The Buried Bride E-Book

Susan Mathis

• Herausgeber: Mercy and Justice Mysteries
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

With the Archbishop’s blessing, Helen and I are spending Lent building a relationship built on love--but without physical intimacy.
And yes, it’s as hard as it sounds.
But this penitential season, I have other work to do. I need to rebuild my relationship with the families of St. Clare’s after neglecting my duties as their shepherd. I must confess my sins to them, and ask their forgiveness.
With these two tasks, I expected this Lent to be the longest of my life.
But I didn’t expect to be fighting to stay out of prison.

Leseprobe

The Buried Bride

The Father Tom Mysteries, Book 4

By

J. R. Mathis and Susan Mathis

Also by J. R. Mathis

The Father Tom Mysteries

The Penitent Priest

The Framed Father

The Redemptive Return

The Buried Bride

The Defining Decision

The Silent Shooter

The Purloined Paintings

The Slain Saint

The Perfect Patsy

The Haunted Heritage

The Fatal Fall (Coming Soon)

The Father's Family (Coming Soon)

The Mercy and Justice Mysteries

The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)

The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)

Standalone

The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3

Watch for more at J. R. Mathis’s site.

Also by Susan Mathis

The Father Tom Mysteries

The Penitent Priest

The Framed Father

The Redemptive Return

The Buried Bride

The Defining Decision

The Silent Shooter

The Purloined Paintings

The Slain Saint

The Perfect Patsy

The Haunted Heritage

The Fatal Fall (Coming Soon)

The Father's Family (Coming Soon)

The Mercy and Justice Mysteries

The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)

The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)

Standalone

The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

The Buried Bride (The Father Tom Mysteries, #4)

Authors’ Note

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Excerpt from The Defining Decision

A Message from the Authors

Acknowledgements

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

About the Author

Mercy and Justice Mysteries, 2021

Copyright © 2021 by James R. Mathis and Susan S. Mathis

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Second Printing, November 2021

Contact: [email protected]

––––––––

COVER PHOTO: ADOBE Stock Photos

Cover: Millie Godwin

Editor: Anna Palmer Darkes

Authors’ Note

THE BURIED BRIDE begins one day after the end of The Redemptive Return and contains spoilers for the earlier book.

This book takes place in a time and place very much like our own.  In  the book’s world, however, COVID-19 doesn’t exist; hence our characters wear no masks, shake hands, hug with abandon, and gather in groups of more than 10 people.

All the places and characters in this book are the product of the authors’ imagination and research. Any resemblance to actual places or persons is entirely coincidental.

TRIGGER WARNING: this book contains occasional profanity, reference to sexual situations, and a non-graphic discussion of an attempted date rape.

One

“WHAT, NO CINNAMON ROLL?”

Helen and I are at The Perfect Cup on the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the most important season on the Church calendar.

For us, after our conversation with the Archbishop in my office yesterday, it could be the most important Lent of our lives.

Certainly, it’s going to be the longest.

Helen waggles her eyebrows at me and says, “Well, Father Tom, Lent began yesterday, or have you forgotten already?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” I say, displaying my right thumb. It is still gray from placing ashes on the foreheads of the men, women, and children of Saint Clare’s—including hers. “I’m just surprised to see you without a cinnamon roll.”

“I know,” she sighs, looking down at her cup of black coffee, “but I thought giving up sweets would be a good penance this year.”

I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t because of the things Mom said to you when we were there,” I say, “because she’s—”

“Oh, no,” she says, her eyes still fixed on her coffee. “This isn’t a weight thing. This is an ‘avoiding sources of temptation and exercising self-discipline’ thing.”

“Oh,” I nod. “I see.”

We look at each other across the table, not quite certain what to say next. Part of our agreed upon Lenten discipline was to avoid talks of intimate things—both emotional and physical.

“So, I told you. Now you tell me. What are you giving up?” Helen asks, breaking the tension with a much needed subject shift.

“You know, I haven’t completely decided yet,” I say, sitting back and throwing an arm over the back of my chair. “Traditionally, I give up eating in restaurants. But I’m certainly not doing that this year for obvious reasons. So, I’m thinking maybe television?”

“What?” Helen says in mock horror, “just as the NASCAR season starts again?”

