A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  “No, but he could be. Don’t you see? I’ve prayed and prayed all this time to get over Brady when the answer has been right under my nose the last three months. Michael loves me, Mary, and he wants to make me his wife.”

  Mary jerked her hand away. “But he’s no good, Lizzie, at least not according to Brady.”

  Lizzie bristled. “I’m done living my life according to Brady. Besides, when it comes to forgiving his brother, I’ve learned that John Brady is no saint. Michael has changed a lot, and no thanks to John. If I can be a positive influence on him, then why not?”

  “Because you don’t love him!”

  Lizzie drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You’re wrong, Mary, I do love him. Maybe not in the starry-eyed, fairy-tale way that I love Brady, but then that’s nothing more than a little girl’s fantasy. Well, I’m all grown up now, and so are my needs. And unlike Brady, Michael has offered to fulfill them. He loves me.”

  “But he doesn’t love God—not like his brother.”

  Exasperation puffed from Lizzie’s lips. “Nobody loves God like his brother. I’m beginning to realize that he’s the exception rather than the rule, and it’s not fair to judge Michael—or any other man—according to Brady’s standards. Michael is a man with an unfortunate past who’s looking to be a good man. I think I can help him.”

  “Do you even know his past? Or why Brady doesn’t trust him?”

  Lizzie studied the worry in her friend’s face and touched a hand to her cheek. “A little. I know that he was jealous of John because he was their stepmother’s favorite, and that it caused a terrible rift between them. And I know something awful happened to John, but neither Brady nor Michael will tell me what it was.” She hesitated, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Mary, you’re my best friend and I need you to be happy for me.”

  “But, Lizzie, I—”

  Lizzie gently stilled her lips. “Please.”

  The blue of Mary’s eyes glistened. She nodded and looked away. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  “Have you told Brady yet?”

  Lizzie moistened her lips. “No, not yet. He left with Michael the next day to sign inheritance papers in New York, but he’s due back tomorrow. I was planning on telling him right after church.”

  Mary nodded.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mary, I promise. Father is making us wait six long months, so we have plenty of time to pray about it.”

  Mary’s chin elevated the slightest degree. “Don’t think I won’t.”

  Lizzie smiled and squeezed her in a tight hug. “No, Mary, I would never think that. Not in a million years.”

  A third thunderous boom sounded at the door as Collin stumbled down the hall of his flat in a daze. He scrubbed one hand across his bare chest and stifled a yawn with the other, hurrying as quickly as his comatose body would allow. He glanced at the clock on the parlor mantel and groaned. Six a.m.! The hinges of the front door rattled with another frantic pounding.

  “I’m coming,” he screamed, irritated at the loss of precious Sunday-morning sleep. He unlatched the lock and flung the door open, ready to take the intruder on.

  “H-he’s dead! B-Brady’s dead!” Cluny trembled on the threshold, his freckled face bloated and red from a crying jag still in progress.

  Fear constricted Collin’s throat. He grabbed him by the shoulders. “What are you talking about? Where is he?”

  “In h-his b-bed. H-he won’t w-wake up.”

  Collin tightened his grip. “Calm down, Cluny. Did you shake him? You know what a sound sleeper he is.”

  Cluny’s throat bobbed as he shook his head. “N-no, I was afraid because h-he wouldn’t answer. We were supposed to work out at the gym last night, you know, after he got home? But he didn’t show, so I got scared and came over this morning. I yelled his name over and over, but h-he w-wouldn’t answer!”

  “Collin? What’s going on?”

  Collin glanced over his shoulder at Faith, barefoot and sleepy-eyed. “It’s Brady. He might be sick. Would you mind getting Cluny something to eat while I go check on him?”

  “No! I’m going with you.”

  Collin turned back to study the boy. His chin, although quivering, had a stubborn bent. “Okay, little buddy, we’ll go together. Wait here while I put on some clothes.”

  Collin didn’t waste any time. His fingers trembled as he buttoned the fly of his trousers, not even bothering to tuck in his shirt. Faith handed him his shoes and clean socks, and he yanked them on before grazing her cheek with a quick kiss. “Start praying, will you, Faith? Hopefully I’ll be right back, but if not, I’ll meet you at church.”

