A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  With a heavy sigh, she rose from her bed and traipsed to the window, drawn by the solace of an inky sky studded with stars and a ribbon of moonlight. She donned her robe and slippers, then tiptoed from the room and down the stairs, grimacing as they squeaked on her descent. Unwilling to evoke painful memories, she avoided the front porch altogether and made her way through the kitchen and out the back door. She sank into the porch swing with a broken sob, overcome with one single thought: I’ve ruined my life forever.

  The sounds of night with its crooning crickets and hooting owls was suddenly disrupted by the creak of the back door. “Trouble sleeping again, darlin’?”

  Lizzie’s head jolted up. “Father, did I waken you?”

  He quietly shut the screen door and settled down beside her. He hooked an arm around her shoulder and tucked her close. “No, Lizzie, I was up. Couldn’t sleep, either.” He rested his head against hers and released a weary breath. “Because of you.”

  She burrowed into his hold and swiped at the tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Father, but I’m trying to be happy, really I am.”

  “I know, darlin’, but I guess it seems pretty impossible right about now, doesn’t it?”

  With a nod of her head, she sighed against his shoulder. She felt the rise and fall of his chest as he drew in a deep breath and exhaled again. When he finally spoke, his voice was tender and low. “Believe it or not, darlin’, that’s how it was for me when I cut myself off from your mother last year. It was like a slow death, Lizzie. Everything was a struggle—living, breathing, sleeping.”

  “I know, I remember how awful it was for all of us, especially you and Mother.” She hesitated for several seconds. “What changed, Father . . . to turn it all around?”

  His deep chuckle vibrated against her cheek. “Your mother’s bulldog tenacity in loving me and forgiving me in the face of my anger. Despite the fact that I treated her horribly, she never stopped trusting God nor applying his precepts, not once. If she had given in to her own anger and bitterness, I shudder to think what might have happened. But she knew she couldn’t, that she had to be strong, because I couldn’t be. I was too steeped in sin.”

  Lizzie pulled away to study his face. “Sin?”

  He nodded and exhaled. “Anger and bitterness. I tried my best to forgive her, to let it go, but I couldn’t seem to do it, no matter how much I prayed.”

  Her sigh was heavy. “I know the feeling. I’ve been praying for a month now that God would heal my broken heart and give me joy again, but I can’t seem to shake this gloom.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “And you’ve forgiven Brady and Michael and Helena, correct?”

  “Completely. I’ll admit, it took some time to let my anger toward Michael go, but I honestly feel that I have.”

  “So your heart is free of sin, then?”

  “I think so.”

  “That’s good, darlin’, because the Bible says that if we regard iniquity in our hearts, the Lord will not hear our prayers.” He paused. “Are you feeling sorry for yourself, then?”

  Lizzie blinked. Her cheek twitched against the smooth cotton of her father’s robe. She didn’t answer.

  “Because if you are,” he continued in a quiet tone, “that could be your culprit. I learned that the hard way with your mother. No matter how hard I prayed to forgive her and let go, I couldn’t seem to do it. Finally realized I was weighted down under a mountain of self-pity. Trouble is, it’s one of those sins nobody thinks about. Insidious, but it will take you down, Lizzie, trust me.”

  She sighed. “I guess I’ve been mired in it for the last month, haven’t I?”

  He chuckled. “Keep in mind that I still hold the record, little girl. Almost two months before I saw the light. Don’t wait that long, Lizzie. Exchange that poor-me attitude for a heart of gratitude. You have good friends and a family who love you more than you can imagine. And someday, you’ll have a good man too.” He kissed her head again and rose to his feet. “Now we best be getting some sleep, I think, or we’ll both be feeling a wee bit sorry for ourselves come morning. You coming?”

  Lizzie looked up. “In a bit, Father. But first, I think I need some time alone.”

  “Don’t be too late. You don’t want to be dragging in the morning.”

  He turned to go, and all at once, the sight of his tall, sturdy frame flooded her with a profound sense of peace and gratitude. He was her father, faithful and true, loving her, protecting her . . . no matter what.

  Just like God.

  Her heart swelled with love for the tired man before her. “Daddy, wait!” She jumped to her feet and clutched him tightly about the waist, tears of joy stinging her eyes. “Oh, Daddy, I love you so much.”

  His strong arms swallowed her up in a voracious hug, and the waver in his voice matched hers to a quiver. “And I you, darlin’, and I you. Now you say your prayers, Lizzie, then hustle yourself upstairs and get some sleep, eh?” He tweaked her chin. “And while you’re at it, say a few for me, darlin’. Morning’s looking awfully close.”

  20

  “Father! Troll Face is cheating again.”

