by Moriah Jovan
And no, I didn’t care what his church or God or congregation wanted him to do or what they’d think of him. I wanted to fuck him and I always got what I wanted, morality—questionable or otherwise—be damned.
Oh, what was this? The kid from Payroll was perched on Susan’s desk, and Susan was practically bouncing in her seat.
“Cassie!” she squeaked, obviously happy to have landed her big fish. Stalking must work for some people.
“Morning,” I said with a smile. “Good morning, Phillip.”
“Good morning, Ms. St. James.”
I walked to my door and Susan followed, still twitterpated. I looked at her suspiciously. “Something I should know? Are you pregnant?”
Phillip’s face turned red.
She bit her lip in excitement and hopped on the balls of her feet. “Open your door.”
So I did.
Oh, my God.
Smack dab in the middle of my desk stood an enormous vase, chunky cobalt glass, filled with dozens and dozens of white flowers: daisies, mums, carnations, roses, lilies, orchids, tulips, hyacinths.
“That bastard,” I whispered.
“Are these from the same guy who sent you the orange roses and those ugly cookies?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“He must really like you,” Susan said, as gleeful as if they’d been for her.
Yes, he does. I crossed the room to caress the delicate petal of a daisy, allowing my week’s worth of cold analysis and self-admonitions to dissipate. I opened the card.
6:30
jeans and earplugs
Wha—? Earplugs?
I dug into the flowers and there, an iPod Shuffle, a blue that kind of sort of matched the vase. I turned it on and saw the playlist.
Was he serious?
I picked up the phone and dialed. “I refuse to see ZZ Top,” I said without preamble.
Mitch laughed. “Not a fan?”
“As in, actively loathe.”
“AC/DC?”
“Hell, no.”
“All right, then. You pick.”
“My treat.”
“Okay.”
Had I just offered to pay for a man? “And— The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice warm and filled with humor. “A candlelight dinner at your house won’t work, so don’t try it.”
It was my turn to laugh because it had occurred to me, but that would come. I had to ease him into it, get him used to the idea.
Then I’d pounce.
I hung up and realized that Susan was still hovering, Phillip not far behind. “Shoo! Phillip, get back to your department. Now.”
They both scampered.
My phone buzzed. “St. James.”
“What the fuck happened to Clarissa?” Nigel demanded.
I panicked. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”
“No. She’s acting weird. Has been all week.”
Ah, yes. The lecture.
My heart rate went back to normal.
I had made it abundantly clear that if she spilled Mitch’s name to anyone—especially her father and stepfather—she would have to find new accommodations.
Still stinging from having been thoroughly intimidated by the first man she’d ever seen me with post-divorce, a man who was not impressed by gorgeous young women, a man who’d taken her measure and found her wanting, she’d looked away from me and muttered, “Fine.”
No, she would not want to acknowledge Mitch’s existence, even to damage me.
“Weird how?”
“Quiet. Restrained. Almost...” He paused. “Cowed. But I know you didn’t do that.”
That was a chronic discussion, the fact that I didn’t do that, and Nigel was of the opinion that I, being her mother, should. Of course, he, being the stepparent, would never presume to correct his husband’s children, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Huh. That’s weird, all right.”
“What are you keeping from me?”
“Nothing. What’d you do last Friday?”
He said nothing for a beat, then said low, “We forgot your birthday again, didn’t we?”
“Sure did.”
“I’m sorry, Cass. We can—”
“Forget it. Not important.” I didn’t want my wonderful birthday marred by any lame attempt to make it up to me.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Busy.”
“Oh, don’t bullshit me. Chick flicks and Chunky Monkey with Clarissa does not equal busy. We’ll pick you up and go to the movies or something.”
“Clarissa has a boyfriend at the moment, and I am not interested in going to the movies with my ex-husband and husband-in-law.” Even if I hadn’t had plans with Mitch, I wouldn’t have gone. Watching Nigel and Gordon canoodling made me sick to my stomach, Gordon all happy and content with the love of his life, living the kind of life he’d deprived me of, and me with—
Fifth wheel? Not even worthy of being a beard or a fag hag? Absolutely not. Maybe I could have had that kind of charmed life if I’d gone to prison after stealing millions of dollars from my spouse and—
“Seriously, I’m busy. But thanks.”
I hung up before he could say anything else, pissed and restless, shoving files around as if I were making sense of them. I jerked open my top drawer and stopped short when I saw the bright orange iPod. I looked up at the white-and-blue confection reigning over my desk. I looked over at the two small paperbacks stacked on another corner.
I picked up the battered and broken Angélique, Marquise des Anges, the words “Elder M. Hollander, 1986, France Paris North Mission” in the top left hand corner of the inside front cover, and sat, flipping through it, stopping occasionally when I saw margin notes in English. An Alvin Ailey performance stub slid from the pages, and I caught it before it hit the floor. I stared at the stub in thought, losing my focus until it was a blur of clashing color and thermal print.
Oh, yes. I knew where I’d be taking Mitch tonight.