“Well, you see,” I reply,  “one of the great things about being a NASCAR fan is that Catholics are never supposed to fast from anything on Sundays, not even during Lent. It's always a day of celebration because of the Resurrection.”

“I thought it was also supposed to be a day devoted to family and spiritual pursuits?”

I laugh. “Helen, I am a Cathoic priest in a small town in western Maryland. My parish is full of some of the most fertile couples I have ever known. Every day of my life is focused on family and spiritual pursuits. I don’t think a few hours a week devoted to men firing engines in anger is going to hurt my soul.”

I sip my coffee. “That reminds me,” I say, pulling out my phone and checking my email. “I need to add the Richards to the list of baptisms for the fall.”

“The list of baptisms?” Helen says. “How many baptisms do you have?”

I look at my calendar. “Twelve.”

Helen slams her cup down. “Twelve! There are going to be twelve more babies in the Church? Where do they all come from?”

I get a tight smile and lean forward. “Well, you see Helen, when a man and a woman—”

“Oh, stop it, you know what I mean!”

I chuckle. “You remember that blizzard just before Christmas? Closed everything down for three days? Well, some of them had a lot of time on their hands.”

I start to laugh at my own joke, but my laughter fades when I see the look on Helen’s face.

I close my eyes. “Sorry, Helen,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking.”

She clears her throat. ‘It’s OK,” she whispers. “It just reminded me, you know?”

Looking directly at her, I put my fist to my chest. She smiles, then does the same thing.

It’s our secret signal, the one we agreed on. It lets the other person know that we’re sorry we broke one of our Lenten commitments.

“All right,” she says, changing the subject again, waving her hands in surrender. “Far be it from me, a lowly, though now Chief Detective, to argue theology and spiritual discipline with you.”

“Good,” I say “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, what’s on your calendar for today?”

“Not much.  I’ll go check in at the office when I leave here, but then I’ve got to go to Dulles to pick Gladys up.”

“Oh, she’s getting back in today? It hasn’t been that long since we left.”

“I know, but she said that she’s done all she can for the FBI and, since she got The Belvedere’s files unlocked, they can take it from here.” Pulling out her cell phone and tapping the screen, Helen adds, “She also said, and I quote: ‘I’ve gotta get out of here before Dad’s mother drives me completely crazy’.”

I roll my eyes. Mom has that effect on people.

“I can’t believe she stayed on with Mom after we left,” I say.

“I can’t either,” Helen says, shaking her head,  “but, as she pointed out, it was either there or at the brothel they were investigating.”

“Knowing Gladys, I’m still surprised.”

“Apparently she did ask, but the FBI said it was an active crime scene so they couldn’t let her.”

“Well that explains it then,” I say, nodding.  “Still, Mom seems happy to have had her there.  Well, at least as happy as Mom can ever be.”

“Oh yeah, according to Gladys, they’re having a fine old time. Nola keeps trying to give her your sister’s old clothes.”

I nearly choke on this. Sputtering, I say, “Wait a minute. Mom’s been trying to give Gladys the clothes that Sonya bought while she was working as a madam?”

“That’s right,” Helen says, nodding.  “Your mom has said to Gladys on more than one occasion,” she picks up her phone again, “and this is also a direct quote, ‘Most of them are really expensive and it's not like Helen would ever be able to fit into them.’”

“Oh, boy,” I say, trying to figure out how to tell Helen once again how lovely she is without breaking our Lenten promise for the second time today.

And it’s not even 10 a.m. yet.

“Oh, Tom,” Helen laughs playfully, “if I was ever going to worry about my weight, it wouldn’t be because of something Nola Greer said.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. So is Gladys going to take any of them?”

“I doubt it.  You know she doesn’t like wearing anything made after 1968.”

This is certainly true. Gladys Finkelstein is known around Myerton for three things: her 186 IQ, her bright teal wheelchair, and her tendency to dress like Jackie Kennedy. In other places, her light blue hair might also make her stand out, but since this is a college town, that’s not really a big deal.

I am contemplating with horror the idea of Gladys wheeling around town in a gold lame business suit when Helen’s phone rings.

