A Passion Denied (24 page)

“Because
he
might be waiting.”

“Who?”

She stared at her hands, limp on the Bible. “The man I ran away from, back in New York.” Her gaze locked on his. “Please, Brady, let me stay. Just for a while? And then I’ll go to Lizzie’s if I have to.”

The blue of her eyes blurred with tears, and compassion swelled in his chest. He sat down and put an arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Mary, I wish there was something I could do, some help I could give. But God can and will . . . if we pray.”

She turned and clutched him tightly. He hesitated before slowly hugging her back. He felt her shiver and gently lifted her chin with his finger. “Let’s pray, then what d’ya say we take a walk and get some fresh air?”

“What would I do without you?” she whispered. Her eyes softened, and her expression was almost worshipful.

His gaze settled on her mouth, causing his cheeks to heat. She pressed in to hug him again, and the nearness of her body caused his heart to pound. He closed his eyes. The temptation to kiss her was almost more than he could bear.

No, my son.

“Brady?” A timid voice sounded from across the room.

For a split second he was paralyzed. He glanced up at the open door where Cluny stood, confusion glazing his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Cluny whispered.

In a jagged beat of his heart, Brady pushed Mary back and staggered up. A sick feeling roiled in his stomach. “Nothing, we were doing nothing.” He pulled Mary to her feet and then to the door. “Mary, please forgive me. You have to go.”

“But, Brady, why?”

“Just go now,
please.
”

She blinked and shoved the hair from her eyes. Her gaze skittered first to Cluny, and then back to Brady. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

He stood, eyes trained on the floor. “No . . . work is . . . well, it’s really busy right now. Give me a couple of weeks, okay?”

She didn’t answer, and he looked up in time to see the hurt on her face before she hurried out. Brady felt a stab in his chest and shut the door, turning to face Cluny alone. He nodded toward the couch. “We need to talk.”

Cluny shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled to the sofa without a word, parking himself as far away as he could.

Brady sat and put his face in his hands. “I owe you an apology, Cluny, for screaming at you like I did. I’m sorry, I . . . I lost my head.”

Cluny folded his arms and scooted into the crease of the couch. “From the looks of you and that gal, Brady, I’d say you lost more than your head.”

“No, it’s not what it looked like, bud—Mary’s only a friend and nothing happened.” Brady closed his eyes, remembering the desire her simple hug had provoked. “But it could have, being alone with a pretty woman in my apartment like that. That’s never a good thing.” He opened his eyes to confront the boy head-on. “So I owe you a second apology because I was wrong. Again.” Brady exhaled and leaned back on the couch. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared straight ahead before letting his arms drop limp at his sides. “Remember the night we went to the O’Connors’? When I told you I was sick?”

“Yeah, I remember. I thought you were gonna die.”

“Well, I am sick, Cluny. Spiritually. That’s why I screamed at you about the canteen . . . and that’s why I’m embarrassed you found me hugging Mary like you did. I’m sick, kind of like Pete across the hall.”

Cluny cocked his head. “You drink too much? I’ve never seen you drink before.”

“No, not alcohol . . . at least not anymore.” He paused, finding it difficult to put into words. “Somebody like Pete, well, he can stop drinking and he’s fine. He’ll be a great husband to Eileen, a good neighbor to us, a great guy all around. But when he takes a drink of alcohol, it’s like it controls him, changes his personality, he can’t seem to stop. You understand?”

Cluny nodded. “But I thought you said you don’t drink?”

“I don’t. But I’m kind of sick like that too, when it comes to both alcohol and . . .”

He squinted at Brady. “Alcohol and what?”

Brady swallowed hard, then turned to look Cluny straight in the eyes. “I . . . have a problem with temptation and . . . women. Do you know what I mean?”

A spray of pink deepened the freckles on Cluny’s face. He nodded. “Would you and Mary have . . . you know, done more than hug . . . if I hadn’t come home?”

“No. Because it’s not right. I know that, and I would have sent her home immediately if you hadn’t walked in. But sometimes it’s hard to say no when your body says yes. Which is why I stay far away from women. Because that kind of intimacy is a gift from God, little buddy, and leads to things God intended between a man and his wife. That means you stay far away from temptation—whether it’s Johnny Lander’s bathtub gin or—” Brady swallowed hard. “Or other things. Okay?”

Cluny nodded.

“Promise me, Cluny, especially about the alcohol. Tell me you’ll stay far away from it because it can destroy your life. I can vouch for the damage it’s done to my past and what it’s doing to Pete right now. I love ya, bud, and I just don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

Cluny hurled himself into Brady’s arms. “I’m so sorry for bringing that stuff home. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Brady closed his eyes and squeezed the slight boy, wondering for the thousandth time what he would do when Gram finally came home. “Just promise me you’ll steer clear of all of it. And I promise I’ll do the same. Deal?”

Cluny pulled away and stuck out a hand. His freckles made way for a grin that stretched ear to freckled ear. “Double deal.”

Brady stood in the doorway of Father Mac’s study with a stomach as jittery as that of a seven-year-old pickpocket making his first confession. He glanced inside and drew a bit of calm from the quiet and steady feel of the room that reflected the same warmth and comfort of its owner. From its floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with rich, leather-bound books, to the mahogany-slatted windows that washed the room in hazy ribbons of light, Father Mac’s study exuded a sense of peaceful solitude and humble reverence. Like the man himself.

