“I hate you!” she sobbed.
If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.
“I don’t care!” She rose up on the bed, her face streaked with tears and her body shuddering with pain. “Over and over I’ve tried, and I can’t bear it anymore.”
Love . . . beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things . . .
“No! I have endured, for almost two and half months now, and forgiven until I’m blue in the face. How many times can one person forgive?”
Silence pounded in her ears.
Seventy times seven.
Comprehension seared the air from her throat. Seventy times seven. God, no, please . . .
She tried to breathe, but the air was too thick, panting from her lips in a faint, feeble rasp. She pressed a hand to her chest, tight with the burden of decision. A choice. To lay down her pride and forgive. Or to embrace the hurt and strike back. Obedience or sin. She squeezed her eyes shut, torn by the prompting of his Spirit and the pull of her flesh. Oh, God, I can’t! Help me, please . . .
Thoughts pelted her brain. His cruelty. His indifference. His rejection.
She put her palms to her ears, desperate to shut out the thoughts.
“No! I choose to forgive.”
Gasping for air, she staggered from the bed, her mind set on a course that would cost her her pride. She groped for the light, then shielded her eyes from the glare, lips moving in silent prayer. Her pulse raced while she gathered his things, a clean shirt, pressed trousers, and a favorite tie. She bundled them in her arms. The scent of him rose, sweet to her senses, and her heart flooded with hope, purging the grief he had caused.
“Oh, God, help me . . . ,” she whispered. Her breathing became deeper, unrestricted as she moved to the bureau. By God, he would have clean socks and underwear.
And she would have a clean heart.
Her pulse beat steady and strong as she padded down the stairs, no longer afraid of the light in the hall or the stranger in the parlor. She drew in a deep breath.
Perfect love casts out fear.
He seemed so haggard as she entered the room, and her heart longed to hold him. Instead, she placed his things on the couch, grieved at the anger she still saw in his eyes. She looked away, unable to bear it.
“Forgive me, Patrick, for losing my temper. I love you . . . and I will forever.” She moved to the door, suddenly spent, pausing only to speak over her shoulder. “Good night, my love. Please get some sleep.”
And without another word, she returned to their room and silently dressed for bed. When she laid her head on the pillow, it wasn’t to sleep. No, it was first to pray, and then to weep. Because she knew, all too well. The prayer of a righteous man availeth much.
He stared at the empty door, unable to comprehend the love he’d just seen. His pulse droned in his ears as he slumped in the chair, body buzzing and mind numb.
She’d forgiven in the face of her anger. He dropped his head in his hands.
In total obedience to God. Unlike him. And total love for the man who spurned her.
Wetness welled in his eyes and he choked on a sob. An aching realization stabbed within, but its pain was kind, unlike the agony of guilt. Conviction lifted the blindness from his eyes, and he knew he had failed. He’d turned his back on God as well as his wife. And for what? Wounded pride that had yielded nothing but his demise. And hers.
Two souls for the price of one sin.
He heaved with pain, barely able to breathe. His mind grappled for the verse Mitch had given him. He closed his eyes and it suddenly pierced his thoughts, allowing a sliver of light to shatter the darkness.
The law of Jehovah is perfect, restoring the soul.
Oh, God, the law. To forgive. Could he really do it?
He opened his eyes in shock, revelation prickling his spine.
The law is perfect. Like God’s love, Patrick thought, and hope surged in his chest.
He thought of Marcy, and for the first time in weeks, he could see her clearly, unscathed by his anger. A woman, pure of heart and strong of character, loving God while loving him. He thought of the damage he’d done, and his heart fisted in grief. Oh, God, forgive me—I don’t deserve her.
He leapt to his feet, sin no longer weighting him down, and bounded the steps, two at a time. The hall was dark, but his step was light, and he prayed for mercy as never before. He neared their room and could hear her weeping, muffled and wrenching his heart like it should. He stopped in the doorway, staggered by what he’d done, and watched as their bed shivered with her grief. She didn’t hear him until he knelt by her side, and when he spoke, she jerked in surprise.
