A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  “You’re lying. Tell me the truth!”

  Her fingers quivered as she pushed the hair from her eyes.

  “H-he came to see me . . . at the house . . . h-he begged me not to marry you.”

  “And why would he do that, darlin’?” His term of endearment hissed from his lips like a curse.

  She leapt from the bed and ran to his side, clutching a hand to his arm. He slung it away and moved to the closet with deadly calm.

  She stared in horror. “What are you doing?”

  He snatched a clean shirt and turned. “Did you kiss him then too?”

  “What?”

  “What else happened?” His voice stung like a slap.

  “Patrick, don’t do this. It was a long time ago. And it doesn’t matter now. I love you!”

  “But not then.”

  The truth hung in the air like a cloying mist, burning the air from her lungs. She looked away, unable to bear the pain in his eyes.

  “The truth. I want the truth. Who were you in love with when you became my wife?”

  She put a hand to her mouth and began to cry.

  “Who, Marcy?”

  She forced the truth from her lips. “Sam.” It was a mere whisper, but she felt him flinch from across the room.

  “I see. Well, it seems as if Sam’s not the only one adept at lying.” He strode to the door.

  “Patrick, wait! Don’t leave, please—I love you.”

  She barely recognized the man who turned. “Somehow, Marcy, that doesn’t carry a whole lot of weight right now. If you need me, I’ll be at the Herald.”

  “No!” She followed him downstairs, her chest heaving with sobs. “Patrick, please, can’t you forgive me . . . for the sake of our marriage?”

  He unbolted the door and swung it wide. It ushered in a cool breeze far warmer than his eyes. “I don’t know, Marcy. Maybe. But I can tell you one thing, darlin’—it won’t be anytime soon.”

  The door slammed behind him, effectively severing her hope. A frightening loneliness shivered through her, and she listed against the door, stunned at how easily love could be shattered. With a low moan, she turned and mounted the stairs as slowly as a woman twice her age, barely able to breathe. Like a sleepwalker, dully and without purpose, she finally collapsed in a heap on her bed. She shut her eyes to block out the pain, but it only droned on in her brain—a mind-numbing lament, suffocating until she thought she would die.

  Oh, God, help me! Please! Restore our peace and heal my marriage.

  She forced her lips to pray, soundless utterings that seemed to silence the torment inside. She took a deep breath and allowed his peace to quiet her mind, as it had done so many times in her past.

  Her husband had left. But God would not. The only balm to her tortured soul.

  But more than enough.

  9

  Brady wiped the sweat from his face and opened the door of his flat. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and spiked a hand through his hair, which was pasted to his head from his workout at the gym. He stopped midway to blink. Cluny sat ramrod straight on the couch like the garden gnome in the neighbor’s yard, displaying a nervous amount of teeth in a cast-iron grin.

  “What are you doing, bud?”

  His throat bobbed like he’d just swallowed a canary. “Sittin’.”

  Brady glanced out the window, taking in the blue of the sky on this, the warmest day they’d had so far. He tossed his keys on the coffee table. “When you can be outside?”

  Cluny picked at a seam in the couch. “Thought I’d wait for you . . . that maybe we could shoot some pool.”

  Brady slacked a hip and smiled. “Also inside. You have a sudden aversion to fresh air?”

  “Basketball, then.”

  Brady rolled the back of his neck. He stripped off his damp shirt and headed down the hall. “Okay. Let me just clean up a bit. I can’t stand myself.”

  Cluny followed him to the bathroom and slacked a leg against the door. “So when we going to Lizzie’s house again? I got a hankering for a home-cooked meal.”

  Brady cupped several handfuls of water to his head and chest, then soaped his hair and under his arms. He doused his head under the sink and then his torso. “Not anytime soon, bud. Hand me that towel on the rack, will ya?”

  Cluny tossed it, and Brady dried off. “Much better.” He pushed past Cluny to get a clean shirt from his room. Miss Hercules lay sprawled on his bed, watching him through sleepy eyes. He slanted a brow and buttoned his shirt. “You could use some fresh air too, you bed jockey.”