* * * * *
The Heavyweight
Mitch’s phone rang as he strode into the foundry’s parking garage, already late in getting on the road to Manhattan. Speeding would be near impossible because of traffic.
He looked at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number.
“Hollander.”
“Mitch.”
He stopped walking.
“Shane.”
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t heard that voice in twenty-five years. He’d never forget it.
You stay away from my daughter. You hear me, Elder Hollander?
You got a problem with me, Bishop Monroe?
I have a problem with poor white trash who waste the Church’s money by not finishing their missions.
Who’s your daughter again, Bishop?
Wilhemina Monroe.
I’ll remember that.
This couldn’t be good. He started walking again.
“Meet me at Fogo de Chao in downtown Philly in an hour.”
Mitch laughed. “Absolutely not.” Stunned silence. “Did you really think you could call me up, snap your fingers, and expect me to hop to?”
He unlocked his car, slid in. Turned the key.
“What was that?”
“My engine,” Mitch said mildly, putting his phone in its cradle.
Reverse. First gear. Releaseclutchhitgas.
Hard.
Mitch roared out of the garage and up onto the service road.
“What do you want?”
“I thought that would be perfectly clear,” the old man said imperiously. “I want to talk to you.”
“Call my clerk. Set up an appointment like everybody else.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Then I guess whatever you want to talk about isn’t important. After all, you couldn’t even be bothered to go to your own daughter’s funeral.”
“Don’t you throw that back in my face,” he snar
led.
“Shane, you called me, and considering you managed to get my cell, you must have gone to a great deal of trouble.” Or not. First Sally, then Shane. Mitch knew exactly who was giving out his number to people he didn’t want to talk to.
“I’ve been hearing rumors about you. And Trevor.”
“Oh, so you do know your grandson’s name.”
“Don’t get smart-alecky with me, you piece of steeler trash.”
“That’s Bishop Steeler Trash to you. You know how to find my clerk’s name and number, so if you want to talk to me, you do it on my turf, my terms.”
Mitch hung up, thinking he should be more forgiving of Shane Monroe because for one, that was his job—to forgive. It was incumbent upon every follower of Christ to forgive, no matter what. For two, Mina’s father had always been a small man, petty, controlling, narrow-minded and rigid, but he wasn’t evil and he didn’t warrant the energy that carrying a grudge took, no matter how egregious his behavior. For three, he’d probably had Greg in his ear all these years, picking at Shane’s pride, trickling poison into the wound, making his hurt and anger fester. Greg was a master at manipulation and deceit; Shane couldn’t be blamed for succumbing to it.
Still lighthearted from his weekend spent with Cassandra, Mitch’s mood had dampened considerably Tuesday night at church. Mitch, the last one out as usual, was locking up after the evening’s activities when Dan Bevan had confronted him.
“Mitch, we need to talk.”
“Yeah, we do,” Mitch had said immediately, and gestured to Dan to follow him. “You got a couple of hours? We can go grab a bite.”
“Sure.”
They’d ended up at a Denny’s some distance from Allentown and Bethlehem, their drive silent but not necessarily uncomfortable. They had been seated, waved away coffee, and ordered before they got down to business.
“I can’t compete with you,” Dan admitted baldly. “I don’t think moving anywhere will help. Sally’s going to punish me for not being you.”
Mitch sighed. “Dan, I don’t know what to tell you. She’s got me cornered.”
Dan looked straight at him for the first time. “I never thought of that,” he said softly. “She can really hit you where you live, even if you haven’t done anything.”
“You know I haven’t done anything.”
He looked insulted. “Mitch. We’ve known each other since we were kids. She’s had a crush on you since before you left on your mission and she was just too scared of what everybody would think if she went out with the guy who came home early.”
Mitch said nothing for a long moment. “I think I always knew that.”
“I thought she was over it when I got back from my mission,” Dan groused and dug into his meal. “Why is it,” he asked around a mouthful of food, “that we have to make our most important decisions when we’re young and dumb? Marriage, career, kids?”
Mitch laughed wryly. “Because if we waited until we were smart, we wouldn’t do it at all.”
“What I want to know,” Dan said, “is if you think I hit her.”
“No,” Mitch said immediately. “You do have a bad temper, though, so it’s natural people will be suspicious—and by the way, you need to calm that down.” Dan nodded morosely at the chastisement. “But I’ve never seen or known of you hauling off on anybody, much less a woman, much less a woman you love.”
It was like someone had let the air out of a balloon. Dan sagged in such utter relief that Mitch felt sorry for him. Dan did love Sally. Always had. Mitch realized he was witnessing the death of a man’s love for his wife—or, no. The death of the hope that she would love him the way he loved her. Mitch wanted to look away, but couldn’t. This was part of his job and he had a vested interest in how this got resolved.
“Would you be willing to say that in court?”
“Yeah,” Mitch said slowly, “but that could backfire on you and me both.”
Dan nodded.
“I’ll talk to Louise,” Mitch said finally. “See if she can get a handle on this.”