“Marcy . . .”
The hitch of her breath was harsh in the dark.
He pressed a hand to her wet cheek, sick inside at the pain he’d caused. “God knows I don’t deserve it, but can you . . . will you . . . forgive me for being a fool?”
His heart stopped when she didn’t move or blink, seconds of agony as she stared, motionless in the dark. And then with a pitiful cry, she lunged into his arms, landing them both on the floor.
“Oh, Patrick,” she sobbed.
He crushed her to him, and his voice broke. “I love you, Marcy, and I swear, I will never hurt you like this again.”
He picked her up and laid her on their bed, desperate to cradle her in his arms. Neither spoke for a long while, but their silence whispered volumes. He breathed in the clean scent of her, and a rush of love overtook him. He held her face in his hands. “I don’t deserve you, Marceline, but as God is my witness, I will spend the rest of my life trying to come close.”
Wetness shimmered in her eyes. She kissed his mouth, softly, gently, stroking his face with the tips of her fingers. “I love you, Patrick, with all of my heart. And as God is my witness, you are the first man I have ever really loved, and you will be the last. I thought I loved Sam when I married you, it’s true, but I was wrong. You taught me what real love is—with your kindness, your caring . . . your commitment. From the day I became your wife, I have felt nothing but safe and whole and cherished.”
He groaned and pulled her close, his voice raspy with regret. “Until recently.”
He felt her smile in the crook of his neck. “Yes, until recently. But even this, my love, has served us well. Losing you, Patrick—if only for two and half months—forced me into the arms of God in a way I’d forgotten. Sometimes, in the midst of my love for you, I tend to forget that he is my source, not you.” She pulled away to search his eyes. “I’ve missed you, Patrick. Life is not the same without you.” Her lips curved softly. “And I need my sleep.”
He kissed her again, his husky groan muffled against her mouth. “Explain to me what that is, will ya, darlin’? I seem to have a lapse of memory.”
She feathered his throat with soft, lingering kisses. “Really? I would have thought cold, cramped leather would have been the perfect bedding for a thick-skinned Irishman like you.”
He skimmed his hand down the curve of her hip until flannel gave way to skin. Her soft moan matched his as his kisses became urgent. “No, darlin’, not for sleeping . . . or otherwise.” The silky warmth of her skin against his lips caused him to shudder. “And God knows how I’ve missed you, Marceline. And ‘otherwise.’ ”
13
Brady squinted and held his breath. Father Mac’s shot glided high in the air, as if in slow motion, finally arcing into the basket with a soft, clean swish. As gentle as if carried on the wings of an angel. A groan erupted from Brady’s throat. “That was nothing short of divine intervention.”
Father Mac scooped up the ball and lifted a brow. “Are you suggesting that there was more than pure skill involved? Nobody likes a sore loser, John.”
Brady wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt and grinned. “What I’m suggesting is that you’ve been praying and practicing . . . in that order . . . since the last time I took you out. I thought priests were
n’t supposed to dally with pride.”
Father Mac laughed and swabbed his face with a handkerchief as he headed for the rectory, basketball hooked tightly under his arm. “Consider it an object lesson. Pride goeth before the fall. My pride, your fall.” He butted the back door open and turned. A glint of teasing shone in his brown eyes. “Can I nurse your wounds with some lemonade? Mrs. Clary just made a fresh pitcher.”
“Sure.” Brady followed Matt into the rectory kitchen where Mrs. Clary was enjoying a glass of lemonade with company. At the sight of the priest, she bounded to her feet with a warm smile on her round, dimpled face. She bustled to the china cabinet to retrieve two glasses, then glanced over her shoulder. “So, who won?”
“I believe I taught this young man a valuable lesson in sportsmanship,” Father Mac said. He nodded at Mrs. Clary’s guest. “And how are you today, Miss Ramona?”