  Miss Hercules yawned and rolled on her back.

  Brady’s lips quirked. “Come on, you mangy mutt, we’re going outside.”

  She jumped off the bed and shook, sending a cloud of hair floating like slivers of feathers in a snow globe. Brady leaned into his closet and scooped up his brand-new basketball, purchased the week after Cluny had come to stay. He cinched the back of Cluny’s neck and led him down the hall. “Come on, kid, I’m going to give you an education today.”

  Cluny laughed. “Not if I give you one first.”

  Brady stopped at the door and patted the pocket of his trousers. “Keys . . . where did I put my keys?”

  Cluny rolled his eyes. “On the table by the couch, remember? Shoot, Brady, if you’re gonna educate me, first ya gotta remember how.”

  “Very funny, kid.” He reached for his keys, and something caught his eye. The cushion of the couch was cocked, raised just enough for him to notice. Brady paused, hand hovering over the keys as he squinted at the sofa. “What the—”

  “Brady, let’s go!”

  He ignored the urgency in Cluny’s voice and lifted the cushion. In slow motion, he reached for his M1910 canteen, standard military issue that soldiers were allowed to keep. He rose to his full height and stared at his one souvenir from the war. He glanced at Cluny, the smooth aluminum of the canteen cool against his palm. “What’s this doing there?”

  Cluny’s face was so pale that his freckles looked like splotches of dirt. His words came out in a high-pitched rush. “M-me and Johnny Landers . . . we were playin’ war . . . I’m sorry, Brady, I won’t touch it again, I promise. Here, I’ll put it back in your room.” Cluny rushed forward and extended an unsteady hand.

  Brady studied him with a smile. “Don’t worry, bud, I don’t mind, but ask me next time, okay?” He ambled to the kitchen, shaking the canteen. He unscrewed the cap. “What’dya put in here anyway, soda pop?”

  “Brady, no!”

  Cluny’s shriek halted him dead in his tracks. Fear prickled the back of his neck as he lifted the open canteen to his nose. The distinct scent of oil of juniper invaded his senses, draining the blood from his face.

  Gin.

  Brady walked to the sink and poured the poison out, his hand shaking as the vile liquid gurgled down the drain. He hurled the canteen into the sink with a deafening clatter and slowly turned to face Cluny, whose back was now pasted hard against the front door.

  “Brady, it was Johnny’s idea, and I only took one sip, I promise! His older brother made it at college, and I swear I’ll never touch it again.”

  A vein pumped in his neck as he moved forward in a slow, deliberate pace. He jerked the boy hard by the collar until he began to cough. Brady leaned close, his voice savage. “If you so much as come near my home or me with this trash ever again, I’ll throw you out on your ear, do you hear?” He shoved him away, causing Cluny to tumble against the door. “Now, get out. I don’t want to see your face for a while.”

  Tears of shock welled in the boy’s eyes before he fled from the room with Miss Hercules close on his heels. Brady slammed the door to release his frustration. The walls shook, and several of his framed pictures crashed to the floor.

  He was seething as he returned to the kitchen and stood, his gaze glued to the canteen in the sink. The stench of alcohol was strong in his nostrils, forcing him to swallow hard as his throat went dry. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength, feeling the
pull of his past—like sticky venom, seeping into his soul. He licked his dry lips and felt a shudder ripple through him while painful memories barraged his mind. With a gut-teral groan, he jerked the canteen from the sink and hurled it into the waste can, fingers quivering from the motion. His breathing was labored as he put his head in his hand.

  He felt like death and he hadn’t even taken a drink. But the scent alone triggered reactions in his body that reminded him just how weak of a man he was. He thought of Cluny and felt a stab of grief. Even now, without tasting a single drop, the poison had traveled his bloodstream in the form of fury and shame, unleashing his temper. To Cluny he was a hero, to the world a man of God, but the reality remained, buried so deep that he ached to the core. To himself, he was little more than a failure, hopelessly flawed.

  “God forgive me,” he whispered, more out of desperate habit than belief, knowing full well that God had forgiven him long, long ago.

