With the Father

by Jenni Moen

  “Hey,” Maddox said from the doorway. “You know, it’s okay to take a few days to yourself. I didn’t intend for you to work yourself this hard. Take some time to grieve, Kate.”

  “I just want to get it over with, you know? I need to do something to help.”

  Sympathy washed over his face and seemed to highlight the dark circles under his eyes. The situation had taken a toll on him, too. We were all in this strange terrible place together.

  I’d met Maddox almost four years ago when I’d come back for Trey’s baptism. Jonathan and Grace had rented out the back room of a restaurant to celebrate afterwards. I’d been poking sliced cantaloupe into my niece, who was barely old enough to walk. We’d been deep in discussion about the pros and cons of siblings when the man, who I’d known for all of an hour, sat down beside us.

  Without further introduction, Maddox had boldly declared that, as Trey’s godparents, we owed it to the kid to test out the chemistry between us. ‘Just in case,’ he’d said. The come-on had teetered on the line between annoying and cute, falling harder on the annoying side. Now it twisted my heart into a mangled mess.

  Maddox walked into the room and sat down in the chair across from me. He rubbed his hand down his face, seeming to grapple with something internally. While I waited, I studied the man who’d somehow, despite the terrible pick-up line, managed to lure me into his bed. His nose was a touch too large, but it was flanked by the most beautiful set of blue eyes I’d ever seen. They reminded me of the azure waters of the Maldives, which still ranked as my favorite destination yet.

  Though hard to get to, the Malidives had been worth the effort, and I planned to go back someday on my own dime, when I could lay on the beach for days and soak up the Arabian sun. It wasn’t going to happen any time soon though. I had too many responsibilities now so I’d have to make do with Maddox’s eyes.

  “You’re doing a lot of good, Kate,” he finally said. “At home and here.”

  The adoration in his eyes was too much for me to bear. I knew he wanted to finish what we’d started all those years ago. I’d come back to town, and it was looking like I would be staying. But I’d never intended on settling down in Merriville, and doing so with Maddox was just too prophesy fulfilling. He was handsome, established, and predictable. He was what everyone wanted for me. What everyone expected for me. However, I had no interest in the predictable. No matter how good he was in bed.

  I stifled the urge to get up and run from this room, this town, and all the misery that was holding me here. It was a stupid, irrelevant thought anyway. I’d never be able to leave now. She was depending on me. “We went out for burgers with Paul Sullivan yesterday,” I said changing the subject to something more neutral.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “The priest from the Catholic Church.”

  “Oh, that Paul Sullivan. That sounds like a barrel of laughs.” A bit of sarcasm snuck out. Even though his subject didn’t deserve it, I was glad to see a sliver of the old Maddox resurface. He’d been different since the fire, and this new Maddox was missing the spark that I’d loved to hate for the past four years.

  I laughed. “Is there more than one? You know, you wouldn’t forget who he was if you went to church occasionally. He’s actually pretty funny … and very interesting.”

  His eyes narrowed and fixed determinedly upon me. “Have dinner with me,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

  “I can’t. I told Paul that I’d work at the kitchen tonight.”

  “So now you two are getting all cozy?” he asked.

  The showing of jealousy caused me to laugh. “He’s a priest, Maddox. You don’t get cozy with the father.”

  He smiled at me, with a wicked gleam in his eye. “True. And everyone knows that Catholic priests only like little boys, anyway.”

  “Gross. You can go now.” I pointed toward the door, only half kidding.

  “I was just joking,” he said, pushing out of the chair. “But, I’ll leave if you agree that you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow.”

  I considered it. He was mostly harmless, and this tired, sad Maddox was wearing me down. He had just as much on his plate as I did. Running the company by himself wasn’t something he expected to be doing, but here he was doing just that. Strangely, we were in similar situations. “Okay, fine,” I said, relenting. “Just friends though. I can’t do more than that right now.”

  He fist pumped the air. “Score!”

  “No. Not score. I said ‘just friends.’”

  He covered his ears with his hands and sang, “La la la la la. I can’t hear you.”

  “You’re impossible,” I said to his back. “Oh, hey, would it be okay if I use Jonathan’s computer to check my email?”

  “Of course. It’s all yours.” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Even with his back to me, I could see his enthusiasm. I could feel it reverberating around the room.

  Still shaking my head, I pivoted in the chair and pushed the power button on Jonathan’s laptop. The screen immediately lit up. I scanned the desktop for the Internet icon and clicked on it. While I waited for it to pull up, I noticed a chat icon in the lower corner of the screen. Did people still chat? In this day of text messaging and social media, it seemed almost archaic. If you sat at a desk and stared at a computer all day, however, maybe it made sense.

  I spent the next twenty minutes checking my email. My roommate in New York City, who was also a freelance writer, had checked in to let me know that all was well and that I was missed. It was a courtesy email. We weren’t close. Our jobs caused us both to travel a lot. We shared an apartment for the simple reason that we were rarely there at the same time. Our interactions were limited to emails and scrawled messages on a chalk board.

