Mortal Sin (24 page)

She set down the purse, the tote bag, the pork chop, and climbed the new steps to the porch. Bending, she picked up the jar and buried her face in the sweet, fragrant blossoms. Heaven. Absolute heaven. For an instant, she felt a tug of homesickness so intense she could have wept. She unlocked the door and carried the bouquet inside, then returned for the items she’d so unceremoniously discarded on the lawn.

She briefly considered Aunt Helen’s antique cut-glass vase, but decided she preferred the priest’s simple applesauce jar. With a sharp knife, she carefully snipped the jagged steins so they could drink properly. Then, with the bouquet hanging heavy in the center of her kitchen table, she pulled the telephone book from the drawer and looked up the number to Saint Bartholomew’s rectory.

“Clancy Donovan,” she said when he answered the phone. “What have you gone and done?”

“You told me you loved magnolias. I thought they’d remind you of home.”

“And steps! You built me new front steps. I can’t believe it. Were you a carpenter in a previous lifetime? Maybe between your trip to Hong Kong and your stay at the seminary?”

“Contrary to what you might believe, Ms. Connelly, my Master of Divinity degree didn’t render me totally incompetent. I know how to wield a hammer and saw.”

“And such a lovely job you did. I have to pay you back.”

“That’s not necessary. It was nothing. A few pieces of lumber, a fistful of nails. I had a few hours free, and it seemed a constructive way to spend them.”

“I insist. I’m from the South, where we always repay a favor. If you turn me down, I’ll be obligated to consider it an insult. It might even come down to a duel, just for the sake of honor.”

“Well, then. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“I’ve been looking at these beautiful flowers and trying to figure out how I could possibly repay you. Then I remembered what you said about being a lousy cook, I don’t know much about this Catholic thing, so you’ll have to help me out here. Would there be any impropriety in me asking you over for dinner some night?”

There was silence at his end of the phone. “Just the two of us?” he said.

“Just the two of us, yes.”

“Well… ah… ” He cleared his throat. “Possibly.”

She took a breath, decided to go for broke. “Let me rephrase the question. Would you like to come over for dinner some night?”

“Yes. I would love to come over for dinner some night.”

Ignoring the fluttering in her chest, she said, “How about tomorrow at seven o’clock?”

“Seven o’clock tomorrow’s fine.”

“Well.” She paused, uncertain how to proceed now that he’d accepted her invitation. “What should I make? I don’t have any idea what you like to eat. Except Chinese, but don’t ask me to make Chinese, because I wouldn’t have a clue where to start. And of course, cheeseburgers, but that’s not really what I’d call a meal.”

She realized she was babbling, and clamped her mouth firmly shut.

“Whatever you make is fine. I’ll eat just about anything.”

“Spoken like a typical man. Could you at least tell me what you don’t like?”

“As long as you don’t feed me turnip or lima beans, I don’t see how you can go wrong.”

“Well, hell. There goes my whole menu down the tubes. I was planning on making lima bean casserole and cream of turnip soup.”

“You have a fresh mouth, Sarah Connelly. Has anybody ever told you that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Father Donovan. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

When she hung up the phone, she was grinning like a fool.

“You have the most beautiful skin,” Rio said. “Smooth and creamy and unblemished. Have I ever told you that?”

Kit ran a fingertip down the center of his chest. “Once or twice before,” she said.

“Sweet Kit,” he said, rolling her onto her back in the tangled sheets. “Sweet as honey, prettier than the sunrise over Boston Harbor. How’d I get so lucky?”

As far as she was concerned, she was the one who’d gotten lucky. All her life she’d waited for that special person, the one who would love her enough to put her ahead of everyone and everything else. And she’d found him, right when her life was a shambles and she needed him the most. She sighed in utter contentment and said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby.” He placed a tender kiss on her forehead and then, to her surprise, rolled away from her.

She turned, propped herself with an elbow. “Where are you going?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his jeans. “Don’t make a move. I’ll be right back.”

Kit watched him go, mildly curious, but mostly just lazy and satisfied. She stretched like a cat. Then, with a quick glance at the door, she turned and patted the edge of the mattress, “Here, Pix.” she whispered.