She answers it and says, “Hello? Oh, yes, Chief, what—wait, today? But that’s awfully short notice.” She pauses and listens. “OK, I get it, Chief. So what time is our meeting with him.” When she gets this piece of news, her eyes get big. “But that’s in an hour! What does he—OK, OK, I’ll have something intelligent to say. Where shall I meet you?” She nods as her boss says something. “OK, I’ll come by your office and we can walk over together.” There’s a bit of loud talking on the other end, causing Helen to pull the phone away slightly. “Of course, sorry Chief, don’t know what came over me.” Hanging up, she tosses the phone lightly on the table.

“Well,” she huffs. “That’s. Just. Dandy!”

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“Oh, the new President of Myer College has requested a meeting to discuss the department’s role in campus security. Apparently, he’s concerned that  we’re not giving the College sufficient protection. He wants to meet with the Chief and me today at 11 a.m..”

I shrug. “So? You just go and act like your usual charming self,” I grin.

“Hah! Have you forgotten who this guy is?”

“Oh, Helen, some things are impossible to forget.”

Like the fact that Myer’s new president, who is forty-eight, “dated” Gladys when she was at MIT.

When she was eighteen.

Gladys graduated with a Masters at twenty, and she’s only twenty-four now.

“Do everyone a favor,” I say. “Leave your gun in the car. And by gun, I mean both of them.”

“Oh, I’m not going to shoot him,” she says, as she takes another drink of coffee.

I extend my hand across the table. “And why don’t you just give me the knife?”

“You’re just asking because you still want to know where I keep it.”

I’m about to deny that when she stands and announces, “And anyway, I don’t have it with me.”

“What?” I say. “No knife?”

“No, Tom, I only carry the knife when I’m undercover. I am very much hoping not to need it during a meeting in the office of the President of Myer College.”

“Is there anything I can do?” I say.

“Actually, there is one thing, if you feel up to it. Since I don’t know how long this guy’s gonna keep us, could you possibly pick Gladys up?”

“Oh, sure.  I don’t have any appointments.  Just text me her flight info.”

“Are you sure you feel well enough?” she says, worry etched into her face.

I spread my hands. “The doctor said I could drive on Thursday. I’ll take it easy, avoiding the Beltway and driving the back route. If I feel funny, I’ll pull over. Promise.”

“OK,” she says with a smile. “Thanks so much, sweetie.” She stops suddenly and catches herself. Then she briefly brings her fist to her chest. I give her a smile and a small nod to let her know I saw.  Then she turns and is on her way. 

As she walks away, I find my eyes following after her. I force myself to look at something else, then briefly tap my own chest.

Yes, a very long Lent indeed.

Two

“BUT I JUST DON’T GET it, Dad!”

I’m about halfway between Dulles International Airport and Myerton, having picked Gladys up after her flight from Tallahassee. Even considering how crowded that airport usually is, it was easy for me to spot her when I pulled into the Arrivals pick-up lane. After all, there just are not that many young 24-year-old women with light blue hair in teal wheelchairs wearing a vintage, boxy, navy blue suit accessorized with a brand new fuchsia Hermes scarf.  I know it’s Hermes, and that this is a very expensive brand, because Helen had pointed it out to me when we were going through my sister’s closet.

We’d spent most of the time just chatting, and by chatting, I mean her talking and me listening. She spoke of her work with the FBI, made several observations about how bad the people who ran the human trafficking operation were, bemoaned the fate of some of the girls who either didn’t have families or whose families were not interested in having them back, and of course made several pointed observations about Mom. Particularly, observations about Mom’s comments concerning Helen’s weight. Which, apparently, she made quite often for some reason.

I had stopped her from saying more when she said, “Oh, then there’s the things she said about your injury.”

As if she needed a reset, she lapsed into a silence after that remark.  This lasted some thirty miles or so, when she blurted out, “I just don’t get it.”

I look at her out of the corner of my eye. “What don’t you get, Gladys?”

“What’s going on between you and Mom—or, I guess what isn’t going on?”

I can’t suppress a chuckle. Gladys insists on calling me Dad and Helen Mom. Having been orphaned at eight in the same car accident that left her in a wheelchair, she’s spent some time looking for substitutes, not always making the best decisions in the process. It’s an unspoken agreement between Helen and I that we let her, at least in private.

Besides, it’s not like people don’t call me Father all the time. And Dad’s just a variation of that.

“Oh, I see,” I say. “What about it?”

“You and Mom are obviously in love,” she says.

“True.”

“So you admit it?”

“Gladys, to deny that I love Helen would be like denying that the sky is blue and water is wet.”