  After firing off a response to her, I read two emails from assignment editors at the magazine from where I received most of my assignments. Both were inquiring as to my availability for upcoming assignments. I sighed and clicked the ‘x’ in the corner to close the window without responding. I would do it later. I would probably never work for them again, but I wasn’t quite ready to burn those bridges yet.

  After closing the internet window, the chat box caught my attention again. My curiosity got the better of me, and even though I knew it was wrong, I clicked on it. The box took over the lower right corner of the screen and the last message – a message Jonathan had never received – glared at me.

  I can’t believe you’re gone. I don’t even know what to do with myself. How ever am I going to live without you, Jon?

  I sucked in a breath. To my knowledge, no one had ever called him ‘Jon.’ Our family – Grace included – had always called him Jonathan.

  My eyes flipped to the top of the window. The conversation was with someone named Hope. I wracked my brain but came up with nothing. I didn’t know a Hope. I reread the message that had been delivered the day after he’d died, and then I began reading their entire conversation in reverse.

  More than a year’s worth of messages, and I read every word of them, no longer feeling like I was the dishonest one. Whatever wrong I was committing by prying into Jonathan’s personal life was overshadowed by what he’d been doing behind my sister’s back. Though there was only a year of his infidelity represented, the conversation began in the middle, indicating that it started long before that.

  When I finally finished, I leaned back in the chair, expelled every last bit of the breath I’d been holding, and questioned everything I’d ever known to be true about Jonathan Northcutt.

  _________________________

  Paul ladled a spoonful of some mysterious and slightly nauseating soup into a bowl, and I tried not to visibly shudder when he handed it to me.

  “I take it you’re not planning on eating tonight?” My disdain was obvious.

  “Uh, no. What is it?” I whispered, placing a piece of cornbread on the plate before handing it across the serving line to who I presumed was our next victim. Undeterred by the mystery dish, the woma
n smiled, turned, and walked away.

  “See you later, Mrs. Green,” Paul said to her stooped back. “It’s an Irish stew. It will fill you up and keep you warm. You’ll love it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, eyeing the mixture with trepidation. “It looks like it’ll keep you warm and everyone else around you, too,”

  Paul smiled sadly and scooped up another bowlful. “Your sister wasn’t sure about it either.”

  “She’s always been the smarter of the two of us. So if she had her doubts, I’m inclined to follow her lead.”

  “My grandmother used to make it with Guinness and lamb but, obviously, we can’t do that here, so I’ve made some modifications. There’s beef, cabbage, white beans, carrots, potatoes, and a bunch of spices in it. You’ll like it. I promise.”

  He looked so forlorn that I reconsidered. “I’ll try some if there are any leftovers. It seems to be a very popular dish.” The large canning pot was nearly empty. The murky dish hadn’t turned away the diners.

  “No pressure,” he said. “I didn’t mean to guilt you into it. It’s just that Grace made a similar joke.”

  “You miss having her here, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” He admitted it openly and without any reservation. “It’s not the same without her. And they miss her, too,” he said, gesturing to the half full dining room. “For some of these people, Karen’s Kitchen is the only constant in their lives. They adored your mother. They’re still reeling over losing her, and now Grace is gone too. Honestly, I wonder how long we’ll last.”

  His words made me want to be a better person. They made me want to emulate the woman who’d always been like a mother to me and the daughter who’d always been the better protégé. “I can help.”

  “If you can get away, we can sure use your help.” He looked so appreciative that I didn’t even regret that I’d just promised away three nights per week for the foreseeable future. I didn’t mind the idea of spending more time with Paul though. “By the way, how is our girl today?”

  “I think every day gets a little easier, but she’s still lost. I’m trying to do whatever I can to reach her, but being the caretaker is a new role for me. I’m learning as I go. It doesn’t come naturally to me.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure you’re doing a much better job than you think. It takes a special person to step up and completely rearrange their life like you’ve done.”

  I looked away so that I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes and accept the accolade. As far as I could tell, my efforts so far had produced meager results. I tried, but I was a poor substitute for who she really needed.

  “You know what? I don’t usually eat here,” he said as he filled another bowl though there was no one left in the serving line. “When we have leftovers, I like to send them home with the Thompsons because they really need it, but I can’t resist tonight. I’m going to have a small bowl. Come sit with me?” he asked, holding it out for me to take it from him.

  I took the bowl and tried not to scowl. As apprehensive as I was about the meal itself, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to sit down and have dinner with Paul again. For one thing, I really wanted to talk to someone about Jonathan. I didn’t know if Paul was the right person, but at least I knew that whatever I told him was in confidence. He was a vestal vault.

  If I were honest, I also wanted to spend a little more time with him. I’d thoroughly enjoyed our banter the night before. He was smart and funny in a quiet, unobvious way. There was something about the man that made me want to get to know him better.

  I followed him to the nearest open table and watched him spoon a couple of bites of stew into his mouth, noticing something that I’d missed the day before. He ate deliberately, studying each bite as if he wasn’t sure that it would still be there when he got it to his mouth.

