmonious unions of planets she’d ever encountered. She didn’t just enjoy him as a lover, she was serious about Sam Brody. And she’d been hopeful, at least, that she could gradually lead this confirmed bachelor into taking her seriously, too.
Goddammit!
Darcy knew she wasn’t very good at hiding her feelings, but she also knew instantly that she had to try. There was nothing more disconcerting to a man than an overly emotional woman. She had to work with Sam, see him every day. She couldn’t afford to let him know that he’d just knocked her planets out of orbit.
Besides, if she stayed in control, she still had a chance. There was no reason yet to believe that his decision was irrevocable.
From somewhere deep within her, she summoned a smile. “Okay, Sam,” she said lightly. “I’m disappointed, of course. But if it’s not working for you”—she shrugged—” there isn’t really much more to say.”
He looked relieved, and she knew her strategy had been the right one. Most men hated to deal with disappointed women who made a big production over the ending of a love affair.
A cool, calm, independent woman, though—that was something else again. That was the type of woman they often ended up missing.
And wanting back.
Chapter Nine
Standing outside the room where the monthly meeting of the United Path Church building committee was in progress, Annie heard a burst of applause. She found it surprising, because things at the cathedral site weren’t going that well.
The door opened and a smiling Barbara Rae appeared. Her face was unusually animated as she said, “Come in, Annie. We have some exciting news.”
She sensed that something dramatic was going on. Mystified, she looked around at the six members of the buil
ding committee—all pillars of the community and dedicated members of the UPC congregation. As always, the office was badly lit, and everyone’s face was shadowed. Annie was vaguely aware that seven, not six, faces were looking at her. And that one of them was set slightly apart from the others.…
“After months of floundering in the wake of Francesca Carlyle’s death,” said Barbara Rae, “we’re delighted to announce that we once again have a dynamic leader to take charge of this committee. You’ve met before, I believe, Annie,” she added as the seventh and newest member of the committee stood and extended his hand. “This is Matthew Carlyle.”
Somehow Annie managed to maintain her composure as his firm hand briefly enveloped hers. A murderer’s hand.
How many other people here thought the same thing when introduced to him? she wondered.
She had last seen him in person on the night of Francesca’s death. Since then she had seen him a thousand times on television. Then, he had been a businessman, well known in the computer industry. Now, he was infamous all over the country.
He was not conventionally handsome—his features were too strong and craggy for that—but he could still be called a good-looking man. He was tall and slender, with high cheekbones and wavy black hair. Most men at his age were either balding or going gray, but Carlyle had only a slight feathering of gray around his temples, and his hair was still plentiful and thick. His face was lined a bit, especially around his mouth and his eyes, but his flesh was firm and he moved gracefully, indicating that he exercised and was fit.
Probably lifted weights in prison, Annie thought wryly.
His green eyes were a lot more piercing in person than they’d looked on television.
It struck her that there was something different about his looks now that’d he had been through the hell of the murder trial. He was harder somehow. His face, always angular, had an etched-in-stone quality to it now. She could imagine his long, slim body of hard bones and tough muscles carved into one of the marble frescoes in the cathedral. Not a saint, though—oh no. There was a ruthlessness in his eyes that a sculptor would never be able to capture. And it would be impossible to freeze in marble the mobile sensuality of his bottom lip.
