Gloria had the makings of just the sort of woman Blake thought he needed. She had charm, looks, and money. When she asked Blake if she could see him privately, he jumped at the chance. “Counseling,” she’d said. She had some issues she needed to deal with and he, as a man of experience, she believed, could help her. He never saw it coming.
Their sessions were never very long, nor did they involve anything he would describe as substantive. The issues Gloria brought up seemed extraordinarily trivial to him. But he also knew it took time for trust between a counselor and client to develop, so he remained patient, waiting. He listened with as much attention as he could muster to revelations of minor past infractions and erotic thoughts. He kept eye contact with her luminous gray eyes and assumed an expression of deep concern. After two months of intellectual fluff, Blake had enough.
“Gloria, I think there are things you are unwilling to tell me, and I think I cannot help you as a counselor until you do. You need to let it out.” At that, she burst into tears and fled the office.
The next day, as he drove to the church, his cell phone twittered.
“Blake, I’m so sorry about yesterday. I want to apologize.” Gloria said, her voice calm.
“No apology necessary,” he said, he thought, gallantly.
“That’s very kind of you. I know what a bother I have been and I have not really been very forthcoming with you.”
“I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”
“No, no, you were quite right in chastising me.”
Blake, busy navigating his way through rush-hour traffic one-handed, did not hear the shift in the tone of her voice. He decided then and there to get a hands-free attachment for his phone.
“Blake, I know you’re busy, but do you suppose you could stop by here on your way to the office?”
As it happened, he had no appointments that morning. His schedule was blank until ten. She would not know that, would she? He paused and then replied, “I think I can clear out a few minutes. If you don’t hear from me in the next five minutes, I’m on my way to your house.”
Fifteen minutes later he parked in front of her brick Georgian house in a leafy suburb west of the city and walked up the path to the door. She opened it just as he reached for the bell button, her head just visible around the door.
“Come in. Oh, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she gushed, face beaming. He noticed she wore a loose, plum-colored robe or housecoat of some sort, and her hair was down. He had never seen her that way and liked the effect.
“You should wear your hair down more often,” he said absently, and looked around. The house had a central hall that ran from the front door to a set of French doors at the back. To his right an arched entry opened onto a living room and to his left an identical arch opened onto a dining room. He supposed there were kitchens and dens and so on deeper in. A staircase rose upward to a landing over the French doors, and then turned and climbed on up to the next floor. Judging by the dormers in the roof he saw on his way to the front door, Blake guessed there was a third floor as well. The décor evoked Williamsburg—paint, pewter, and period antiques. Fresh cut flowers filled the rooms with perfume. Very nice.
“You do a lot of entertaining, Gloria?”
“Not a lot, Blake. I used to, before, when my husband and I were still together. Can I get you some coffee? Tea?”
“Well, I suppose coffee would be fine.”
“I have some made—fresh pot—we can have it in the breakfast room. This way.”
He followed her to the back of the house, past several nice etchings that could have been original Dürers, turned left, and walked through the kitchen to a sunny room that looked over a garden. A round table and chairs filled most of the available space. He sat and admired the early blooming iris and crocuses while she busied herself with cups and saucers, a sugar bowl and a cream pitcher.
“There,” she said, putting them down and sitting opposite him, “now that’s better.” She poured and handed him his cup, Kona coffee.
“Thank you, Gloria. Now, you said you had something you wanted to tell me?”
“I think you know,” she said smiling. She had very white and straight teeth.
“Sorry—I know?”
“It’s you, Blake. You’re the one.”
“Gloria, I am not…you have the advantage of me. I’m the one…what?”
“Don’t be coy, Blake, you as much as admitted it yesterday. You said I was not letting it out. ‘It,’ Blake. You were right and now I have.”
“Have what? Gloria, I know I must sound stupid, but I’m not following you.” She stared at him for several seconds, her brow furrowed. Then she brightened.
“Oh, I get it. This is part of the counseling strategy. I have to confess to you, is that it?”
“Confess? Confess what? Gloria, seriously, I don’t know where this is going.”
She sighed, “Have it your way, then. I am yours, Blake, body and soul. You can take me any way and any time you wish. You have conquered me.”
As she spoke she let her robe slip away. She was not wearing anything under it.
Blake leapt to his feet, spilling his coffee on the tablecloth.
“Blake? Something wrong? This is what you have been hinting at for months, isn’t it? Oh, I’ve seen how you look at me. I’m no fool. Of course, we will have to get married. It would not look good for a clergyman to have an affair with a member of your congregation, although if you want to, it is all right with me. Shall we go upstairs now or…?”
Blake bolted to the door, raced the length of the hall, and pelted down the sidewalk to his car, his eyes wide and as round as two ping pong balls. He left a twenty-foot patch of rubber in the street as he drove away. Five minutes later, he was sufficiently calm to consider his situation. First thing, talk to Smart. Tell him right away. Then pull Gloria’s file. She must have a history of this kind of thing. They always do. Then…then what? Oh man, what a mess.