“Well?” she says, her voice a mixture of confusion and irritation. “Couldn’t you just ditch this whole priest thing and go back to being an archivist? I mean, I know you’re old and all.” I shoot her a dirty look and she adds quickly, “But not that old. I’m sure you could get a job or Mom could support you.  You know she makes a lot more money than you do.”

“I know,” I say, a bit defensively, “but how do you know?”

“Oh, well, that’s easy. I manage the personnel files for the police department, and one day I noticed a copy of Saint Clare’s annual financial statement on Mom’s desk.”

I am about to pursue this further when she interrupts me, dragging me back against my will to our previous, very uncomfortable topic.

“So wouldn’t being with her be worth giving up your job?”

This question hits me like a punch in the stomach. It's the question that I have faced again and again.

“Being with Helen, being married to Helen, would be worth giving up any job in the world, Gladys,” I say. “But being a priest is more than just a job, it's a calling. The Church calls it a vocation and compares it to being married. Furthermore, something special happens when a man is ordained. He gets special powers, I guess you could call them, that come from God himself. A man makes promises, lifelong vows to God and the Church, vows that are every bit as valuable and real as marriage vows. Gladys, would you ever ask a man to leave his wife and children for you?”

“No, of course not. That would be gross.”

“Not just gross, but wrong. So would my leaving the priesthood for Helen.  Even if I did decide to do so, I would be leaving my best self behind.”

“But she wouldn’t care as long as you were both happy,” Gladys pleads.

“Has she said that to you?” I ask.

“Well, no.”

“What has she said?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Gladys, with arms crossed and a pout, says with the bored tone that only the very young can still manage, “She said that she wants you to stay a priest because she loves God and she loves the way you love God and she doesn’t want that to change.”

She turns her head to look out the window at the passing scenery. After a few minutes, she turns back to me and says, with an angry tone that surprises me, “And by the way, I don’t get that, either.”

“Get what?” I ask.

“The whole God thing. You and Mom, you’re good people. She puts her life on the line everyday and you almost got killed trying to help some girls you’d never even met. So why do you need to make yourselves miserable?  Don’t you do enough? I mean, how much more can He want?”

“Hmmm,” I say, trying to buy some time to sort through my answer. I’m not quite sure what to say, especially since I’ve spent a good portion of the months since Father Leonard’s suicide asking the same questions.

I’m still not a hundred percent sure of the answers. But Gladys is a young soul asking me for guidance. I’m not about to taint that with my own still confused feelings.

“So, it sounds like you believe in God,” I begin. “I mean, we’ve never really talked about it or anything. I know you seem to enjoy Mass when you come.”

“Oh, yeah. I totally believe in God. I mean, obviously my Dad was Jewish but my Mom was raised Catholic and had me baptized. I even made my first Holy Communion the year before they died. Big, puffy white dress, veil, and everything.”

I have no trouble imagining Gladys wearing that now. “And then?”

“After my parents died, I lived with my grandparents. They were wonderful people but old. They wanted to send me to Catholic school but I was in the chair and there were stairs everywhere in that building. So they homeschooled through this online private school. I loved that and pretty much spent all my time online. That’s when I really started loving computers and how I ended up at MIT when I was still so young.

“The thing was, though, I didn’t have many friends, any really, at least not my own age. My grandmother was a member of the Ladies of Charity, and they were really sweet, but they were pretty much the only people I ever saw other than my Grandma and Grandpa. We went to Mass on Sunday and I loved dressing up for that but the priest was old, too, and I think he was just too tired to really make the Mass special. Not like you do.”

“That’s not me, Gladys,” I point out. “The Mass is special because it's the Mass. It doesn’t matter who is celebrating it.”

“Maybe so,” she says. “Anyway, there weren’t really any other teenagers in the parish. By the time my grandmother began to bring up Confirmation, I was so caught up in other stuff that I just wasn’t interested. So we dropped it, I went off to college, and that was it.”

“But you said you do believe in God. I mean, a lot of kids stop believing after they’re in college.”

“Hey, I may not be a good Catholic, but I am smart enough to know that all the stuff I’ve studied couldn’t have happened by accident. And anyway, I like the idea of God and heaven and that my Mom and Dad are happy there.”

She pauses for a minute and then takes a deep breath. “What I don’t like is the idea of a God who makes rules that hurt people and cause them to be miserable.”