  I’d seen the look before. Though his mannerisms lacked the desperateness that I’d seen during my travels to impoverished areas, he ate like a man who knew what it was like not to know when or where you’d get your next meal.

  Strangely, it made me want to cook for him. “How long have you been volunteering at Karen’s Kitchen?” I asked.

  “A little more than a year.”

  “Did you know my mom?”

  “I knew her from the church. And I volunteered here a few times during my first months in town, but regretfully I didn’t start helping out regularly until after she died. I wish I’d known her better.”

  Everyone had loved my mother. She’d had a heart of gold that she freely gave to anyone who’d accept it. A lot like Grace.

  I nodded as another piece of the puzzle slipped into place. “So, you didn’t become a regular until after Grace took over?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. But there was something about the way he watched me that made me wonder if the delay of his answer was more for my benefit than his. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

  “So where did you grow up?”

  He laughed. “You’re full of questions tonight.”

  “Those that have no answers ask questions.”

  A genuine smile spread across his face. “I doubt you’re lacking in questions or answers.” His eyes sparkled in the dim fluorescent lighting of the dining room. “I grew up in Boston, but I suspect you have already figured that out.”

  “Your accent kind of gives it away.”

  “I thought moving to Texas would soften it up a bit, but I guess some things are so ingrained that they can’t be unlearned.”

  “Don’t try to unlearn it,” I begged. I loved listening to him talk. His cadence, so much quicker than everyone else around here, reminded me of New York, which I missed dearly.

  “Tell you what. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll stay a Yankee if you will.”

  “You’re on.” Since we were bonding, I thought it was as good a time as any to bring up the subject of Jonathan.

  “Okay, so tell me something,” I said, trying to sound as light and carefree as I had the night before. “Let’s talk about a different sin tonight.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Adultery.”

  “Oh, whoa,” he said, grinning. “This isn’t related to your neighbor’s rose garden, is it?” He eyed me curiously.

  “No!” I said, realizing that he thought I was talking about myself again.

  “Oh, good. Is she having trouble keeping the other varmints out?” He smiled and the lines around his eyes crinkled. The dimple in his left cheek popped out to say hello.

  “Varmints?” I asked, trying to ignore the impure thoughts running through my head. I couldn’t help myself. He was too good looking. When he smiled, it was shocking. The accent, the eyes, the dimple – they were too much. As inappropriate as it was, I wanted to take him home – and not to pick his brain about the moral ramifications of adultery. I made a mental note to put lust on the list for a future discussion.

  “Yes. Varmints. Spoken like a true Texan, right?” he asked lightly.

  I laughed. “Sort of, but your Boston-ese is kind of killing the Texas vibe.”

  He chuckled again. “I’ll work on my Texan-ese.” His face turned faux solemn. “Okay, so let’s talk about adultery then.”

  I took a deep breath and framed my question. “Let’s say you learned something about someone. Something that would hurt people you love. Do you tell them?”

  “I guess that depends on the circumstances. Do you want Father Paul or Friend Paul’s opinion?”

  “Are they different?”

  He arched an eyebrow as he thought about that. “No. I just wondered who you wanted to talk to."

  “Friend Paul,” I said. “Definitely Friend Paul.”

  “Okay. And this isn’t about your neighbor’s garden?”

  I shook my head. “No … well … let’s say that it is – hypothetically, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  In a burst of honesty, I continued, “Let’s say that it is my best friend’s garden, and let’s say
that I know that someone had been sneaking in and picking all the best flowers. Do I say anything?”

  “Wow. That is the million dollar Maury Povich question, isn’t it?”

  “It is?”

  “Sure. Do you tell your friend? Or do you keep it to yourself? Maury would answer the first one with an unequivocal ‘yes’ and the second with a resounding ‘no.’”

  “And here I thought his specialty was ‘Who’s my baby’s daddy?’” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Those two seem to go together, now, don’t they?” he asked.

  I was having a hard time grasping the fact that my local Catholic priest was a Maury Povich watcher.

  “I think you need to ask yourself what you hope to gain from telling her,” he continued.

  “I don’t know. It’s over now, and my friend can’t be hurt any more. For me, it’s not even about her now. Well, it is a little bit, but it’s more about the fact that everyone thinks that he was this upstanding guy. The pedestal he sat on was pretty high. It will be a long fall, but I can’t stand to see him idolized any more.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed and burned a hole through me. “Was?”

  My stomach twisted, making me want to spill my guts to this man. “How well did you know Jonathan?” I blurted.

  His expression turned impassive. Completely unreadable. “I can’t really say that I knew him very well at all. Why?”

  “He was with the flower thief.”

  He looked down at his bowl and sat his spoon down on the table beside it. When he looked up, the smile, the dimple, and the laugh lines that had graced his stunning face earlier were gone. “Jonathan cheated on Grace? Are you sure?”

  I nodded, broken-hearted for my sister. “I’m sure. Shouldn’t you already know this? Isn’t it your job to know the dirt on everyone?”

  “Grace never said anything.”

  “I wouldn’t expect that she would. There’s no way that she knew that it was happening. She would’ve told me immediately. So he never said anything to you? In confession or something?”