***
Smart, his face thunderous, sat behind Blake’s desk when he arrived. Blake opened his mouth to say something, but Smart cut him off.
“You’re fired,” he said. “Get this office cleaned out and yourself off the premises by noon today.”
“Bill? What’s going on?”
“You have the nerve to ask me? She called. Said you tried to…to molest her. Said she’s filing a complaint with the Bishop’s office. You are finished, Fisher. I hope you have a trade or skill, because your days in the ministry are over.”
“Bill, I didn’t do anything. She asked me to stop by. She gave me a cup of coffee and then…it was her, Bill, as God is my witness, I never….”
“By noon.” Smart pushed out of the chair and left the office.
The phone rang. Blake stared at it. Now what? He picked up.
“Bishop Farnsworth wants to see you as soon as possible. He said ‘right now’ would be best.” The Bishop’s secretary had an imperious air that brooked no dissent. Blake said he would be right over.
The Right Reverend Barney Farnsworth, Bishop of the Diocese of Pennsylvania, grew up, and served all of his time as a cleric before his consecration as bishop, in the Diocese of Fond du Lac. “Fond of Lace” is how Blake and his colleagues referred to it. Farnsworth loved ceremony and style, high church liturgy and all the trappings—the incense, bells and bobbing and weaving that accompanied it. His theology ran modern and shallow, but he was thought to be fair, if not particularly spiritual.
The Bishop’s office could have been a movie set for a period piece. It reeked of Victorian busyness, an English study complete with leather wingback chairs, a fireplace, and handsomely bound volumes lining its walls.
“Blake, my boy, you are in a mess. Sit.”
“Bishop, I swear to you I did not do anything, say anything, or
even imply anything to have caused this. The woman is mad.”
“Yes, I know all about it. Just got off the phone with Bill ‘not so’ Smart. He’s a good man but….” He left the rest dangling in the air.
“You know? How do you know?”
“Not the first time, Blake. The lady is a church gypsy, moves around from church to church. Every couple of years she catches the eye of some young curate and then this sort of thing happens. I hope I am right in assuming you were bright enough to get out of there before…well, you know.”
“Yes, Sir, no Sir, I mean, nothing happened.”
“Good. I have lost two or three young men to this woman, one or two of whom were not that smart. Got involved…very messy. Wives and children involved, divorce, scandal.”
“So, it’s fixed? I can go back to Saint Katherine’s?”
“I didn’t say that, Blake. The truth is—nobody is interested in the truth. Your denial, letters from me, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will never erase the belief in the minds of too many of your parishioners, that you must have done something. We clergy, you know, do not have the infallible cachet we once enjoyed. No, I am sorry, Blake, but you are finished, at least in this diocese. Terrible shame, you had a bright future here, if I do say so.”
“Bishop, with the national policy of putting this sort of thing in my permanent record, I am finished everywhere.”
“Not necessarily, my boy, but you are going to have some difficult times. I will write to any bishop you want me to. That should get you past a negative background check. I am afraid it may not help much with a committee searching for a new rector or assistant, though.”
Blake’s heart sank.
“You must know some people. Surely one of them has or knows of a position. You cannot be picky, of course, but keep your head down in some out- of-the-way parish for a while. This will blow away eventually.”
“This is so unfair,” Blake shouted. “That woman preys on clergy, destroys them, and I suppose their families. Thank God I have no family—she goes free while her victims are punished, ruined.”
“I’m sorry, but that is the way it is.”
“She will still attend Saint Katherine’s and I have to leave.”
“She won’t attend long, I don’t think. She will find another church, another foolish young man. We will, of course, send letters to the churches, but it did no good the last time. Smart got the old letter. Filed it away. Probably will again. Let’s hope she picks on the Presbyterians next time.”
“Bishop, what do I do now?”
“Find out if you have any friends, Blake.”
Blake discovered, to his dismay, he had only one. Philip Bournet.
***
Mary walked him to the door. When he turned to say goodnight, she leaned forward on tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You’re a good man, Blake Fisher,” she whispered and closed the door.
He did not remember how he got home.
Chapter Forty-two
Philip had been nearly correct. Blake had let his sermon preparation slip. Not as badly as he might have, but Saturday morning turned into a workday. He read through the lessons assigned for Sunday. He settled on his text and spent three hours scribbling notes, crossing out lines and then, satisfied he had the makings of a talk, put them all away. In the last two weeks he had come to rely on the movement of the Spirit in his sermons and knew that if he had the basics in notes, the rest would come.
He rewarded himself with a trip to the mall for lunch and a little shopping. He needed some clothes, and his shoes were looking a little shabby. His interest in his appearance had slipped enormously since Philadelphia. In those days he was always very conscious of how he looked, the impression he made. But lately he had stopped caring.
