by Edie Claire
She wondered what he actually did on that job, not just on Sundays, but day to day. She wondered everything about him. What sort of life had he had with Christine, and why had he been so reluctant, after her death, to move on? Sarah could testify to the passion pent up within him—yet he’d been alone for well over a year before she met him. Why? A man like him needn’t be alone for five minutes if he didn’t want to be. She had thought there was something odd about his reaction to any mention of his wife, but she hadn't been able to put a finger on it. With everything else that had been on her mind, she had taken little time to ponder what might be on his.
That was going to change. Whether her available time consisted of days or years, she was determined to atone for the grief she had caused him. It was her new personal mission, and it started this morning.
She saw other people entering the sanctuary, and she smiled with relief. At least there would be a crowd to hide in. She would slip in discreetly and position herself in the back. He might not see her until it was over, but he would be surprised when he did. It was the last thing he would expect, and she was certain it would please him. It would also please her. Not that she expected to get much out of a bunch of rites and ritual—in fact, she rather dreaded that aspect—but she was fiercely curious to hear the sermon. She wanted to see Adam in his element. She wanted to understand him.
She reached the steps of the sanctuary and walked up. Her heart began to thud again, and she groaned with annoyance. The last thing she wanted now was to pass out in front of a bunch of strangers. She reminded herself that the previous episodes had never happened when she expected them. But that was small comfort.
She entered a vestibule area. She looked around.
The church building was an old one, and it seemed small for the crowd. People of all ages—the majority dressed far more casually than she—were in all directions, most sitting in sanctuary pews already, but many still milling about. She was surprised by the noise. Lively conversation abounded, complete with an occasional guffaw of laughter. A pack of children plowed past her, one accidentally stepping on her foot. The offender, an orange-headed boy of seven or eight, paused to offer a quick "sorry," then caught up with his friends. An organ began to play. No one seemed to notice.
Sarah breathed slowly. The scene before her was introvert hell, and her feet itched to do an immediate about-face. But one thought steeled her: the look that would be on Adam’s face when he saw her there. She bucked up and headed for the sanctuary entrance. She hoped to move straight to a seat at the back, but the elderly usher who met her at the door had other ideas.
"Well, hello there," he said affably, his blue eyes twinkling with delight as he pumped her hand in greeting. "My name’s Bob Storm; I don’t believe we’ve met. And I’m quite certain I would remember any young woman as gorgeous as you if we had. Is this your first visit?"
"Yes, it is." Sarah smiled back, but she was certain her nervousness showed. A little friendly flirtation from an octogenarian didn’t bother her in the least, but personal questions did. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She only wanted to observe.
"Fabulous!" the man beamed. "And what brought you here to this particular church, if I may ask?"
Sarah squirmed. "I just moved here—to a house on the other side of the cemetery. Your minister is a neighbor of mine."
The man’s blue eyes danced with delight. "I see," he said meaningfully.
Sarah’s eyebrows rose slightly. She wasn’t sure what the man was implying, but it was clear he approved. He put a hand on her elbow and guided her forward to a pew that was almost full already. She tensed, looking wistfully toward the back, but those pews were no less crowded. To her dismay, he proceeded to introduce her to the couple she would be sitting next to.
The woman, who was about Sarah’s own age, held a drooling infant on her lap. Her husband sat beside her. They greeted Sarah warmly, making chit chat while the organ music swelled and still more people filed into the sanctuary. Sarah conversed on autopilot, her heart threatening to leave her chest. What was she doing here? What had she been thinking?
The infant began to cry, and the woman’s attention was diverted. Sarah quickly buried her nose in her program. The instructions might as well have been written in a foreign language. Proclamation of Faith. Doxology. She scanned down and saw the sermon title. "When All Seems Lost." Reverend Adam Carmassi. Her stomach churned. Reverend.
Then she saw him. He had appeared at the front, sitting on a bench. The organ music swelled to a crescendo, then stopped. He stood up and walked to a podium.
A giant lump rose painfully in her throat. He was wearing a robe. He didn’t look at all like the Adam she knew. He looked like a minister. He was a minister.
Her hands clutched the program so tightly it crumpled. What had she been thinking? She didn’t belong here—she wasn’t like these people. They had greeted her as if she was welcome, but that was only because they didn’t know her. She was only pretending to be some nice young acquaintance of the minister—in reality she was a criminal and a fraud whose plan was to seduce him and leave him hanging. How could it possibly be otherwise? Had she really thought, even for one second, that she could ever be a minister’s wife?
No, she hadn’t. She had never thought that far ahead. All she had wanted was to be with him. She never thought anything through that far ahead.
Adam was talking. He was welcoming the crowd, making announcements. She couldn’t focus on the particulars. She wanted to slide down in her seat, out of sight. She wanted to disappear.
But then he saw her. She could tell the exact moment. His eyes moved over the crowd and stopped. He was in the middle of a word. He stammered.
She wished she could smile, but she couldn’t. All she wanted to do was run away. He recovered quickly and continued his address, but his gaze kept coming back to her. Each time it did, his eyes sparkled.