In a corner of the room, Pixel was curled up in his own bed, a complex wicker affair with a red plaid cushion. The dog lifted his head and studied her with soft brown eyes. Rio didn’t like him on the bed, and Pix knew it. He also knew Kit allowed him privileges every time Rio’s back was turned. “Come on,” she whispered. “Up.”

At her urging, the dog stood and stretched, then jumped up onto the bed with her. Kit sat up and folded her arms around him. Seeking a steady foothold in the jumbled bedding, Pix wriggled and shifted, turned around a couple of times, then darted upward and slathered wet kisses all over her face.

She was giggling in delight when Rio came back into the room, carrying his camera. Over Pixel’s head, Kit met his glance, saw a flicker of irritation in his eyes before he said, “Just this one time. Pix can be in the pictures with you.”

Smiling inwardly at her victory, Kit tugged at the sheet, drew it up and tucked it demurely beneath her armpits. She tossed her long blond hair back over her shoulder, drew Pixel back into her arms, and smiled into the camera lens.

He shot an entire roll of her with the dog before he shooed
Pix out of the room and shut the door behind him. Pouting, Kit said, “You’re mean.”

Busy changing film, Rio said, “I’m not mean. I don’t like sleeping in dog hair.”

“You could change the sheets.”

He raised his head, met her eyes, and for a long instant, they challenged each other silently. Without speaking, he returned his attention to the camera, flipping shut the door and advancing the film. “Sit cross-legged,” he said. “Sheet over one shoulder, falling off the other one.”

She’d grown accustomed to his curt instructions when he was behind the camera lens, had even gotten pretty good at following them. “Like this?” she said.

“Like that, but more softly draped. I want to get the light and shadow in the folds.”

She did as he said, followed his orders while he filled another roll. “Hold that pose,” he said, and walked to the dresser to load a third roll of film. Her back was starting to stiffen. Posing for a man as demanding as Rio was hard work. He was the ultimate perfectionist, sometimes scolding her over some minuscule movement she wasn’t even aware of having made. Sometimes he’d leave her sitting in the same position for so long she was lame afterward. But the end result was worth it. His photos were always brilliant.

From behind the camera lens, he said, “Drop the sheet.”

Her mind had been wandering, and it took a minute to process his words. When she did, she thought she’d heard him wrong. “What?” she said.

“Drop the sheet. Let it pool in your lap, and hold the pose.”

Aghast, she said, “You want to take pictures of me with my clothes off?”

He lowered the camera, flashed her a boyish smile. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before, kitten.”

“But—” Face flaming, she held securely to the sheet. She would sooner eat worms than expose her body in front of the camera. What if somebody actually
saw
the pictures? She would die of embarrassment.

“It’s not that big a thing,” he said. “People do it all the time.”

In a tremulous voice, she said, “Not me.”

His eyes narrowed, and she saw something in them, something cold and distant that she’d never seen before. “You think this is how I want to spend my time?” he said. “Putting together a portfolio for some greenhorn sixteen-year-old kid nobody’s ever heard of? I’m doing this for you, Kit. Not for me, but for you. I could be doing something better with my time, like making some fucking money. I could have made eight hundred bucks tonight, but I chose to give my time to you instead. Free.
Gratis
. You know why I’m doing it without asking for compensation? Because I think you have promise, and I really get off on helping girls jump-start their careers.”

“But I don’t need naked pictures,” she said, her face burning with shame. “I couldn’t put them in my portfolio anyway.”

“Jesus,” he said in disgust, “you’re stupider than I thought. How the hell do you think all those actresses you worship got their start? Ninety percent of ‘em started out doing nude modeling. It’s called paying your dues, and everybody has to do it.”

She was crying now, fat tears sliding silently down her cheeks while she stared in disbelief at this stranger, wondering what had happened to the sweet, solicitous man she loved. “If you want to be a big-name actress,” he said, “you’d better start getting used to taking your clothes off. It’s just one more part of the job. Everybody does it. If you refuse, word will get around that you’re unprofessional, and your career will end up in the toilet. Is that what you want?”

She buried her face in her hands, unable to answer. “Grow up, Kit,” he said. “Or else be a crybaby and go running back to your Aunt Sarah, back to where it’s safe and boring and nothing exciting will ever happen to you again.”