“Oh, I see.” I let this sit for a minute and then ask, “Do you think Helen and I are miserable?”

“Yeah, I do, at least some of the time. Though it's not as bad now as it was.”

“So we were more miserable before, in Bellamy?”

“Well, yeah. I know that you were upset about your sister and all but you were also miserable together.”

“But we’re better, now?”

“Definitely.  I mean, Mom still looks a little sad sometimes but everyone has their moments.”

“Good point. So,” and I pause here, not wanting to appear disrespectful, “what do you think has changed?”

“Well, Mom says that you both decided to back off and figure out what God wants you to do.”

“And that has made us happier,” I say, in something between a statement and a question.

“I guess.”

I think that I’ve made my point but the young never give up that easily.

“But why do you have to?” she wails. “Why can’t you be happy together and get married or even just live together or at least steal away for a dirty weekend now and then?”

I know at this point I could quote Church teaching or something from Saint Pope John Paul II, but I decide to take a different tactic.

“Gladys,” I say, “You know a lot about computers, right?”

“You know I do.”

“And you know that they are designed to run a certain way. That what you get out depends on what you put in.”

“Yeah,” she says dubiously.

“OK. So if I want good information, I have to put in the correct codes and commands.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her nod. “Do I do this because the person who did the original programming is mean or wants to make my life harder?”

“No, it's just the way it is.”

“Right, and I’m sure that you know that some systems and some programs run better than others.”

“Well, yeah, a lot of them are complete crap.”

“So you choose the good ones.”

“Yeah.”

“Even with their limitations? Even if the very best one still has some things it won’t let you do?”

“OK. I get it. You’re saying the Catholic Church has the best system.  But how do you know?”

“How do you know what computer system is the best?”

“I don’t know. I’ve tried some of them. Some of them I’ve just read about. Some, my friends recommended.”

“So you use what you’ve read, your experience and that of other people, and what people you trust have said.”

“More or less.” She’s silent for a minute, processing. Then she says, “But just because it works for you doesn’t mean it would work for anyone else, like me, for instance.”

“That, Gladys,” I say with a smile, “is something you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”

Three

“ANNA,” I CALL AS I come through the door, “I’m home. Any calls while I was out?”

“No, Tom,” Anna says, emerging from the kitchen. “Is everything OK?”

“Sure, it is. Why do you ask?”

“Well, six hours is an awfully long time to spend drinking coffee, even for you and Helen,” she says, a look emphasizing her displeasure.

“But I wasn’t with Helen. I drove to Dulles to pick up Gladys and we just got back. I texted you and said that’s what I was doing.”

“You did not,” she says, looking at her phone. “Oh, wait, I guess you did. The service here has been spotty ever since the last snowfall.”

She takes a breath and looks at me evenly. I know what is coming and this time I feel ready, even grateful, to have to deal with it.

“Tom,” she says, looking me square in the eye, “I haven’t wanted to bring this up while you’re still recovering. In fact, after I heard everything that happened to you, and how close you came to losing your life, I decided that I’d just let everything else go and be thankful to have you back in one piece. But that is not realistic, not if we’re going to continue to work together as closely as we have.”

“Anna, you’re right. We do need to talk about this. Have you made lunch yet?”

“Of course.  Can’t you smell the soup?”

I realize now that I can.

“OK,” I say, “let’s chat over lunch.”

We go into the kitchen where Anna pours us both steaming mugs of her wonderful vegetable soup.

“I was going to make cornbread . . .” she says, trailing off.

“This is great. In fact, it's so good that I’ll treat for dinner.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

We eat in silence for a few bites as I try to think where to start, but before I can say anything, Anna jumps in.

“Before you say anything else, Tom, please tell me this. Are you leaving the priesthood?”

I look her squarely in the eye and say without hesitation, “Absolutely not.”

“So the situation we need to talk about has nothing to do with the Archbishop’s visit yesterday?”

“No, Anna, the situation has everything to do with the Archbishop’s visit yesterday.”

“Is he going to move you?”

“Not in the foreseeable future.”

“Oh, Tom,” she cries, bursting into tears, “I am so glad. You are the only living connection I have to Joan and I have been sure these last few months that you would either leave the priesthood and run off with Helen or that the Archbishop would force you to go to another place, you know, for your own good.”