  Asking for forgiveness was one thing. He drew in a deep breath before releasing it again in one long, desolate shudder.

  But accepting it—now that was something else altogether.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  Lizzie glanced at Mary over the stack of books in her hands and smiled at the pucker on her brow. Over the last two months, she’d become as close to Mary as she was to Millie, the three of them almost inseparable, inside work and out. Mary Carpenter proved to be the perfect foil to Millie Doza—sweet, shy, and somehow worldly in a way that Millie only dreamed about. When Millie would get a bit wild, Mary could temper her with a maturity that seemed far beyond her years, often earning a begrudging respect from her free-spirited friend.

  “Why would I mind? I’ve been wanting to return these books for a while now, and it’s right on my way home. Besides, I kind of like the idea of popping in and giving Brady a little trouble. He’s been pushing us pretty hard the last few weeks. Let’s face it—he’s a slave driver.”

  Mary grinned and hefted her own stack of books in her arms. “Yeah, but it’s good for us. He’s good for us.” She sighed. “I wonder what it would be like to be married to a man like him.”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “I’d advise not thinking about it, Mary. It’s a road I’ve traveled way too many times, and I’ve always run into a dead end. Brady will live and die as a bachelor, I’m afraid. And more’s the pity.” Her sigh matched Mary’s. “He’s a pretty special guy.”

  Mary giggled. “Listen to us, will you? Two love-struck girls. Wouldn’t Brady laugh?”

  “Probably not. He always gets this look of panic in his eyes whenever any woman looks his way. Trust me, I’ve seen it more times than I care to admit.” She stopped in front of Brady’s flat and nodded up. “Well, here it is. Shall we go in and surprise him?”

  Lizzie drew in a silent breath, glad that Mary was by her side. She helped to calm her whenever Brady was around, taking her mind off what she couldn’t have. But all the same, her pulse skipped a beat as she stood outside his flat and gave a timid knock.

  The door opened a crack, and immediately Lizzie sensed something wasn’t right. His face looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in days, and his eyes were guarded, dark with something she couldn’t read.

  “Oh, Brady, I’m sorry. Are . . . we disturbing you?”

  He looked away and cleared his throat. “No, Beth, I was just reading.”

  Mary took a step back. “We can come back another time if you like—”

  “No, that’s not necessary.” He glanced at the stacks of books in their arms and attempted a smile. “Come on in. You can put the books on the table.”

  Lizzie stepped past, and her eyes surveyed the room. She’d been in his flat several times before, but a long time ago, when she’d gone there with Collin. She scanned an impressive wall of books lining a beautiful bookcase he’d built himself. Her gaze moved across the room to where his Bible sprawled open on the couch. She nodded at it with a smile. “You never get enough, do you?”

  He glanced at it and looked away, avoiding her eyes. “No. Apparently not.”

  For some reason, she felt uneasy, as if they’d invaded his privacy. She found herself wanting to leave and slowly backed toward the door with a tinge of heat in her cheeks. “I have to go, Brady, but Mary wanted to return your books, so I brought mine along too.”

  “That’s fine, Beth.”

  She smiled and glanced at Mary on her way out. “Cheer him up, will you? He looks like he could use a good friend.”

  Brady watched Beth slip out the door. His eyes followed her, lost in a cold stare long after she was gone. He took a deep breath and turned. “You didn’t have to return them all at once, Mary. You could have kept them for a while, you know.”

  Her smile was hesitant. “Well, actually, Brady, I was hoping to browse the library Lizzie’s always bragging about. That is, if you don’t mind?”

  He nodded and she wandered over to the shelf to peruse the titles, gently running her fingers along the spines.

  He studied the graceful curve of her shoulders as she selected a volume and opened the book in her hands. All at once, his gaze traveled the length of her, and out of nowhere, thoughts of attraction flashed in his mind, flooding him with shame. He quickly turned away and strode to the kitchen with keen resolve, leaving the front door gaping wide. “Would you like some coffee?”