Kit raised her face to him, swiped furiously at a tear. “I’m not a crybaby!”

“You can’t have it both ways. You’re either committed, or you’re not. Personally, I don’t give a fuck which way you go. It’s your career. But if you’re not going all the way, then don’t waste my time, because I have better things to do.”

And he picked up his camera and slammed out the bedroom door.

He’d barely taken his first sip of morning coffee when his cell phone rang. Clancy set down the
Globe
and its expose of the latest City Hall political scandal and answered the ringing phone. At the other end, an unfamiliar male voice said, “Are you that priest?”

“I’m Father Donovan. And you are?”

“My name’s Scott. You’re the one who was in Puritan Book and Video the other day, asking about the blond guy. Right?”

Scott
. Blue hair, multiple piercings, soft, brown puppy-dog eyes. “You’re the salesclerk,” he said.

“Right. Listen, I’ve had a couple of pretty lousy nights thinking about this and wondering what to do. I can’t afford too many bad nights. I’m in pre-med at Tufts, and I have to stay on my toes if I don’t want to lose my scholarship. I’ve been agonizing over whether to call you or keep my mouth shut. If Pete finds out I talked to you, I’ll be out of a job. Hell, for all I know, I could be out of more than that. These guys are mean. They don’t fool around.”

“Then you do know the man I was asking about?”

“Yeah, but I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. I have three roommates and no privacy. Can you meet me somewhere?”

He had a nine-thirty meeting with the chair of the parish budget committee. Kendra Wakefield had a tendency toward long-windedness, so he knew he could count on her litany of complaints running at least an hour. “I’m tied up until ten-thirty,” he said, “but I could meet you around eleven.”

“I have a class at twelve, so that works for me. How about the pastry shop in Harvard Square? That’s one place I know Pete will never see us.”

Parking in Harvard Square was no better than it was anywhere else in the greater Boston area, so he took the T. To save time, he had Melissa drop him off at Broadway station. From there, it was a straight shot across the Charles to what the locals referred to—some with disdain, others with prideas the People’s Republic of Cambridge. Home to such prestigious institutions as Harvard and MIT, Cambridge was liberally populated with left-wing intellectual types who basked in their superiority and preferred to do things their own way. Unlike staid Boston, which had run for several hundred years on dual tracks of tradition and political graft, Cambridge embraced the odd, the statistically deviant, and the alternative.

At
Au Bon Pain
, he bought a cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut and joined Scott at one of the tiny outdoor patio tables. With his blue hair and his nose ring, Scott fit in perfectly with the locals. Tossing a chunk of doughnut to the sparrows who squabbled viciously over it, Clancy crossed one leg over the other and said, “I’m here. Talk.”

“Like I said, if Pete finds out I talked to you, I’m dead meat. You can’t tell anybody.”

He dunked his doughnut in his coffee. “I’m a priest,” he said. “I’m used to keeping secrets.”

Scott sighed. “All right. But I’m still nervous about this.” He cradled his bottle of orange juice between both hands. “This guy you’re looking for. His name is Rio.”

Clancy uncrossed his legs, rested both feet flat on the ground, and leaned forward. “Rio,” he said. “Is that a first name or a last name?”

“Not a clue, man. I’ve never heard anybody refer to him as anything but Rio. He comes in every so often to see Pete.”

“He’s a regular customer?”

“Yes and no.”

“Explain, please.”

“He doesn’t buy from us. He comes in for referrals.”

“Referrals?”

“High rollers. Big spenders. Guys who carry big wads of cash or American Express Platinum cards. Repeat customers who regularly drop a few hundred bucks every time they come in.”

Clancy absently tore off another chunk of jelly doughnut and tossed it to the birds. “You get a lot of high rollers?”

“Man, you wouldn’t believe the people who come into that place. Doctors, lawyers, judges. Cops. Politicians and clergymen. Let’s just say you’re not the first priest I’ve seen in there.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why is Rio getting these referrals?”

“Well, you see.” Scott set down the bottle of orange juice, rested both forearms on the table, and lowered his voice. “Rio provides a special service for rich guys with a jones for porn and wads of cash to spend. He has a special arrangement with Pete. Petey-Boy provides the referrals, and if a referral ends in a sale, he gets a percentage. Sort of a finder’s fee.”