A Passion Denied (12 page)

He slumped on the sofa. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You love her, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Brady, this is me, Charity, the one you hammered on that lying was wrong. Tell me the truth. Do you love Lizzie?”

“Yes, you know I do, as a sister—”

“No, Brady, I’m not talking about that kind of love. I’m talking about the kind of love where she makes you warm inside, tingly. You know, where you want her, like a man wants a woman?”

“I don’t have to answer that.” He avoided her eyes.

A soft, weary breath escaped into the air. “No, Brady, but the way you kissed her did. It told Lizzie loud and clear that you’re attracted to her.”

His head snapped up. “Don’t say that. It’s not true!”

She arched a brow.

“All right, it is true,” he muttered, “but it can’t be. You don’t understand, Charity, I can’t act on it.”

She folded her arms on top of her stomach and assessed him through slitted eyes. “And why is that, exactly? You have a sudden hankering to be a priest?”

His laugh was hollow. “God help me, don’t I wish.”

“Well, something’s holding you back, and Lizzie has a right to know. She told me you were engaged once, but your fiancée broke it off during the war. Does that have anything to do with it? Are you afraid?”

“No.”

Charity was losing her patience. “Well, what, then? So help me, Brady, Mitch wasted two years of our lives pretending he wasn’t in love with me. I don’t want to see Lizzie go through the same thing.”

Brady met her gaze. “She won’t.”

“She already is.” Charity shimmied back into the deep cushion of the sofa, arms folded, as if to settle in for a while. Her lips flattened into a mulish press. “I’m not leaving this room, John Brady, until you tell me the truth. What’s stopping you from loving my sister? Spill it—now! What deep, dark secret are you hiding?”

He lunged up from the sofa and started pacing, sidestepping Miss Hercules, who sprawled on the floor in a limp mass of fur. He finally stopped, his back to her. “I can’t love her, Charity . . . because I’m weak.”

“What do you mean, ‘weak’?”

He breathed in deeply and exhaled. “I mean I have a problem . . . or at least I had a problem.” He turned to face her with shame in his eyes. “Last night, when Beth kissed me, I was shocked at first. But then, I couldn’t stop myself . . . I wanted to run, but . . . she was like a drug in my system, a craving I couldn’t fight. I wanted more.”

Charity’s brows crinkled as she leaned forward. “Of course you did. You’re in love with her. That’s natural.”

He groaned and raked his fingers through his hair. “No, it’s not. Not for me. You don’t understand . . . it’s like I can’t stop. Even last night, I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t get it out of my mind, the thoughts, the desire . . .” He started pacing again.

“So get married—quickly—like Mitch and I did.”

He paused, his muscles sagging from lack of sleep. “No, it’s more than that.”

“What, then?”

He looked away, unwilling for her to see the fear in his eyes. “My love for Beth . . . it just feels wrong to me. Kissing her— even thinking about kissing her—feels dirty somehow, sinful. And she deserves more.”

“For the millionth time, Brady, Lizzie is not your sister.”

“No, no she’s not, but every time I look at her, I see that gangly thirteen-year-old with wide, innocent eyes, and I . . . I can’t help it, my mind sees her that way.”

“But not your body.”

He hung his head. “No.” He finally looked up with grief in his eyes and a warning in his tone. “But I can’t go there, Charity, don’t push me. It can never happen.”

“We can pray about it—”

“No! I’ve prayed about it enough, and this is the answer I’ve been given.”

“The answer? Or the excuse?”

A muscle flickered in his cheek. “It doesn’t matter. The decision’s been made.”

“And I suppose Lizzie doesn’t have a say?”

He steeled his jaw. “No.”

“I see.” Charity exhaled a heavy breath, then strained to rise to her feet. “You’re going to lose her, you know.”

He flinched. “I know.”

She marched to the door and snatched her coat off the hook, then jerked it open without a look back. “I never thought I would say this, John Brady, but just for the record, you’re a fool.”

She slammed the door behind her and he blinked, moving to the sofa in a trance. He slumped hard into the cool leather seat and put his head in his hands.