“It’s going through the ward,” Dan said glumly. “Every time I turn around, someone’s glaring at me, turning her away from me like they’re protecting her. This is... It’s like it’s more than about you.”
Mitch sat and thought about what to say to put Dan on the right path without violating confidentiality. Finally, he said, “You and I are being played. My suggestion—and I’ll help you—is leave. Take her and go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Far away. Get her away from me, away from all the people giving her bad advice based on disinformation. Get her into counseling.”
Dan snorted. “We’ve tried counseling.”
“You haven’t tried it in a place where you don’t know anybody.”
“Who’s doing this?” Dan demanded. “You know.”
“Of course I do,” Mitch said, exasperated. “Like I can tell you? I’m giving you my best advice and offering to help. On good faith. I need her gone as much as you need to pull her back to you.”
Dan planted his chin in his palm and drummed the fingers of his other hand on the table as he stared out the window.
“All right,” he said finally with a sigh. “I need to figure out where to go and make arrangements. I hate taking your money, though.”
“Dan, I didn’t offer out of the kindness of my heart.”
His shoulders sagged. “Prissy could fix this.”
“She doesn’t get involved in ward politics and she doesn’t meddle in other people’s business. You know that.”
“No, but Sally’s mean to her. I thought— Maybe—”
Mitch waited, but Dan’s mouth tightened. “You thought Prissy would crack and cut Sally open, and then Sally would go running to you for comfort.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, looking down at his plate, his face flushed.
Prissy was a sharp woman who found gossip and ward politics beneath her, worthy only of her contempt, and carried herself thusly. She also didn’t have an ounce of patience for people who were catty or cruel and she’d publicly chastised more than a few people who’d crossed the line of civility.
That was why Mitch would never call Prissy to any leadership position. She was a vial of nitroglycerin. Never mind that she had no interest in leading anybody. Or following, for that matter. Mitch had no idea why she had always held her tongue in the face of Sally’s cattiness—especially since it was most often aimed directly at her.
Now, several days later and halfway to Manhattan, he had an idea. “Prissy?” he asked after he’d dialed her number. “Mitch. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“This is between you and me. I’m extending you a special calling. Unofficial and off the record.”
She was silent for a beat, then drawled warily, “Okay...”
“I would very much appreciate it if you would tag along with Sally and...steer her away from...certain people.”
“Greg.”
“Yes. And...”
“Check her every time she starts running her mouth?”
“That.”
“How far are you willing to back me up?”
He’d like to give her carte blanche, but he wasn’t sure exactly how nasty Prissy could get. “Within moderation.”
She was silent for a second or two. “All right,” she said finally, decisively. “I’ll do my best. I can’t do anything about a whisper campaign, except speak up when I hear it, which means never. And a sudden divergence from the lesson manual to teach on the evils of gossip would not go over well with the Relief Society in general.”
Mitch laughed, knowing that was precisely what she’d do—and he’d hear about it after the fact. It was an excellent strategy. “No. No, it would not go over well at all. I’ve got your back, Prissy. Thank you.”
“No,” she purred. “Thank you. Now—”
Oh no.
“Are you aware that Hayleigh Sitkaris has run away from home? Twice?”
Mitch wiped his hand down his face.
“No.”
Prissy paused. “But you’re not surprised.”
“No.”
“Then I may as well continue. I also have reason to believe that all is not right with Amelia, either.”
Of course it wasn’t. “Like how?”
“Can’t put my finger on it,” she said matter-of-factly. “You know how controlled and unnaturally happy-happy she is.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s cracking. Little things. I don’t think I could explain it.”
He didn’t have to have it explained anymore. “Crying for no reason? Temper showing through? Little slips that sound paranoid? Flinching at the slightest noise out of place?”
“Yeah, like that. You’ve noticed?”
Mitch sighed. Messes, more messes, one on top of the other. He couldn’t say the number of them was abnormal, but these had the potential to be explosive—and all of them at once...
“Talk to Louise, please.”
“Okie doke. Oh, and congratulations on outmaneuvering Greg’s last stunt.”
“Made him mad, did it?”
“Steve said his face turned bright red when he told him you really had okayed the building for his activity. He got the kids all excited about the activity, but he’d also been priming them for you changing your mind at the last minute, so when you didn’t... The kids made it very clear how cool you were for bending the rules for them, while he was scrambling to come up with an activity he didn’t plan on having.” Mitch grinned. “Mitch,” she continued gruffly, “I want you to know that you are one of very few people I truly respect. See you Sunday.”
Click.
In all his years as a bishop, nothing any of his ward members had said to him meant as much as that.
* * * * *
And We Touch
Because I am a bitch, I made Clarissa answer the doorbell.
“Good evening, Clarissa,” I heard Mitch say with as much aplomb as I would expect of him.
“Hi, Mr. Hollander,” she replied, sullen.
“Be there in a minute!” I called from the kitchen so I could eavesdrop.
“Won’t you please come in?” Clarissa said.
“No, thanks.”
“Why not?”