  She smiled over her shoulder. “That would be nice, thank you.”

  He clattered around in the kitchen until the aroma of coffee perked in the air. When he returned, she sat perched on the far end of the couch. She thumbed through his Bible and looked up with a smile. “Why are there marks everywhere?”

  “It’s my way of studying, committing it to memory.”

  She nodded and flipped a few more pages. “You must have had this a long time. It’s pretty battered.”

  He smiled and fanned his fingers though his hair. “Yeah, well, it’s the first one I ever got, so it’s been through a lot, I guess. Like me.”

  “When’d you get it?” She looked up, curiosity piqued in her eyes.

  “Too long ago to remember. From a good friend who convinced me that God was real.”

  She scrunched her nose. “You needed convincing?”

  He laughed and dropped down on the other side of the sofa. “Oh yeah. I didn’t even believe he existed. Or if I did, I just didn’t care.”

  “Why?”

  He managed a faint smile. “Why all the questions, Mary? I thought you came to get books, not pick my brain.”

  She hugged his Bible to her chest. “I did, but the other is so much fun. Like reading a great mystery and unraveling the plot.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “It’s a mystery all right. How a God like him could love a wretch like me.”

  She scooted closer, the Bible still clutched in her arms. “Talk to me, Brady. I want to know what you did that you think only God can forgive.”

  He shifted on the couch and butted his back against the armrest. His heart was racing. The smile on her face was innocent, but her proximity was not. “I don’t like to talk about it, Mary. God’s already forgotten it, so I do as well. ‘As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.’ ”

  “Psalm 103:12,” she whispered.

  He smiled. “You’ve been studying.”

  She closed the Bible and rested her head on the back of his sofa. Her eyes never left his. “Not just the Bible, you know.”

  He cleared his throat and stood. “Mary, I have some things I need to get done. I think you better go.”

  She sat up, flustered. “Brady, please, let me stay. I can’t go home. Not right now.”

  “Why?”

  She looked away. “Because I can’t, that’s all. Please believe me.”

  “Well, you can’t stay here.”

  Fear flecked in her eyes. “Why not? I’ll be safe here.”

  “No!” Heat chafed the back of his neck. “Why can’t you go home?”
r />   “Because he might be waiting.”

  “Who?”

  She stared at her hands, limp on the Bible. “The man I ran away from, back in New York.” Her gaze locked on his. “Please, Brady, let me stay. Just for a while? And then I’ll go to Lizzie’s if I have to.”

  The blue of her eyes blurred with tears, and compassion swelled in his chest. He sat down and put an arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Mary, I wish there was something I could do, some help I could give. But God can and will . . . if we pray.”

  She turned and clutched him tightly. He hesitated before slowly hugging her back. He felt her shiver and gently lifted her chin with his finger. “Let’s pray, then what d’ya say we take a walk and get some fresh air?”

  “What would I do without you?” she whispered. Her eyes softened, and her expression was almost worshipful.

  His gaze settled on her mouth, causing his cheeks to heat. She pressed in to hug him again, and the nearness of her body caused his heart to pound. He closed his eyes. The temptation to kiss her was almost more than he could bear.

  No, my son.

  “Brady?” A timid voice sounded from across the room.

  For a split second he was paralyzed. He glanced up at the open door where Cluny stood, confusion glazing his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” Cluny whispered.

  In a jagged beat of his heart, Brady pushed Mary back and staggered up. A sick feeling roiled in his stomach. “Nothing, we were doing nothing.” He pulled Mary to her feet and then to the door. “Mary, please forgive me. You have to go.”

  “But, Brady, why?”

  “Just go now, please.”

  She blinked and shoved the hair from her eyes. Her gaze skittered first to Cluny, and then back to Brady. “I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

  He stood, eyes trained on the floor. “No . . . work is . . . well, it’s really busy right now. Give me a couple of weeks, okay?”

  She didn’t answer, and he looked up in time to see the hurt on her face before she hurried out. Brady felt a stab in his chest and shut the door, turning to face Cluny alone. He nodded toward the couch. “We need to talk.”