Mortal Sin (32 page)

He knocked on Fiona’s screen door, opened it and stuck his head in. “Anybody home?”

Fiona Rafferty bustled into the kitchen, wearing a flowing caftan of teal and purple that clashed screamingly with her bottle-orange hair. “If you’re looking for Jamal,” she said, “he’s not here. He’s down at the pub with Hugh.”

“That’s all right. It’s you I came to see.”

“That’s some pretty face you have there,” she said. “Run into a door, did you?”

Grimly, he said, “Something like that.”

She eyed him long and hard. “How about a cuppa joe?”

He stepped inside and silently closed the door behind him. On the stove, in a dented aluminum kettle that was a dead ringer for the one she’d been cooking out of when he was a kid, something smelled heavenly. He edged nearer as she pulled a mug from the cupboard and filled it with coffee. He accepted it with a brief nod of thanks, sipped, then said casually, “I haven’t seen you at Mass lately.”

Fiona snorted. “And you’re not likely to see me until the Church reverses some of its Medieval thinking and realizes this is the twenty-first century.” She returned the coffeepot to its spot on the sideboard and studied him with shrewd eyes. “You’re too damn thin. Sit down. I’ll fix you a bowl of stew.”

He knew better than to argue. Men had fought wars over lesser things than Fiona Rafferty’s stew. He pulled out a chair and sat at the worn wooden table as Fiona bustled about the kitchen. She plunked a plate of stew in front of him, steamy and fragrant and thick enough to eat with a fork. He picked up his fork and dug in, suddenly ravenous. From somewhere, she produced a crock of butter, a jar of jam, and a huge slab of homemade bread, followed it up with a tall glass of cold milk—the real thing, none of this
2%
crap for Fiona Rafferty. He wondered, fleetingly, if his cholesterol level would manage to survive her, and then he forgot to wonder because the food was so good.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from him. Blood-red nails ticking rhythmically against the table, she watched him devour the plate of food. When he was done, she got up and wordlessly refilled his plate from the kettle on the stove, then set it back down in front of him.

“If it weren’t for you,” he said, “I never would have survived childhood. I would have starved to death.”

“You turned out to be a good man, Clancy Donovan. No thanks to that drunken fool who called herself your mother.”

He cut off a slice of bread and slathered it with butter. Mildly, he said, “It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead when they’re not here to defend themselves.”

“I’m no hypocrite. I’d say it to her face if she was standing here.”

“Besides—” he spooned strawberry jam onto the slice of bread and folded it in two “—I’ve made peace with my mother. She may have been a pathetic excuse for a parent, but she loved me.”

“Yes. She did. That’s the only thing that kept me from telling her what I thought of her while she was still alive.”

“Water under the bridge, Fiona.”

“It’s a credit to you that you turned out okay in spite of her. So what are you doing here, Father Donovan, besides mooching a meal and prodding me about missing a few Sunday mornings at Saint Bart’s?”

He took a huge bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed and said, “You and Hugh. You’ve been married for how long now?”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Thirty-nine years.”

“Thirty-nine years. That’s amazing. Can I ask you something? Something really personal?”

“Shoot.”

He lofted a forkful of stew, paused with it in midair. “When you met him all those years ago… how did you know he was the one?”

“Easy,” she said as he chewed. “He was the best-looking boy in school.”

“But that was initial attraction, right? Chemistry. There has to be more to it than sex.”

“Of course there’s more to it than sex. There’s friendship, and respect, and trust. There’s feeling right together, feeling as though the two of you as a couple are somehow more than just the sum of one plus one. But the sex is always there. It’s always part of the equation. You can’t separate it from the rest.”

“But—” he swallowed and gestured with his fork “—that kind of thing doesn’t last. What happens when it’s gone? What holds two people together for thirty-nine years once the sexual attraction wears off?”

Her booming laughter surprised him. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, “I don’t mean to laugh at you, but you are so young. When do you think it disappears? At forty? Fifty-five? Sixty-seven?”