I put my arms around Anna and say, “While no one can tell what the future holds, it seems that the Church has learned some valuable lessons in recent years about the folly of transferring their problems to other places. Here I am, and here I intend to stay.”

After a moment, Anna stops crying and I let go. I look at my mug, giving myself one more chance to leave it there. Anna would be satisfied to know that I wasn’t leaving either the priesthood or Saint Clare’s. But the time I just spent with my own Mom made me appreciate how important Anna is to me, not just as my secretary and housekeeper, but as a surrogate Mom.

She deserves to know the truth.

“Anna,” I whisper. “I . . . I owe you an apology.”

She says nothing. Instead, she looks at me, her chin on her hand, a slight smile on her face.

I take a deep breath. “When you talked to me that day, before I left. You . . . you said some things that I got angry about. About the way I’d been neglecting my duties. About how I’d been treating people. About . . .”

I’m too choked up to continue.

“About Helen,” Anna says softly.

I nod, not able to look at her. “You were right,” I whisper. “About all of it. After Leonard died, I just stopped caring. I didn’t want to do it anymore. As far as I was concerned, I was just biding my time until I had an excuse to leave the priesthood.”

“And Helen became your excuse.”

“She was the only thing that kept me around,” I say. “If she hadn’t been here—if she had taken that job in Nebraska, which I couldn’t stand the thought of—I would have left. Maybe not the priesthood, but Saint Clare’s certainly.

“But the more time I spent with her, the more I realized how much I love her, Anna.” I wipe my hand across my face. “So you were right when you said I was in love with Helen. Because I was. I am.”

“And Helen? How does she feel?”

“She loves me, too, Anna. We . . . we told each other in Bellamy.” I close my eyes. “We showed each other,” I whisper.

The silence is heavy in the room. “Tom,” Anna finally says, “did you and Helen . . . ?”

I shake my head. “No. We didn’t. Honestly, if I had my way . . . But it never went that far. Helen stopped us. Stopped me. Because she loves me. But she loves God more.”

Anna exhales a deep breath she’d been holding. “Oh,” she says with a smile.

“I owe her so much,” I say. “She talked me out of making a huge mistake. Her faith was so strong, Anna, it made me see how weak mine had become. It was like a light came on. I wasn’t a priest who was worthy of God anymore.

“So I began again. I began praying again. I began focusing on God instead of what I wanted. I knew one thing with certainty: I wanted Helen. But I wanted God more.”

“So why was the Archbishop here yesterday?”

“To follow up on our meeting Monday night after we got back. Helen and I told him what we wanted—that I remain a priest, but that we stay in each other’s lives somehow. We had talked a lot on the way home, and laid out a whole new way of being together, one that eliminates the possibility of crossing boundaries that we shouldn’t cross, but keeps the parts that are important to us. The Archbishop came here to tell us he had basically decided to allow us to spend Lent seeing if it could work out.

“So that’s where we are,” I say.  “Helen is going to remain part of my life, a big part, a close friend and a companion. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Tom,” Anna says, “and I’m glad, and I believe Joan would be, too.”

These words bring tears to my eyes and I continue.

“You know, Anna, that Helen was once married and that her husband was killed in a traffic accident.”

“Yes, I remember hearing something like that.”

“That is one of the things that makes her so comforting to me. She knows what it is like to lose someone you love suddenly and violently, without warning. It doesn’t surprise her that I wandered around for such a long time in a fog of grief. I know that, even if she knew of some of the things that I did in those first terrible months after I lost Joan, things that I regret so very much and have had a hard time forgiving myself for, she would understand.”

In my mind, a guilty question rears its ugly head and I add silently, At least I hope she would.

Anna is sniffling, too, and I am once again reminded that while I lost a wife and could, theoretically at one time, have married again, she lost her only daughter.

Before I can say anything else, though, she wipes her nose and says briskly. “So, what should we order tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I say, recognizing that she has discussed this topic enough. “Chinese? Barbeque? Pizza?”

“No, not pizza.  That’s not a suitable dinner for two adults.” Then she adds, a bit conspiratorially, “Look, Tom, if Helen is going to continue to be a part of your life, why don’t you call her and get her to pick up something and bring it over here?”