Yeah, he knew that too.

Brady took deadly aim. The basketball sailed through the air and into the basket with a hard whoosh, giving him a profound sense of satisfaction. He rolled his neck and grinned at Father Mac, who was sweating profusely despite being in remarkably good shape for a forty-three-year-old priest. Brady palmed the ball and tucked it under one arm while swiping at his face with the other. This was one way to release pent-up frustration and energy, he supposed. As long as he wasn’t excommunicated.

Father Mac doubled over, hands on his knees, huffing like he needed last rites. “It might behoove ya to show a little mercy, you know. God doesn’t take too kindly to trouncing the clergy.”

“Sorry, Father, fresh out of mercy today,” Brady said with an off-center smile. He extended his arm and thrust the ball with a quick flick of his wrist. It sloped into the basket with a neat, clean whish.

Father Mac pried a finger around his collar and coughed, his face flushed after a grueling game of one on one in the blazing sun. He made his way to the rectory door with as much dignity as possible, given a strained muscle and a black clerical shirt soaked with sweat. “Well, I suggest you start practicing it, John. You’re going to need it yourself when some young whelp wipes the court up with you. You want an iced tea?” He turned, brow lifted. “I’m exercising mercy, mind you.”

Brady smiled and followed him inside. He sat at the table in the cozy black and white kitchen that Mrs. Clary kept in spic-and-span shape, and instantly felt at home. Maybe because he’d spent many a night here, debating theological study with Father Matthew McHugh, a man who was more a friend than an associate pastor. Brady had taken to Father Mac immediately when he’d attended St. Stephen’s with Collin almost four years ago. Raised without religion, Brady’s conversion to Christ and subsequent hunger for the Bible had taken place in his late teens. It seemed his extensive knowledge of God’s Word had proved to be a competent match for Father Mac, who reveled in sparring with Brady over any and everything Bible related. When Brady had decided to convert, Father Mac had taken him under his wing, and in very little time, the two men had forged a deep respect for each other, as well as a close friendship.

Brady studied him now as he poured the tea, wondering if perhaps his own fate wasn’t meant to follow a similar path. Matt, as Father Mac had insisted he call him, seemed an unlikely match for the priesthood. His boundless energy, even at forty-three, sometimes put Brady to shame, making the fifteen years between them almost nonexistent. At six foot, he was an impressive cut of a man, with the stocky build of hardened muscle and dark hair sifted with gray. He had a warm smile and an easy personality laced with dry wit, and certainly appeared to be attractive to women, or at least Charity had told him so. But he’d chosen to serve God instead, and that single fact held great fascination for Brady.

Father Mac hunched his shoulders several times, obviously working out some kinks before setting the tea on the table. He strolled over to smell a fresh-baked pecan pie on the counter, then shot Brady a narrow look. “Now this would be true mercy on your heartless soul after the royal shellacking you gave me. Allow me to demonstrate turning the other cheek, if you will. You starve me of dignity, and I feed you with mercy.” He reached for utensils from the drawer and two saucers from the cupboard, then proceeded to cut them each a piece. He set the plates on the table and dropped into a chair with a groan of relief and a twinkle in his eye. “So what were you trying to vent out there? A vendetta against Collin? What’s he done now?”

Brady reached for the tea and upended half the glass before answering. “Nope, Collin doesn’t frustrate me most of the time. He’s family.” He dug into the warm pie with a faint frown. “You could say he’s the brother I never had.”

“Well, something lit your fire today. Normally you don’t resort to such blatant humiliation.”

Brady glanced up and grinned. “Sorry, Matt. I figured if anybody could handle it, you could. Collin tends to get grouchy when I whip him at sports, and I sure couldn’t take it out on Cluny.”

“No, no, I’m glad. It’s rather handy, actually. You annihilate and repent, and I absorb and absolve. Nice and neat.” He hunkered down to tackle the pie. “So, what is bothering you, John?”

“What makes you think something’s bothering me? Maybe you’re just lousy at basketball. Ever think of that?”