It was exactly the reaction she had wanted. But she had been wrong to seek it. She could never make him happy. She wasn’t Christine. She wasn’t even close to what he needed. She was as wrong for him as any woman possibly could be.
Organ music swelled once more. The congregation stood.
Sarah bolted.
Chapter 30
Adam pulled into his garage so fast he almost overshot and ran into his work bench. Of all the days for him to be tied up after a service, today was the worst. He paused in his house just long enough to hang up his keys, remove his tie, and toss it through—or rather at—the basketball hoop. Then he set out across the lawn to Sarah’s house.
His spirits were buoyed, and nothing was bringing him down. Sarah had come to church.
He didn’t think for a moment that she had come to get religion. Her biases against the organized side of things were strong, and they would take some time to mellow. But he wasn't worried about that. Their theological discussion had assured him that they already agreed on the basics, whether she realized it or not. Disagreeing on the specifics was a matter of upbringing. Sarah had fled from the service this morning because its unfamiliar trappings had made her feel out of place, but that’s all they were. Trappings. He could have warned her, if he had known, but she hadn’t told him she was coming. She had wanted to surprise him.
He smiled.
Sarah had come to church for only one reason. She had done it because she cared about him. And with that knowledge in hand, he was prepared to face anything. Even the unpleasant showdown that was about to occur.
He rang the doorbell.
It took a long time for Sarah to answer.
"Hello," she said flatly. She looked tired, drained. Perhaps as if she’d been crying again. But even with blotchy skin and bags under her eyes, she still looked beautiful. She couldn’t look any other way.
"Hello yourself," he said with a smile, stepping in. He wanted to touch her, hold her, but her body language wasn't amenable. Perhaps she was embarrassed. That was all right. He could wait.
They moved into the l
iving room. He turned toward her and caught her eyes. "Thank you for coming this morning. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me."
Her eyebrows rose. Her voice was hoarse. "I left before it even started."
He grinned. "Yes, I noticed that."
Her eyes widened. "You’re not upset?"
He couldn’t stand it as long as he thought he could. He laid his hands gently on her upper arms. "Of course I’m not upset. The coming is what’s important. The leaving was immaterial. It was an overwhelming experience for you, I’m sure. I’d have been shocked if you made it through the offertory."
She said nothing. She seemed almost in a daze. Tired, and stunned. He wondered if she had slept last night. He knew he hadn’t.
"So," he said cheerfully. "What did you think of the congregation? I trust you were greeted warmly at the door?"
She blinked at him. "Everyone was very friendly. I just wasn’t comfortable. I’m sorry I missed the sermon. I really did want to hear it."
Her words warmed him. But there was tension in her arms. "So, how did it go?" she asked stiffly. "The sermon, I mean."
Reluctantly, he dropped his hands. She was putting distance between them again. He supposed he should have expected that. "It went swimmingly," he replied. "All I could think of was getting back to you. I lost my place three times. At least thirty people came up to me afterwards and asked if I felt all right. A couple mothers even put their hands on my forehead."
He was speaking tongue-in-cheek, but Sarah looked mortified. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to throw you off your stride."
He chuckled. "It’s a little late for that."
An awkward silence ensued. Sarah’s eyes left his. She turned away and stared out her back window. Then in one motion she spun back around and spit out her next words like pistol shots. "I don’t think we should see each other anymore, Adam."
Her tone stung him, but he was able to steel himself. He knew what she was doing, and he had no intention of letting her succeed. He took a step closer to her. He held her eyes.
"That’s unfortunate, because you’ll find me very difficult to get rid of." He took her hands in his and held them tight, even as she pulled away. "There are some things we need to get straight, Sarah. Number one is that I think you’re a wonderful person, and you’re not going to convince me otherwise. Number two is that I’m not going anywhere, and you can’t make me. Number three is this: I came over here to ask you a question."
Sarah’s eyes turned moist. She looked miserable, haunted. The fear in her expression was as sharp as he had ever seen it, only now it was accompanied by a gut-wrenching look of pain. For a second, the sight chilled him, but just as quickly, it bolstered his resolve. Enough. Sarah would not keep her problems from him any longer. It would end now.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice firm.
Her breathing quickened. "Yes," she said weakly. "Of course I do."
He squeezed her hands. "Then tell me the truth. Tell me what happened in Alabama and why the police came to question you."
Her face flooded with anguish. She ripped her hands from his and turned her back to him. "I can’t!" she roared at the window. "Don’t you get it? It’s not going to happen! Why can’t you just give up and go away? You’d be better off if you never even met me!"
Disappointment surged, but Adam was determined to rise above it. He had known the odds. He knew what he was probably going to have to do—still, until now he had hoped to avoid it. "Apparently," he said, keeping his voice level, "you weren’t listening to numbers one and two."
He backed away from her, then glanced around the living room. There were no books on the coffee table. He saw nothing suspicious on the shelves. He moved toward the dining room. He had seen her computer sitting on the table. Perhaps it was there.
