Rebecca Winters - Husband Potential

“I’ve seen it before. It’s exquisite. Do you think I could take pictures of it as well as the Abbot’s grave? I presume he’s buried on the property. I’d like a picture of his headstone to finish the article and entitle it, ‘Monument to a saint.’”

The monk’s expression sobered. In a quiet voice he said, “The community cemetery is behind the monastery.”

For the next hour Fran plied him with questions as they toured the grounds, the kitchen, the library which the Abbot used for his personal study, and the inner sanctuary. Naturally the monks’ dormitory was off limits.

When they reached the gift store, she took more pictures, then bought honey butter and pear jam to give to her family. She also took some free literature which contained facts she would intersperse in the article.

“I have one more favor to ask.” He had walked her out to the car. The time had flown and she found herself reluctant to leave. “You’ve let me photograph your brothers. May I take one last picture of you on the chapel steps?”

“No.”

It was unequivocal and final.

A wave of disappointment swept through her but she determined not to show it. What’s wrong with you, Fran? He’s a monk, for heaven’s sake!

Forcing a smile she looked up at him. “You’ve been more generous with your time and information than I would have expected. I’ll leave so you can get back to your duties. I-I never realized how hard you work, how busy you are.”

She knew she was talking too fast, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever she got nervous, the words sort of tumbled out.

“This has been an education for me. I know it will make fascinating reading for thousands of people. When the proofs are ready, I’ll call you and show you a mockup of the layout for your approval.”

“When will that be?”

She had to think fast. There was still the drive to Clarion to fit in. If she worked late—

“Day after tomorrow.” Deadline day. “Probably nine o’clock. Will that be convenient for you?”

“I’ll be in the gift store.”

I know.

That’s the problem. I’m afraid I’m not going to forget.

What excuse will I have for showing up here after the article has been published and you’ve been furnished a copy?

“All this time and you’ve never told me the name you go by.”

His features closed up. “It’s not important.”

He held the driver’s door open so she was forced to get in. When he shut it, he said, “I’ve been following Father Ambrose’s instructions. Just pretend he was the one giving you the interview. God will forgive this one lie.”

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. His words implied that God wouldn’t forgive anything else.

Was it a warning?

Had he sensed her natural attraction to him? Had he felt it from the first moment they’d met?

If he worked in the gift shop, how many female visitors to the monastery had been drawn to his dark looks and undeniable masculine appeal? Is that why he’d been so rude to her?

Mortified that this might be the case, she refused to look at him and drove away, her face on fire. But as she rounded the curve at the bottom of the drive, she couldn’t help looking in the rearview mirror one last time. He wasn’t there.

“AUNT MAUDELLE? What was my daddy like?”

“How do I know. Your mother went with a lot of different men. All I can say is, he wasn’t around when you were born.”

“I made her die, huh.”

“Not on purpose. Now stop asking questions and finish the dishes. It’s time for bed and I’m tired. We’ve got to go to mass in the morning.”

“What’s mass?”

“Church.”

“I don’t like church. It’s spooky.”

“You’re not supposed to like it.”

“Why not?”

“Duty is different than pleasure. It builds character.”

“What’s character?”

“It’s doing something you don’t want to do.”

“Then why do we have to do it?”

“Why? Because God said so.”

“What’s God?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I know who Mary is.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s Jesus’s mommy. He was lucky ’cause he got to see her all the time.”

“Who told you that?”

“Pierre. I wish I could see my mommy.”

“Well you can’t, so stop fussing about it.”

“Okay.”

Andre came awake from his bad dreams with a jerk. His skin glistened with perspiration. He checked his watch. It was four-thirty in the morning.

He levered himself from the cot in the sparsely furnished room used by guests of the monastery. Pouring water into a bowl, he sluiced his face with the cold liquid, then raked his hands through his hair to steady them.

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.