“No, I can’t say that thought ever crossed my mind, at least not until today.” He nodded at Brady’s pie, which he’d inhaled in three rapid-fire gulps. “Maybe it’s the way you’re bolting down that dessert or even the annoying twitch in your leg, which hasn’t stopped teetering the table since you sat down, despite an hour of near-maniacal exercise. Either way, something’s on your mind.” He swallowed some tea and set the glass down with a pronounced thud. “But, you’re in luck, my friend. I just happen to be in the business of listening when people have something to unload. Take advantage.”

Brady sighed and pushed his plate away. The notion had appeal, but he didn’t want to think about his feelings for Beth, much less talk about them to Matt. Still, he was curious about something. He reached for his fork and began twiddling it on the plate. “What made you want to be a priest?”

Matt eyed him as he chewed. His dark hair fluttered in a gentle breeze that billowed through Mrs. Clary’s black and white chintz curtains. It filled the room with the smell of fresh-mown grass and honeysuckle. “You mean over and above the great food, clean house, and dazzling wardrobe?” He rose to pour them both more tea. “I’d have to say my parents. Sometimes I think they had thirteen kids just to better their odds at getting a priest in the family. We all thought it was going to be my older brother, Ralph, but he ended up quitting and becoming a teacher. About broke their hearts.”

“So you saved the day?”

He sat back down, then leaned in the chair and smiled, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “You might say that. I went with a couple of girls, almost married one, but couldn’t shake the feeling that I was on the wrong path. I had this fire inside, you know? I suddenly realized it wasn’t for her.” He looked up and grinned. “Or maybe I should qualify that. I had a fire for her all right, but it was pretty much physical. In my head and my heart, I was being pulled in another direction. So I prayed about it and wrestled with it for a while, then finally decided I had a calling.”

“Do you like it?” Brady squinted up at him.

Matt laughed. “What’s not to like? All the comforts of home and no nagging. But, yeah, I’m content. It feels good devoting your life to God . . . to helping people. Why, you interested?”

It was Brady’s turn to laugh. “I doubt I’d qualify. Too many skeletons in my closet and a past that even Harry Houdini couldn’t escape.”

Matt angled a brow. “Yeah, well, that’s the beauty of faith in God. Forgiveness is a great fringe benefit.” He paused to notch out another forkful of pie. “But while we’re on the subject of major life decisions, suppose you tell me why you’ve never married.”

That took him by surprise. Heat chafed the back of his neck. “Never met the right girl, I suppose.”

“Hard to do, I guess, when you avoid them like the plague.”

Brady glanced up. “Did Collin—”

“Yeah, he did. On more than one occasion. He worries about you, John. Thinks you’re lonely.”

Irritability twitched under his skin. “And that coming from a man who once couldn’t sleep alone if his life depended on it.” Brady glanced up. “Sorry, Father. His morals have obviously changed for the better, but he’s still got this thing about being alone. Trust me, I’m no Collin.”

“Obviously. Before the war, his reputation with women was the meat of many a prayer. Especially his mother’s.” Father Mac paused, rubbing his thumb along the bottom of his glass. “Do you like women, Brady?”

The heat from the back of his neck bled into his face. “What?”

“Do you like women? Are you attracted to them?”

Brady stared. “What the devil kind of question is that?”

“An honest one.” Father Mac leaned both elbows on the table, his eyes suddenly serious. “And perhaps a necessary one.”

“What?” He couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Yes, of course I like women.” He thought of Beth, and blood surged to his cheeks. “I just don’t choose to act on it, that’s all.”

“Why?”

His jaw dropped. “Why? You’re a priest and you want to know
why
?”

“It’s not a sin to spend time with a woman, John.”

Brady rose abruptly to fetch the tea from the counter. He jerked the pitcher over his glass, unleashing a deluge of liquid onto the table. He ground his jaw and filled Matt’s glass before swiping a dishrag from the sink. “I never said it was. I spend plenty of time with women—Beth O’Connor, for one, not to mention her sisters.”