A tiny, wizened woman smiled back, her dyed black hair twisted back in a severe bun. Piercing black eyes glittered with interest as she nodded. “Excellent, Father. The girls are preparing for our best recital ever.” Her gaze flicked to Brady. “You are planning on coming, aren’t you, Brady? My granddaughter would be so disappointed if you didn’t.”
Sweat that had nothing to do with basketball began to bead at the back of his neck. He grinned and reached for one of two glasses Mrs. Clary had just poured, ignoring the smug smile on Father Mac’s face. “Wouldn’t miss it. Truth be told, it’s the only culture I get.”
Father Mac took a quick gulp of lemonade and slapped Brady on the back. “Well, ladies, if you’ll excuse us, John and I will be in my study discussing his rather sad performance on the basketball court today. Thank you for the lemonade, Mrs. Clary.”
“My pleasure, Father.”
“It’s so good of you sharing time with your flock, Father Mac,” Miss Ramona observed.
“‘Shearing time’ is more like it,” Brady mumbled, following Matt to the door.
Father Mac flashed a quick smile in the ladies’ direction before giving Brady a narrow gaze. “I heard that. I won fair and square, and we both know it.”
Father Mac pushed the study door open and ambled to his desk, motioning for Brady to sit down. He took a sip of lemonade and propped his feet up. He eyed Brady over the rim of his glass. “So, how are you doing today? Judging from your game, I’d say not too good. I’m a big believer in prayer, but even prayer can’t take all the credit for my win today. You’re off your game and you look tired. Why?”
Brady’s lips twisted. “Maybe I was just showing you a little mercy, letting you win. Ever think of that?”
Father Mac studied him with a penetrating gaze. “Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
Brady exhaled and sank back into a leather chair positioned at the front of Matt’s desk. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “No, I don’t think so, either. I don’t know. Guess I didn’t sleep well last night. Had another dream.”
“About Elizabeth?”
Brady nodded and sighed, gouging his fingers deep into his scalp.
“What was it this time?”
“We were somewhere—in a park, I think—just talking and laughing. Then I kissed her.”
“And how did you feel? Guilty?”
Brady opened his eyes to meet Matt’s questioning gaze. “No, not until I woke up. And then maybe a little, but nothing like it’s been in the past. The dream, it was . . .” He averted his gaze to stare out the window, lost in the haze of sunlight that shimmered into the room. “Wonderful, exhilarating . . .” A shallow attempt at a laugh lodged in his throat. “It actually left me breathless. Until I woke up.”
“That’s progress, John. There was a time you couldn’t even discuss these dreams with me for all the shame and guilt you bore. God’s moving in your life, my friend, through our prayers and your willingness to confront your past. He’s healing you.”
Brady glanced up, and a flicker of hope fluttered in his chest. “Yeah, I think he is. I can feel it, Matt, and I know you’re right. But the more he heals me of the guilt and the shame, the more I seem to dream of her.” He stood to his feet and moved to the window, anxious to avoid Matt’s scrutiny. He leaned his palms on the windowsill and released a weighty breath, lost in a vacant stare. “That can’t be good.”
“Why not? You’re in love with the girl. You just couldn’t see that before for all the guilt and shame. But your subconscious is facing it now, and it’s about time you do too.”
Brady turned, realization drifting in his mind as gently as the motes of dust swirling in the sunlight. His lips parted in shock. “I . . . am, aren’t I? I love her . . . as a woman and not as a sister.” His eyes fluttered closed. “Dear God, I’ve been a fool.”
A low chuckle rumbled from Father Mac’s throat. “Not a fool, John, a slave. To your past. But ‘if the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.’ ”
Brady blinked to ward off the emotion that threatened. “Thank you, Father, for all you’ve done.”
Father Mac smiled. Affection shone in his eyes. “You did it, John, you and God. All I did was lead the way.” He reached for his glass and drained it. “But don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a lot to do. A relationship to build, which is a tall order for a man who’s avoided women all his life.”