“Are you sure?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes, Tom, I’m sure. I’ve worked with enough youth groups in my time to have developed some excellent chaperoning skills. I’ll expect you both to sit in separate chairs in the living room and her to be out the door and on her way home by 10 p.m.  How does that sound?”

“That sounds great, I think,” I say, picking up my phone and dialing Helen’s number.

Four

PROMPTLY AT 6 P.M.—OK, it is ten after, Helen’s never on time—I open the Rectory door and find her standing on the stoop, holding a large carryout bag from my favorite barbeque joint.

“Hi,” I say, with a smile.

“Hi,” she replies.

And like that, we’re two shy teenagers.

“I was surprised to get your call,” Helen whispers as I help her off with her coat. “We agreed to see each other only once a day.”

“I was surprised to call you.”

“And this was really Anna’s idea? Why? She’s not exactly been friendly to me the last few months.”

I look her in the eyes. “I told her. Everything.”

Helen’s eyes get big. “How did she take it? What . . . what does she think of me?”

“Tom?” calls a chipper-sounding Anna from the kitchen. “Is that Helen?”

“Yes, Anna,” I reply, looking at Helen with a smile. For her part, all the blood drained from her face and she’s as white as a sheet.

She looked more composed when we saw the Archbishop.

Anna emerges from the kitchen, sees Helen, and opens her arms. She approaches her with a smile, saying, “Helen, I’m so glad to see you!” and gives her a big hug. It takes a bit for Helen, who’s gone from panicked to shocked, to hug her back.

She looks at me over her shoulder, confusion still on her face. All I can do is smile to see the two most important women in my life like this.

Maybe this can work out.

“Now,” Anna says, “I bet you two are hungry. We’ll eat in the kitchen, then spend some time together in the living room chatting. I’ll take this, Helen.” She takes the bag of barbeque from Helen and takes it. “You two just sit at the table, and I’ll get everything we need.”

Following her into the kitchen, Helen leans close to me. “What’s happening?” she whispers.

“Something good,” I reply.

A short while later, we’re sitting at the table, enjoying ribs and smoked chicken and regaling Anna with tales of our exploits down in Florida. She listens intently as we tell her about what we found out about Sonya, about The Belvedere, about the girls we were able to save.

We also talk about Mom, including the remarks she made about Helen’s weight.

“You know, Helen,” Anna says when we finish, “I don’t want to speak ill of Tom’s mother, but that woman sounds like a real piece of work.  Saying something like that to such a pretty woman like you. Here, why don’t you take this last piece of cornbread.”

“Oh, no, thanks, Anna, I’m stuffed,” Helen replies, grinning from ear to ear at the offer.

Finally, our plates piled with the chicken and rib bones and the table littered with sauce-stained paper towels, Anna stands up and says to me, “Tom, why don’t you leave Helen and me to clean up?”

“Oh, no, Anna,” I say. “I’ll—”

“No, you’re still recovering from your concussion,” she insists. “Why don’t you go set up the card table and get the Monopoly set out?”

Now there are two things in this world I avoid like the plague—hard boiled eggs and board games. I get nauseous in the presence of both, but at least hard boiled eggs have the virtue of only having a short-term presence in my life. I have never liked playing board games, except for Risk when I was a kid.

And the game I like least is Monopoly. I mean, who actually enjoys a game where mortgaging properties and going bankrupt are part of the fun?

But as I open my mouth to protest that I am certain that would exacerbate my concussion, Helen claps her hands and says gleefully, “Oh, I love Monopoly and haven’t played in years. Tom, I think you and I played it in college, didn’t we?”

Her coquettish smile and slight blush reminds me.

Yes. Yes, we did.

I swallow the memories and place my fist to my chest. Helen does the same thing, and nods slightly.

Anna looks at us and asks, “What was that?”

“Huh?” I say, standing. “Oh, nothing, nothing. I’ll get everything set up. Mind if I’m the banker?”

I drag the card table out of the hall closet, and grab the game off the shelf. Setting up the table and getting some chairs, I organize the board, then make myself comfortable in the recliner to wait.

After twenty minutes, I begin to wonder what exactly is going on in my kitchen. I’m just about to go find out when Anna and Helen walk in, not quite arm in arm, but close together.

They’ve both been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, slightly worried.

“Oh,” Anna says, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Nothing. We were just talking. Right, dear?”

Helen smiles at me, then looks at Anna. “Right. We were talking.”