  She nodded and he flew down the hall, snatching his coat on the way out. They sprinted to Brady’s apartment, six blocks north, Cluny huffing on his heels all the way. At Brady’s building, Collin took the steps three at a time. His blood throbbed in his veins as he heaved the glass door open. Cluny shot through, his spindly legs pumping up the steps like his shoes were on fire.

  “The door’s open,” he rasped. “Brady gave me a key.”

  They were both out of breath when they reached Brady’s room. He lay facedown on the bed, clothes rumpled and shoes still on. His arms and legs were sprawled at odd angles in a sea of covers, and the side of his jaw was shadowed with at least two days’ growth of stubble. No movement whatsoever, not even the faintest rise or fall of his breathing.

  Collin shook him. “John, wake up!”

  Nothing.

  He shook harder. “John! Do you hear me? Wake up!” His heart hammered in his chest. He grabbed Brady’s wrist and checked for a pulse. Still nothing.

  Cluny started crying.

  Frantic, Collin lunged for his other wrist beneath a mound of covers. His hand hit something hard and he blinked, feeling a bottle still clutched in Brady’s hand. Alcohol? Collin rechecked his pulse. Relief flooded his veins. There! A beat—slow and irregular—but there all the same.

  He glanced up at Cluny, careful to keep the bottle hidden. “Bud, I need you to go get Father Mac, will you? He’s got time before Mass, so tell him Brady needs him right away.”

  Cluny nodded and darted down the hall, slamming the front door behind him.

  Collin snatched the unmarked bottle from beneath the covers and sniffed. He detected the faintest odor of alcohol from what looked like a quarter bottle of water. The bed linens were soaked where the bottle had lain, still clutched in Brady’s hand.

  Vodka? Where the devil had he gotten it? Collin hurried down the hall and threw the bottle in the trash. He clattered through several cabinets until he found the coffee, and the smell of ground beans made him hungry. He poured water into Brady’s antiquated percolator and added the coffee to the steel basket before flipping the switch. He rolled his sleeves and rattled around in the drawer under the stove to grab a good-sized pot, then ducked into the bathroom to turn on the light. When he returned to Brady’s room, he laid the pot on the bed.

  “Come on, John, in my former drunks, I always felt better when I threw up, so we need to empty your stomach.” He rolled Brady over and dragged him toward the headboard. He managed to sit him up, breathing hard from the effort, then pushed the pot in his lap.

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d learned to drink during the war,” he muttered, still in shock that alcohol had crossed John Brady’s lips. In all the years he’d known him and all the times he’d tried to get him to drink on their leaves, he had never seen him tip more than a ginger ale. His jaw hardened. Which meant something in New York had pushed him way over the edge.

  “Come on, ol’ buddy, I’ve got payback to do after all those times you cleaned up after me.” He held John’s scruffy chin with one hand and opened his mouth with the other, jabbing a finger to the back of his throat.

  Brady’s body jerked as he gagged, but his eyes remained cemented closed. Collin tried it two more times. It finally paid off like a slot machine in Virginia City. A foul-smelling curtain
of liquid gushed from his lips, spraying Brady, the bedding, and Collin with a nauseating slime. Collin gagged as he held Brady’s head over the pot. He looked away and tried not to breathe.

  He heard Brady moan and was so relieved, he took a deep gulp of air. Wrong move. He fought back a heave and leaned forward to search Brady’s pale face. “Hey, buddy, you got this all backwards. You’re supposed to be holding my head, remember?”

  Brady’s eyes opened to slits. “Collin?”

  “Yeah, John, it’s me. How ya doing?”

  Brady licked his lips and scowled. “What’s that smell?”

  Collin chuckled. “The contents of your stomach . . . I assume after a partial bottle of vodka.”

  Brady groaned and fell back against the headboard, head banging the wall.

  “Brady?”

  No answer.

  “John! Wake up!”

  One eyelid flickered, then stilled. Drool snaked its way down the side of his mouth.