"What are you doing?" Sarah demanded, watching him.
He didn’t answer. He fingered through the papers that lay scattered around the computer. Nothing but gobbledygook. A date book. A novel. Nothing significant. He stood up straight again and glanced around the kitchen.
"What are you looking for?" Sarah protested, the pitch of her voice rising with distress. "Stop that!"
He crossed back to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. "I’m finished playing this game of ours, Sarah. I will not stand by any longer and watch you self-destruct. Either you tell me what’s going on, or I’m going to find out on my own."
She paled. Her shoulders trembled beneath his hands. Her voice was plaintive. "Please don’t do that."
He pulled her to him and hugged her tightly. Perhaps there was still another way—a way that wouldn’t be quite so traumatic. He knew that she was afraid of something, but he also knew that whatever had happened in Alabama, guilt was playing a large role in her response to it. He smiled to himself suddenly, thinking that—irony of ironies—he was now the perfect person to help her with that. The lightening of his own load, just this morning, had taught him volumes.
"Come sit down." He led her to the couch and sat, and though her manner was stiff, she joined him without protest. "I want to tell you something," he began. His heart pounded anew at the prospect of saying what he was going to say out loud, but he was certain the time had come. For him, as well as for her.
"You may think I don’t know what guilt feels like, Sarah. But you’re wrong. I’ve been tortured with it for a decade."
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. For a moment she seemed sympathetic, even disturbed. But then a stony cynicism took over. "What, you coveted your neighbor’s Lexus? Didn’t give up enough for Lent? I thought Christianity had an easy remedy for the whole guilt thing."
He let the impact of her mocking tone roll off him. She was trying to push him away, and he wouldn’t be suckered. "Oh, it does, indeed," he answered. "But forgiveness is a cooperative effort, and until this morning, I refused to cooperate."
He had her attention again. "This morning?" she asked, her voice still rife with skepticism. "What horrible sin could you possibly commit that you suddenly got cured of this morning?"
He held her gaze. His pulse pounded in his ears. "It’s about Christine. About how I ruined her life."
Sarah’s blue eyes widened as she looked at him. Her voice softened. "What are you talking about?"
He drew in a deep breath. Then he continued. "When I first met Christine, we were teenagers. I thought she was the most beautiful creature God ever created, and as I got to know her, I realized she was every bit as beautiful inside, too. She was an amazing person in so many ways: she was sweet, she was caring, she was unselfish, and though she was loaded with creative talent and ambition, there wasn’t an arrogant bone in her body. Half the guys on campus had their eyes on her, but from the beginning, she chose me. I couldn’t believe how blessed I was; she was everything I could ever ask for. We wanted all the same things out of life—seminary, a career in the church, a family of our own. All our friends called us the perfect couple. I asked her to marry me, and she accepted. We got married two weeks after graduation. We were both just twenty-one."
He paused and looked at Sarah. She seemed to have questions, but was refraining from asking them. He appreciated that. His tone dropped. "Everything seemed right at the time. I admired her more than I had ever admired any woman, and I never had the slightest doubt about her devotion to me. I was certain getting married was the right thing to do."
He paused. Sarah was listening intently. Her eyes drank him in as she prompted for more. "But?"
He breathed out sharply. "But it was a mistake. A huge mistake. And the fault was all mine."
He drew back from her. Saying the words out loud was a needed release, but hearing them spoken still caused an ache in his chest. His voice fell quiet. "I wasn’t in love with her, Sarah. I thought I was, but I was wrong. All the elements seemed to be in place. I was very fond of her, and I was certainly attracted to her physically. But there was always something missing. Always. I never had what other people talked about: the butterfli
es, the nervous excitement, the jolt of elation you were supposed to get just from seeing the person, the desire to be with them constantly. At the time, I thought all that must just be romantic nonsense—something that happened to some people, maybe, but not everyone. I had any number of perfectly valid reasons for making Christine my wife, and I couldn’t come up with a single logical one against it. I convinced myself that our relationship had everything that really counted."
Sarah had moved closer to him. Her nearness created an instant heat—the hand she placed softly on his arm was like a flame.
"But I was wrong," he repeated. "And I was miserable. I can’t begin to explain to you just how miserable I was. How trapped I felt. How much of a fraud. Christine loved me very much; she was wonderful to me. I was sure at first that there was nothing really wrong between us, that what I felt was normal, that I would grow to love her more. But every year that passed only made things worse. Despite myself, I grew resentful. Christine wanted to be near me all the time. But what she meant as devotion, somewhere along the line, I began to perceive as clinginess. Without intending to, I started to distance myself—to stop the constant pressure to make myself feel what I thought I should feel."
He rubbed his face with his hands. "I tried so hard to love her. I tried everything I could think of to make things right, to make us both happy, but I couldn’t. She knew that something was wrong, even though I denied it. How could I possibly explain? The truth would have devastated her. Christine took responsibility for everything—I knew she would blame herself. She would think she’d done something wrong, that she wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t begin to be honest with her about how miserable I was.