I look at them, trying to figure out what’s going on. Failing that, I stand and say, “OK, let’s get this over with.”

For the next two hours, the two of them laughed and bought and sold and thoroughly beat me out of every dime I had. Admittedly, I didn’t try very hard to win. I consider survival enough of a goal, and the easiest way for me to survive is to exit the game as quickly as possible.

With relief, I leave the table and sit on the couch. I grab the remote and am about to turn on the TV.

From behind me, I hear Helen playfully scold, “Oh, Tom, don’t do that. It's not nice. Besides, I thought you were giving up TV for Lent?”

Before I can answer, Anna chimes in, “Good for you, Helen. He spends way too much time in front of that screen. And not always watching programs that you would think a priest ought to watch. He swears he's just doing research for his homilies, but he’s not fooling me.”

They both laugh at this, so I decide to turn the tables. “By the way, Anna,” I say, “how is everyone on ‘From Dark to Dawn?’ Did they ever find out who fathered Cheryl’s baby? I know you were really worried about that when I left for Bellamy.”

“Oh, Tom,” she says,  “I don’t pay any attention to that old soap opera.  It's just something I watch once in a while to pass the time.”

“‘From Dark to Dawn’? I used to love that show in college,” Helen says, “though I have to tell you that they did things on that show that I’ve never even seen undercover with the vice squad.”

“Isn’t it a disgrace?” Anna says.

“It is a total disgrace,” Helen replies.

I smile at the sight of them getting along so well.

“Hey,” I call out, “You two know what else is a disgrace? Holding a private conversation when another person is nearby. Why don’t you both just call it a tie and come keep me company. It's already after nine o’clock.”

“Is it?” Anna says with a shocked tone. She stands up from the table as Helen leaves it and sits in an armchair opposite me. “Why, it's past my bedtime,” she adds. “ Just leave the board up, Tom, I’ll put it away tomorrow.”

I prepare to tell her good night and to drive carefully, but instead of heading to the secretary’s office to get her things, she goes to the stairs. She’s halfway up when I snap out of my confusion long enough to ask, “Wait, I thought you were going home?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Anna asks.  “Hmm, I just assumed he had told you.”

“Who told me what?”

“The Archbishop. He called me a few days ago and asked if I would be able to start staying over at the Rectory at least a few nights a week.  He said he was concerned about you being alone after your head injury and, you know, losing your sister and everything. He asked if we could try it for Lent and then see how things were going.”

“Oh, I see,” I say, glancing at Helen. “And when did he ask you this?”

“I don’t know, Tuesday morning, I guess. He said I didn’t need to make any particular schedule, just stay over if the mood struck me.” She then looks at me and asks, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “Good night, Anna.”

“Good night, Tom, Good night, Helen.”

“Good night, Anna.”

With that Waltons-like end to the evening, she disappears upstairs, even as Helen and I both fall over in a fit of silent giggles.

“Well,” she finally says, “I guess His Eminence thinks we need adult supervision.”

Still chuckling quietly, I say, “I suppose so, though I myself take that as a compliment.”

“Come to think of it, so do I.”

We sit quietly for a minute, just basking in each other's presence. We’ve had a good amount of physical distance between us all evening, a combination of Anna’s presence and our own decisions. But I feel closer to Helen at this moment than I ever have.

Even that time in the cabin near Mom’s house.

“So,” I finally say quietly, “you and Anna took a long time in the kitchen.”

Helen nods. “Yes. We . . . talked.”

“Oh? I thought you two had been crying.”

“It was a rather intense conversation.” At my worried expression, she says, “Oh, no, Tom. Nothing like that. Anna apologized to me for how she’s treated me over the past few months. She told me all about her being afraid I was intent on taking you away from the priesthood, from Saint Clare’s.” She pauses. “From her.”

“I know, she told me the same thing earlier.”

“Remember in the hospital, you told me after your confession that you didn’t realize how much your behavior had hurt me? I didn’t realize how much my behavior had hurt Anna. That’s what I apologized to her for, after assuring her I had no intention of seducing you. That it had never been my intention.”

At that last sentence, I raise an eyebrow. One of the things we promised each other was total honesty about our feelings and our intentions, past, present, and future.

Helen catches it and takes a deep breath. “OK, yes,” she says as she quietly blows it out. “I can’t say that it never crossed my mind.”