“I suppose I never really thought about it. I just assumed—”

“You assumed wrong. Oh, sure, you get older, the kids come along and drive you crazy, life intrudes. You get aches and pains where you never had them before, gain a few pounds, lose a little hair. Sometimes you’re so tired that sleep is more important than sex. But the feelings don’t go away. Ask any couple who’re still together, still in love, after twenty, thirty-five, even fifty years. They’ll tell you they’re as attracted to each other as they were at the beginning. Time doesn’t change that. I look at Hugh and still see the strapping young boy I married almost forty years ago.”

It was an amazing revelation. He’d never thought of older people as sexual beings. Was it a naivete he hadn’t realized he possessed, or simply the result of too many years spent in the Church? Whatever the reason, he’d somehow automatically presumed the sexual arena to be the sole property of the young.

“All right,” she said. “I’ve answered your questions. Now it’s my turn. Why do you want to know these things?”

He set down his fork, the meal forgotten, and wiped his mouth on the napkin she’d provided. “You’re the closest thing I have to a mother,” he said. “Fiona… I’m in trouble.”

“Trouble?” She leaned on both elbows over the table. “What kind of trouble?”

“The worst kind a priest can get into, I’m afraid. I’ve met a woman. Somehow, I’ve managed to fall in love with her.”

She picked up a slice of bread, buttered it, and took a bite. “That doesn’t sound so terrible to me.”

“It’s bad enough. You have to understand, it’s not just about sex. If it was, I’m sure there are any number of ladies in my flock who’d be more than willing to help me out with my little dilemma.”

Her mouth thinned. “And I bet I could name most of them without even having to think about it.”

“But it’s more than that. When she walks into a room, the rest of the world disappears, and it’s just the two of us. We could be standing in the middle of Copley Square at high noon, and there’d be just Sarah.”

“That’s her name? Sarah?”

He picked up his coffee cup, took a sip. “Sarah Connelly,” he said, setting it back down. “You met her at the christening.”

“Josie’s Sarah? The one with the missing niece?”

“Yes. I’ve been helping her, and—” he paused, sighed, ran his fingers through his hair “—it’s senseless to lie and say it took me by surprise. I saw it coining miles away, like a loaded freight train. I had plenty of opportunity to step aside and avoid the collision. Instead, I just stood there on the tracks and waited for it to mow me over.”

“You have good taste, I’ll give you that. I liked her. She’s not a wimp. I can’t stand wimpy women. I assume this is a mutual thing?”

He thought about the tenderness she’d displayed the night he came to her, bruised and beaten, the night he’d looked into those blue eyes and fallen head over heels in love. “I’m quite sure it is,” he said. “And I have no idea what to do.”

“Don’t ask me for advice unless you’re looking for brutal honesty.”

In spite of his misery, he smiled. “If I hadn’t wanted brutal honesty, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

She got up from her chair, fetched the coffeepot. “Fine,” she said, refilling first his cup, then hers. “Here’s what I think.” She returned the coffeepot to its spot and sat back down at the table. “When Meg died, you packed your heart in a box, locked it up, and put it on a shelf way in the back of the closet, in the dark, where you could pretend it didn’t exist.” She stirred sugar into her coffee, set down her spoon. “But it couldn’t stay there forever. You’re a warm and caring man. That’s what makes you so successful as a priest. It was inevitable that sooner or later, that warm and caring man would find somebody special to care for.”

“But I’m not allowed to have somebody special to care for.”

“Sweetheart, do you really think you’re the first priest to have a woman on the side? Men weren’t designed for celibacy. It’s the most ridiculous notion I’ve ever heard.”

“But what—”

“Shut up. I’m not done yet. I think it’s a disgrace for the Catholic Church to take a beautiful young man like you, strong and healthy, in the prime of his life, with all that testosterone racing through his veins, and turn him into a eunuch. They’re asking you to deny who and what you are. It’s unnatural.”

“I can’t change the Church, Fiona. It’s been that way since the twelfth century.”

“Why should you have to choose between serving God and being with the woman you love? Why can’t you have both? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because I made a promise to the Church. I don’t take it lightly.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re a man of integrity. But integrity won’t take you far on a cold winter night.” She leaned back in her chair and studied his face. “You’re thirty-five years old, Clancy. You’re looking at the possibility of another forty or fifty years on this planet. Maybe even longer. That’s a long time to be alone.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Just because the Church says so doesn’t make it wrong, either. If I were you, I’d think hard before I let this chance slip away.”

