Husband Potential

“Thanks a lot,” she muttered, not in the least happy about the sudden change in plans. She almost dreaded seeing him again, though in her heart of hearts she had to admit the monk fascinated her. He made her feel things she’d never felt before and couldn’t put a name to. The only saving grace was the fact that she’d be in the Abbot’s company for the duration of the interview.

As for the monk, she could pray he wouldn’t be anywhere around. If she did happen to bump into him, she would pretend he wasn’t alive.

But a half hour later she had to recant those words when she discovered him waiting for her in the parking lot of the monastery grounds. Before the car had even come to a stop, the adrenaline was surging through her veins.

He opened the door on the driver’s side and took the camera case from her. Heat suffused her face as she felt his glance on her long, shapely legs where her dress had ridden up. She quickly got out of the car, noticing that he was dressed in the same dark work pants and matching shirt he’d worn the other day.

On her first visit, she hadn’t realized how tan he was. The gift shop had been too dim. In the strong sunlight, his skin looked burnished to teak, witness of the many hours he spent in the out-of-doors. His dark aquiline features and strong, hard-muscled body took her breath. Embarrassed to be caught staring, she averted her eyes.

“You must have surpassed the speed limit to have arrived here this fast, Ms. Mallory.”

“I’m on a deadline. This stop is only one of several I have to make today, but I suppose that to you it’s another sin you can lay at my feet.”

“Another?”

“No doubt you’ve compiled a long list by now.”

“Why would I do that?” He shut the door for her.

“Why, indeed. Is the Abbot waiting inside?”

“No. He passed away four days after your visit.”

Fran let out a shocked gasp. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me this when you phoned?”

“Why?” He stroked his strong chin. “Surely his death could mean nothing to you. You’ll still get your story.”

She turned on the monk, her hands curled into fists. “How can you say that? Paul told me that over the phone he came across as a wonderful, delightful person. I was looking forward to meeting him and am very saddened by the news.”

“I stand rebuked,” he murmured.

She swallowed hard. As an apology, it wasn’t much. But obviously this monk had never developed any social graces.

“I understand he was the Abbot here for over thirty years. Being that you monks live in such a close community, I can only assume that he’ll be terribly missed.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“You’re mocking me.”

He gave a careless, yet elegant shrug of his shoulders. “Not at all. On the contrary, I shall miss him more than you know,” he said in a raw voice that oddly enough lent credence to his words. Maybe the Abbot’s illness and death had brought out the worst in him.

Hadn’t she read somewhere that nuns and monks weren’t supposed to become attached to each other? In Fran’s mind, a person would have to be pretty inhuman not to care.

“Father Ambrose honored me by asking if I would handle this interview in his place.”

Something was going on here. Some strange undercurrent she didn’t understand, but she had no desire to fence further with this enigmatic monk.

“Our magazine would love to honor him and his memory.”

“Tell me about the magazine you work for, Ms. Mallory.”

“We print a monthly publication that sells Utah to the world. We do in-depth articles on geographical locations of interest, history, religion, industry, recreational sites, people.”

“Why a story on the monastery after all these years?”

“We want to devote an issue to Utah, then and now. It will include stories about the diverse groups of people still here today who can trace their roots back to pioneer times.

“As I understand it, this monastery got its start in the 1860s, but the first wooden structure burned to the ground from a lightning strike. I researched enough to find out that it didn’t become a truly self-sufficient community until a hundred years later when Abbot Ambrose was sent here. Now it’s a place of beauty and a sanctuary for those who visit as well as those who make up its religious community.”

“I’m impressed you know that much about it. I suggest we start the interview by taking a walk through the orchards.”

For the first time since they’d met, he seemed a little less defensive. This in turn helped her to relax somewhat. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll turn on my tape recorder as we talk.”

He nodded. She had to walk fast to keep up with his long strides. He moved with an effortless male grace she couldn’t help admiring. “Were the orchards his idea?”

“Yes, those and the beehives, both of which brought in enough revenue from their homemade honey butter and preserves to purchase more land and sustain the community without any funds from the outside.”

“Where did he get his recipes?”

“The Abbot grew up in Louisiana. He had a friend whose mother cooked for a wealthy white family who owned one of the plantations and used it to entertain friends on the weekend. Apparently the boys would watch her make jam and honey butter. He brought the secret of good old Southern cooking with him.”

“The honey butter is fabulous. I often buy it. What a fantastic story. Oh, I would have loved to have talked to the Abbot in person.”

“He was far too ill at the end to grant anyone an interview. But I can tell you this much. When he arrived here thirty years ago, there was nothing but a Quonset hut left over from World War II set on a plot of ground filled with rocks and weeds.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked out over the lush vista before her, snapping photo after photo of the brothers at work. Slowly her eyes traveled to the monastery itself. “The rocks in the facade—”

“All of it local stone. Each one was manually hoisted and carried by the monks to build the new structure. It was a painstaking, tedious process. A labor of love that took many years.”

“The Abbot had vision to make this all work,” she surmised aloud. “What a remarkable monk. Are there any photos showing the way it looked when he first started building the new chapel?”

“There are a few, but they’re not in very good condition.”

“We have an expert on the staff who does excellent restoration work. Would you trust me with them? If not, I can consult someone at the Utah Historical Society and see what they have on hand.”

“I see no reason why you can’t borrow them.”

Secretly Fran was delighted. For some odd reason she wanted this article to be exceptional.

“Is it permitted to take any pictures inside the church?”

“You can take photos in several places. From the loft where the public is allowed to witness the mass, you should be able to get your best shots of the altar. He had the small Pieta specially commissioned from Florence, Italy.”

“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.

CHAPTER TWO

“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.

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 the 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.