  “Okay, ol’ buddy, I don’t want to do this, but we need to wake you up.” Collin put the pot aside and heaved him up and over his shoulder with a grunt. He staggered under his weight before steadying himself, then wrinkled his nose. “Besides, you stink.”

  He hauled him into the bathroom and laid him in the tub. He took his shoes off and dropped them on the floor. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the cold water on and flipped the shower lever.

  Cold spray pelted Brady’s chest and face like a hailstorm, causing him to jerk like a drunken marionette. A curse word gurgled in his mouth. “What the devil are you doing?”

  Collin’s smile was grim. “Cleaning ya up. You smell like a sewer.”

  “Turn it off, you no-good—” A colorful string of words burned Collin’s ears.

  He fought a grin as he turned the water off. “Drinking and swearing. Tell me, John, what other bad habits did you pick up in New York?”

  Brady groaned, eyes still pasted shut. “Shut up, Collin.”

  “That any way to talk to a buddy who got out of bed at six a.m. on a Sunday morning to brew you coffee? Now, do you want to take your own shower, or do you want me to give you one?”

  “I don’t want coffee, and I don’t want a shower. Leave me alone.”

  Collin reached for the faucet handle. “Fine, a shower it is—”

  Brady’s eyelids peeled open faster than a tightly rolled window shade. He glared, and the whites of his eyes were so spidered with blood vessels that they complemented the red vomit stains on his shirt. “So help me, God, if you touch that faucet one more time . . .”

  Collin cocked a hip. “Don’t get testy with me, buster. I’m the one Cluny hauled out of bed at the crack of dawn ’cause he thought you were dead. I’m short on sleep, so don’t push me. It wouldn’t take a whole lot to turn this water on and let your sorry butt drown.”

  Brady closed his eyes and moaned. “Cluny found me?”

  Collin exhaled his frustration. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know you were drunk. I kept the bottle out of sight ’til I sent him to get Father Mac.”

  Brady jolted up too quickly. He groaned and put a hand to his head. “You sent for Matt? Are you crazy?”

  “No, John, just worried sick. What the devil happened in New York, anyway? I’ve never seen you drink a drop of liquor, much less pass out stinking drunk.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Brady tried to wobble to his feet and failed.

  “Well, too bloomin’ bad, John, because you need to talk to somebody.” Collin hefted him under his arms until Brady teetered on his feet in the tub, water sluicing off him like a fountain. “I suggest you strip down and take a shower, ol’ buddy. The way you smell right now is a real sin—one that even Father Mac can’t absolve.”

  “Collin . . .”

  He turned at the door.

  “Did you make the coffee strong?”

  “You bet. Stronger than that poison you poured down your gullet.”

  Brady pressed a hand to the wall and nodded. “Will you send Cluny home when Matt gets here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And get me clean clothes from the drawer?”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  “I could really use two aspirins from the kitchen cabinet, if you don’t mind.”

  “Will do.” He started to close the door.

  “And, Collin . . .”

  “Yeah, John?”

  “Will you pray for me?”

  Collin’s jaw twitched with emotion. He attempted a smile. “Haven’t stopped since you left for New York. Now get cleaned up. You can’t afford to offend the clergy.”

  Brady nodded.

  Collin closed the door and sagged against it. Please, God, help him.

  He took a deep breath and headed into the bedroom to clean up the mess. The sound of the shower sent him to the bureau drawers, where neatly folded stacks of T-shirts and underwear reminded him what an orderly man John Brady was. Too orderly to be thrown into chaos by a bout with the bottle. He slipped into the bathroom and put the clean underwear on the back of the commode, then returned to the bedroom to peel the offensive cover off the bed. He wadded it into a ball before tossing it into the empty hamper. He held his breath while he emptied the vomit into the toilet and flushed, then trekked to the kitchen to scour the pot within an inch of its life. He palmed a couple of aspirin, poured two cups of coffee, and carried one to the bathroom.

  Steam billowed into the air, misting Collin’s face with a fine sheen of moisture. He paused, head cocked. “You still alive in there?”

  “No.”

  Collin grinned. Brady’s voice sounded like a rusty tin can. “Coffee and aspirin on the commode.” He stooped to pick up the dirty clothing and closed the door. He hurled them toward the hamper and headed to the kitchen.