“Moral ambiguity,” he said, more to himself than to her. “You honestly don’t believe what I’m feeling for her is wrong?”

“There’s too damn little love in this world. That’s what I think is wrong. And we all deserve happiness. But this is a decision you have to make for yourself. You and Sarah together, since it impacts both of your lives. As much as I love you, this isn’t something I can help you with.”

He considered her words. “It gets worse,” he said. “An hour ago, the bishop offered me a transfer. To Detroit.” “Oh, Lord. You’re not going to take it, are you?” He picked up his coffee cup, took a sip. And sighed. “I’m afraid I may not have a choice.”

“I heard a rumor.”

Sarah looked up from the invoices she’d been working on, lifted her reading glasses, and leveled a glance at Josie. “What kind of rumor?”

Josie carefully unwrapped a delicate blown-glass angel and placed it on the display shelf behind the counter. “I heard you were seen a few nights ago in a very exclusive restaurant, having a romantic dinner with a sinfully handsome man—” Josie glanced up from her work, pinned Sarah with her gaze “—who just happened to be wearing a clerical collar.”

Sarah’s mouth thinned, and she returned to her invoices. “It was nothing.”

“My source tells me it didn’t look like nothing.”

“People talk too much,” she said, without looking up. “They should find something useful to do.”

“Is there something going on that I should know about?”

“No.”

“Because, you know, I feel at least somewhat responsible. I’m the one who introduced you in the first place. I’m the one who dragged you to the christening. From which you left, I might add, with Clancy.”

“My car died. I couldn’t exactly walk home.”

“I’ve seen the two of you together, and it seems to me there’s some pretty heavy chemistry going on there. If I inadvertently started something, I’d really like to know, because—”

“Damn it, Josie!” She slammed her pen down on the stack of invoices. “The man is a priest. A priest! Black suit, white collar, no sex. Maybe with all that heavy chemistry, we can spend every Saturday night for the next forty years playing canasta together!”

Josie calmly unwrapped a second figurine. “So,” she said with deliberate nonchalance, “you admit there’s something going on between you.”

“No! Goddamn it.” She gave up on the invoices, ran a hand through her tangled hair. “Oh, hell. To tell you the truth, Jose, I really don’t know what’s going on.”

“Aw, honey.” Josie set aside the box of figurines and sat down beside her. “Want to talk about it?”

“It’s such a mixed-up mess. This thing with Kit is tearing me apart. I’m so afraid of losing her.” She rubbed absently at her temple, where a headache was beginning to take root. “Lately,” she said, “I have more mood swings than Joan Crawford. This thing with Clancy… at first, it was just that he was the only person I could turn to. I could call him at any time of the day or night, and he’d always listen, even when I was being a damn fool. But, then—” She paused, gazed absently at a customer who was browsing the self-help section. “But then, it started being about more than that. For me, anyway. Maybe it’s just pheromones. Or the thrill of falling for a man who’s the ultimate in forbidden fruit. I know it’ll never go any further than fantasy. He’s married to the Catholic Church. End of story.” She sighed, decided she might as well pour out the rest of the god-awful truth. “The other night, at dinner, I pretty much laid it out in front of him.”

The sympathy in Josie’s eyes gave her courage to continue. “He said something about wanting to impress me, and I told him if I wasn’t already impressed, I wouldn’t be sitting there.” She shook her head, still unable to believe those words had come from her own mouth. “When I realized what I’d said, and how it sounded, I nearly died of mortification.” Josie blew out a hard breath between her lips. “I can see where that could be potentially embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? Sugar, I wanted the floor to open and swallow me up, right then and there.”

“Can I ask a stupid question? If I’m prying, feel free to slug me.”

“Go ahead. Ask.”

“Are you on any kind of birth control?”

“Jesus, Josie, I can’t believe you said that! The man is a priest. There must be some kind of sacrilege in even thinking it.”

“He’s also a man, my friend, and you’re a woman, and there’s a strong attraction between you. You need to protect yourself, just in case.”

“There won’t be any ‘in case’ because nothing’s going to happen between us.”