Purchases made, he wandered along the walkway, retracing the steps he and Mary had taken two weeks before. He stopped in front of the jewelry store and looked again at the rings in the case. He remembered Mary’s pointing to the large one in the center of the display and saying she nearly received one that size. On an impulse he went in and asked to see it. The clerk found the ring and put it on black velvet. The stone flashed, fiery and hot. He asked the price and blanched.
“Is the gentleman considering an engagement?”
Blake murmured that the gentleman was not considering an engagement any time soon and if the ring were a required part of the contract, not for another ten years or so. The clerk did not seem to see the humor and merely nodded and looked bored. He had lied, of course. For the first time in his life, engagement and marriage were on his mind. He shook his head in annoyance. If he was honest with himself, he barely knew Mary and was in no position to propose to her or anyone else. He still clung, however tenuously, to his ambitions. Mary was a dear person, but not a bishop’s wife. Then he wondered if he really cared about that any more. Somehow that light no longer burned so brightly.
***
He did not see Dan Quarles skulking behind him. Dan arranged it that way. When Blake returned to the corridor from the jewelry store and continued his stroll, Dan followed closely, being careful to turn away when Blake stopped. He wanted to wait for the right moment. He thought if he could approach the matter correctly—use the right words—he might be able to persuade Blake to change his mind, so he could tell him what he needed to, get it all off his chest. If Blake would not listen, he might have to take more drastic steps, and there had been enough of them already. Not that anyone would blame him if he did, especially if they knew, but people were funny and so quick to judge. While his back was turned, and he pondered his next move, Blake disappeared from sight and he lost him.
***
In the afternoon, Blake met Lanny Markowitz at Picket Senior High School. In addition to teaching math, Lanny served as an assistant football coach. With the season about to start, Saturday practices were in order. Blake watched from the sidelines as thirty or forty young men sweated and groaned in the afternoon sun. Most of them were not fully grown, and their pads overwhelmed their bodies. They dashed up and down, shoulder pads lurching on their shoulders, helmets low on the same shoulders, and thin sinewy legs pumping as hard as they could go. An errant pass came toward him and he scooped it in one-handed, flipped it around in his hand, and sent it back, a perfect spiral.
“How far can you throw that thing, Vicar?” Lanny shouted.
“I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”
Lanny threw him another football, which he caught and tucked. He sent a young lanky boy racing down the field.
“Anytime you’re ready,” he yelled.
Blake waited until the boy had run about forty yards and pumped once and threw another perfect spiral. It dropped neatly in the boy’s outstretched arms fifty yards away.
Lanny whistled and said, “You want a job?”
“I think my high school eligibility has expired, Lanny.”
“I was thinking we could use you as a quarterback and receivers coach. I assume you played quarterback at one time or another.”
“It was a long time ago, Lanny—another life.”
“Hey, Mark,” Lanny called, “come here a minute, will you?”
A large, burly man in a sweatshirt and black ball cap turned and strolled toward them.
“Do that again,” Lanny said to Blake and tossed him another ball. This time two receivers raced down field, and Blake picked the one with the most speed and led him ten yards and laid the pass into his arms on the dead run.
The man called Mark stood with his hands on his hips and stared.
“You wouldn’t be interested helping us out, would you? The truth is, we are only a skilled quarterback away from a county championship. Jimmy Slade over there has the talent, but not the tools. Do you think you could teach him how to throw lik
e that? I’m Mark Buskirk, by the way.”
Blake shook his hand. He had not played anything more demanding than a little flag football since college. But he just proved to himself and, he supposed, to everyone else on the field, that he still had the arm. What would it cost him to give up afternoons to help this group out? There were a lot of young men on the field, and he knew from experience that while the traditional church did not appeal to them, something else might. He guessed God just sent him a message. How else had he managed two perfect passes of over fifty yards?
He’d quarterbacked at Williams, and while that college was no football powerhouse, he’d played well enough to attract some attention from the pros. The Patriots used their next to last pick to draft a “local boy,” hoping, he supposed, to uncover another Doug Flutie. He passed on that very slim chance to play in the NFL and went to seminary instead, but he never forgot the thrill he felt when the Pats called.
“Okay,” he said. “But on one condition—I do not always control my time. I may miss days and not be able to tell you in advance. If that’s all right, I’ll do it.”
Buskirk tossed him a whistle on a lanyard and pointed across the field. “QBs and receivers are over there. They’re all yours.” Then turning to face the dozen or so young men, he yelled, “This is your new coach…What’s your name, Reverend?”
“Blake Fisher.”
“Coach Fisher. You listen to him. If they give you any trouble, make them drop and give you ten.”
“I remember the drill.”
Blake spent the remaining afternoon working with the boys. Mark was right; Slade had the talent but not the tools. But Blake saw more potential in a tall, thin, black kid named Duane. He, more than Slade, had raw ability, but more important, he showed eagerness to learn. Jimmy Slade had been the starter for two years and figured the job was his and he did not need to listen to this new “Holy Joe” coach. Blake guessed there would be some fireworks before they played their first game.
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