Brady thought of Beth. The lemonade instantly soured in his stomach. How was he going to do this? To tell her he loved her? And not lose the contents of his stomach? Even now, a tinge of guilt assaulted his mind. What if it wasn’t gone? What if it came back? What if he told her he loved her and couldn’t? She’d be devastated . . . and so would he. The air thickened in his throat, and his hands began to sweat.
As if reading his mind, Matt’s steady tone countered the fear in Brady’s gut. “You take it slowly, one day at a time. You spend time with her, get to know her as a woman, her likes and dislikes. You revel in the attraction you have for her, because it’s a gift from God, meant to be tempered by his precepts. Honor him and you will honor her. The demons from your past will try to convince you it won’t work, but it’s a lie. You’re free, John, and God has a plan for your life better than anything you dreamed possible.”
Brady swallowed a cleansing gulp of air and exhaled slowly. “Thanks, Matt. I needed that, and I believe it. But do you mind if we pray?”
Father Mac settled back in his chair and crossed his brand-new Keds—the latest fad—on his desk with an air of authority. He tucked his hands behind his head and shot Brady a lopsided grin. “Mmm . . . novel idea. Wish I’d thought of it.”
Lizzie’s hand lingered on the knob long after the shop door closed behind her. She wrinkled her nose. “Is it my imagination, or did Brady seem a bit strange today?”
Mary ducked her head and glanced through the window, eyeing Brady bent over a press. “Maybe a little. He did seem to be in a particularly good mood. Why?”
Lizzie peered through the glass. “I don’t know, he just seemed different . . . nervous, almost shy.”
She turned away from the window with a sigh and started down the busy street. Lunchtime was in full sway, and the shops were crowded with patrons. She grabbed Mary’s arm to dodge a delivery man with a crate of peaches. The sweet smell rumbled her stomach. “Of course, Brady’s always been ‘different,’ I suppose, but never like this. Did you see his face when I hugged him? Dear Lord, I didn’t know a man could turn that many shades of red. And I’ve hugged Brady more than any human being alive, except for my mother and father.”
Mary giggled. “Now that you mention it, he was a bit out of character today. I literally had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing when he sat down and missed the chair.”
Lizzie’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh, I know. I’ve never seen him do that before. Brady’s always so calm and self-assured.” She gripped Mary’s arm. “And did you see how he was—”
“Sweating? Oh, my goodness, yes! It was literally pouring off of him, so much so that parts
of his shirt were soaked.”
The two girls clutched each other, laughing so hard that tears sprang to their eyes.
Lizzie wiped the wetness from her face. “That’s what I mean, Mary. Something was different today.”
Mary hooked an arm through Lizzie’s. “Well, it can’t be anything bad, because he was in a really good mood.”
Lizzie chewed on her lip. “Yes, he was. So good he actually asked me to go fishing with him and Cluny sometime.”
Mary came to a halt. “Brady asked you out?”
Lizzie scrunched her nose. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Mary. Brady’s made it perfectly clear how he feels about me, and I’m not about to toy with heartbreak again. He and I are friends, period. And nothing short of an edict from God will get me to go down that road again.”
“Then why did he ask you out?”
Lizzie kept walking. “Who knows? It’s fishing, nothing more. And nothing definite. He didn’t even say when.”
“Mmm . . . that’s odd.”
“Besides, I think his real motive is for me to bring Katie fishing with us. He mentioned that Cluny’s a bit down because his gram is coming home. He won’t be able to live with Brady anymore, so Brady wants to cheer him up. Apparently Katie is the cure.”
“Awww . . . that’s so cute.”
“Yeah, real sweet. Katie, Cluny, me . . . and the cold fish.” Lizzie rolled her eyes. “And I’m not talking about the ones in the lake.”
Mary chuckled. “Any girl in her right mind can take one look at Brady and see that he’s not a cold fish.”
Lizzie sighed. “He is with me, and nothing can convince me otherwise. He will be my big brother until the day I die, and I have finally learned to accept it.”
A Passion Denied Page 27