He’d been reading, apparently, legs crossed on his desk and a book in his lap, but his eyes were now closed. One hand relaxed on the open pages while the other hung limp over the arm of the chair. His head rested against a crocheted doily knitted by Mrs. Clary, no doubt, providing a halo effect that brought a quirk to the corner of Brady’s mouth.

He cleared his throat. “Father Mac . . . can we talk?”

Matt’s dark eyes blinked open, and a sleepy smile lit his face. “Father Mac, is it, now? Well, this must be serious. Conviction, evidently, over your treatment of the clergy.”

Brady smiled, but his eyes were sober. He settled into a chair. “I wish it were that easy, Matt.”

Father Mac swung his legs off the desk and closed the book. He sat back to study him, the seriousness of his face a mirror reflection of Brady’s. “What’s the problem, John?”

Brady looked away, choosing to focus on the shafts of sunlight streaming across the scarlet and gold hues of the fringed Oriental rug. “I need counsel, Father, on a problem I had.” He swallowed the pride in his throat. “Have. Something I struggled with a long time ago. I thought it was gone, but . . . well, lately I’ve had . . . thoughts.”

“Thoughts?” Father Mac’s voice was barely audible. “What kind of thoughts?”

All courage suddenly fled, and Brady steeled his jaw. So help him, if he could turn around and walk away now, he would. What had possessed him to come here?

“John? What kind of thoughts?” Father Mac persisted.

He forced himself to look up and cleared his throat. “Thoughts of . . . desire.” He swallowed hard and lowered his voice to a whisper. “About Beth O’Connor.”

Father Mac sat back in the chair, hands steepled and poised low on his chest. His brows knitted into a frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean lately, I find myself thinking about her as a woman and not as I did before, as a little sister.” He sighed and dropped into the chair, emotionally drained. He put his head in his hands. “I find myself wanting her, Matt. Thinking about her, touching her . . .”

“In an impure way?”

“No! Yes . . . I don’t know. All I know is, I crave holding her, kissing her.”

“It’s not a sin to kiss a woman.”

“It is for me. With her.” Brady’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Why?”

He didn’t respond.

“I know you’ve always seen Elizabeth as a sister, but the fact is that she’s not. You’re clearly smitten by her, and from rumors I’ve heard, she with you. Why are you fighting it?”

“Because it’s wrong.”

“Why?”

Brady looked up, desperation straining his voice. “I don’t know! All I can say is that when I think of wanting her that way . . . it feels wrong, dirty, like I’ve committed a horrible sin.”

Father Mac studied him in silence. His finger absently traced the rim of his lower lip. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Brady’s look was fierce. “So help me, God, I’m telling you everything that’s bothering me, Matt. I can’t have these thoughts about Beth.”

“Because you feel shame?”

“Yes.”

“But they’re not impure thoughts, correct? Thoughts that arouse you to the point of lust?”

Blood heated Brady’s cheeks. “No, of course not. I don’t allow myself to go that far.”

Father Mac’s eyes darkened. He stared, not saying a word, then finally exhaled. “You’re keeping something from me. Something from your past that’s warped the way you see that girl. I can feel it.”

Brady shot to his feet. The air in his lungs thickened with rage, choking him. “Sorry I wasted your time, Father, but I need to go.” He started for the door.

Father Mac’s voice rose, the steel of his tone as pointed as the shards of fear prickling in Brady’s gut. “You go, but you go knowing that the devil doesn’t want this dealt with. He’s got a grip on you, John, something from your past, a stronghold that keeps you from all that God has for you.”

Brady whirled around, his eyes hot with fury. “You’re spouting fairy tales, Matt. Satan has no hold on my life.”

Father Mac’s gaze burned into his. “No? Then why are you so angry?”

“Because you’re crazy—”

“And you’re afraid. He’s got you by the throat. You walk out that door, and he wins and you lose. And all because you refuse to deal with your past.”

Brady’s teeth clenched so tight, a nerve quivered clear to the back of his jaw. His eyes itched with anger as he glared, moving to the desk with slow deliberation. He shoved the chair hard and sat down, arms folded thick across his chest. “Five minutes,” he hissed, “you’ve got five minutes to have your say, and then I’m gone.”

Father Mac sank back into the chair. The tension in his face eased into cool professionalism. He released one long, slow breath and made a quick sign of the cross. “You’re not leaving until we pray about this, John. We’re going to try and lift a burden off your shoulders that’s been there way too long.” He rose and walked to the door, closing it with an ominous click. He sat back down and propped his feet on the desk. “But first, suppose you tell me all about John Morrison Brady. And start from the beginning.”

The bell over the door jangled, and Collin looked up. He slacked a hip against the work counter where he was welding a broken lever on a mimeograph press. “Hey, where’d you go? I never even heard you leave.” He squinted through goggles, eyeing Brady from head to toe, then blinked.
What the . . . ?

Instead of sporting ink on his face, his partner stood there dressed like a wealthy playboy fresh off the pages of
Vanity
Fair
. Collin’s jaw dropped a full inch. That getup had to cost him half his week’s salary—plaid linen knickers sported by the country club set and a cream V-necked vest with snazzy bow tie. A straw boater perched back on his head, revealing a more stylish, shorter haircut.

“Where in blazes have you been and what in the world are you wearing? Did you give yourself a raise or something?”

“Pardon me?”

Collin’s brow furrowed. “The glad rags. Who are you trying to impress?”

Brady’s lip curled into a smile. He removed his hat. “No one. I’m looking for John Brady. Is he here?”

Collin shoved his goggles up and stared, his mouth gaping about as wide as the open door. He flipped off the control switch on the welding gun and set it down.