  The nutty smell of fresh-brewed coffee sharpened his appetite, and he peered into the near-empty icebox. Bingo! No meat, but a dozen eggs. Better than nothing, he thought as he began cracking them into a fry pan. He lit the stove and doused the soupy mixture with a heavy dose of salt and pepper. Week-old bread lay in the breadbox. The cut side of the loaf sported an unhealthy tinge of green, but Collin grabbed a knife from the drawer and cut the questionable piece off. He sliced two more, finally popping them into the newfangled toaster he and Faith had given Brady for Christmas. He heard the shower stop and looked up at the clock on the wall. Six forty-five. Not bad. From the ranks of the dead to the land of the living in under an hour.

  The front door flew open just as he scraped the last of the eggs onto a plate and slid them in the oven to keep warm.

  “Is he still alive?” Cluny croaked, face as white as the collar around Father Mac’s neck.

  Collin smiled and reached for another cup. “Yeah, bud, he’s alive. May not feel like it, but he is. Acts a lot like he’s got a touch of the flu. Threw up.” He nodded at Father Mac. “Thanks for coming, Father. Coffee?”

  “Bless you, my son. Cluny caught me before I got my first sip.”

  “I’ll have some too. And do I smell toast?” Cluny dropped into a chair at the table, his fears apparently alleviated by hunger.

  “Sorry, bud, but I’m afraid you need to hightail it home.”

  “I ain’t leaving.”

  Collin set a steaming mug in front of Father Mac. “Have to. You can’t risk getting sick.”

  Cluny’s lower lip protruded considerably. “I’m not leaving Brady.”

  “Sorry, but he specifically told me to send you home. You want to upset him when he’s sick?”

  “No, but—”

  Collin tugged him to his feet. “Come on, he’s sicker than the time Miss Hercules ate your gram’s whole roasted turkey. Remember how she puked all over and slept for days? That’s what Brady needs—rest. He’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”

  “Tell him I missed him, will ya?”

  “Will do.” Collin pushed him toward the door.

  Cluny turned, the freckles on his face stark against his pale skin. “
And, Collin?”

  “Yeah, bud?”

  “Tell him I’m praying.”

  Collin blinked, astounded for the hundredth time at the healing effect John Brady had on people’s lives. “He’s lucky to have you as a friend, Cluny.”

  “Shoot, no, Collin. I’m the lucky one.” He turned to go, and Collin shut the door, determined to fight the emotion in his eyes.

  “What happened?” Father Mac asked quietly, his coffee untouched.

  Collin turned and exhaled. He was suddenly exhausted. He grabbed his cup from the counter and sank into a chair across from Matt. “I don’t know, Father, but whatever it was, it was enough to put away a half bottle of vodka.”

  “I didn’t know he even drank anymore.”

  Collin took a sip of his coffee. His eyes locked with Matt’s over the rim. “He doesn’t, not since he was seventeen. Couldn’t even get him to go off the wagon during the war when we took leaves in Paris.” Fear sifted through him. “If the hell of war couldn’t get him to drink, I shudder to think what happened in New York.”

  Father Mac frowned. “He would have seen his stepsister in New York, right?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Helena. She and Michael still live in the house where they all grew up, which is where he stayed, I assume.”

  Matt nodded, his eyes distracted and far away as he sipped his coffee.

  The bathroom door creaked open, and their heads jerked up. They stared, still as stone, as Brady walked into the kitchen, coffee cup limp in his hand. His hygiene considerably improved, he was clean-shaven and hair slicked back, but his eyes were still red and glassy.

  Dead and lifeless, Collin thought, and his stomach twisted. He jumped to his feet. “I have eggs and toast in the oven. More coffee?”

  “No,” Brady muttered and dropped into a chair. His eyes trained on the empty cup in his hand.

  Collin ignored him and filled his cup before topping both his and Father Mac’s. He plunked a plate of eggs and toast onto the table, along with plates and utensils. “Eat,” he said.

  Brady continued to stare, his bleary gaze lost in a sea of bitter coffee. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yeah, well, you need a little something other than vodka to sustain that thick head of yours.”