  Brady hesitated, arms extended midair and fingers poised on the basketball, trying to decide what was more important at the moment—correcting Leroy for the twentieth time or making the shot. His jaw shifted to the right and he let the ball go, allowing it to arc into the net with a satisfying swoosh. A chorus of groans echoed throughout the weedy blacktop parking lot of St. Mary’s Seminary, and Brady hung his head, his satisfaction short-lived. Good job, “Father,” he thought to himself, you just trounced a group of ten-year-olds.

  Brady palmed the ball and tucked it under his arm, wondering if it was unseasonably warm for late May or if he was just out of shape from lack of Clancy’s gym the past seven months. He squinted up at the sweltering sun and silently bemoaned the ill-fitting black cassock he wore, longing for the cool comfort of one of his old, ragged T-shirts. It was one of the few things he disliked about this place—this dismal one-piece garb, too tight and too hot to suit him.

  A cool breeze ruffled the back of his head and he closed his eyes, taking in the sounds of Baltimore. He was grateful for the diversion of a city street littered with wild weeds and even wilder children. The blare of horns and laughter merged with the fresh smell of bread and asphalt, creating an atmosphere that took him far away from the pain of printer’s ink, lilac water, and Pears soap.

  Most of the time.

  A thundercloud edged over the sun, and he opened his eyes to shadows that matched those in his mind. He took a deep breath and proceeded to roll the sleeves of his cassock, biting back a grin as he studied the tragic face of Leroy Davis. “Leroy, if I hear the name Troll Face one more time, you’re off the court for a week. Understood?”

  “But, Father—” The whites of Leroy’s eyes went wide, contrasting sharply with the deep ebony of his skin, which now glistened with a sheen of sweat.

  “Understood?” Brady repeated. He latched a palm to the back of Leroy’s neck in playful coercion, tickling until Leroy squirmed with giggles.

  “Yes, Father,” Leroy croaked.

  Brady let go, shaking his head. It did no good to remind these street urchins that he hadn’t earned that title just yet. To them, he was Father Brady, basketball hero in priestly garb, and there was little he could say to change that. He glanced at his watch. “Good, then we have time for another game before I have to go in.”

  “I’m on Father’s team this time.” Timothy “Troll Face” Troller started to hop in the air with considerable agility given a pudgy body that sported more freckles than pounds. “I’m sick of losing.”

  “Yeah, ten years is a long time to be a loser.” Jerome “Geronimo” Blackwell flicked the back of Timothy’s sweat-soaked head.

  “Ow! Father, he hit me—”

  Brady leveled a stern gaze in Jerome’s direction, causing the lanky boy to shoot a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Father.”

  Brady cocked a hip. “I’m n
ot the one you flicked, Jerome.”

  “Yeah, I am!” Timothy folded balloon-size arms across a barrel chest and waited, his freckles bunched in a frown.

  With a roll of his eyes, Jerome puffed out a sigh. “Sorry, Troll Fa—”

  Brady angled a brow.

  “Sorry, Tim.”

  Brady handed the ball to Timothy and winked. “Okay, Tim, you and Murphy are captains . . . and you pick first.”

  “No fair, Father, he’ll pick you!” Murphy wailed.

  “Yeah, and Murphy’ll pick me,” Jerome moaned.

  Brady rolled his neck and laughed. “It’s just a game, boys, not life and death. We’ll go easy on you, I promise.”

  “Speak for yourself, Father, I plan to crush them like a—” “John!”

  Brady glanced up to see Father Hannifin waving from the second-story window of the brick seminary on the other side of Paca Street. The priest leaned out the window and put a hand to his mouth.

  “You have a visitor. You can take it in my study.”

  Brady blinked, then waved his acknowledgment. Had to be Father Mac. No one else even knew he was here. His jaw tightened. He had wanted a clean break. No letters, no contact, no memories. Father Mac had argued with him, but Brady had insisted. A frown puckered his brow. Then why was Matt here?

  Brady tapped Timothy on the head. “Okay, bud, I gotta go, so it’s all yours. You still get first pick.” He gave Jerome the evil eye. “And I want the names of anybody who gives you any trouble, okay?”

  “You coming back, Father?” Timothy asked with hopeful eyes.

  “Not today, bud, but I’ll see you all tomorrow, same time, same place.” He ruffled Tim’s hair. “Make sure you return the ball to Father Lopez before you head home, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brady sprinted toward the door, shooting a grin over his shoulder. “And practice hard. I expect someone to take me on one of these days.”

  Brady waited for a Model T to putter by before crossing the street, his thoughts in a jumble as he shot in the back door and vaulted the steps two at a time. He was huffing when he finally reached Father Hannifin’s study. He paused, hands on his knees to catch his breath, then knocked on the door.

  “Come on in, John.”

  Father Hannifin stood at his desk with a smile on his face that didn’t quite match the concern in his eyes or the serious slope of his brows. Brady’s eyes flicked from the elderly chancellor to Father Mac, who sat on a divan across the room.

  Matt stood to his feet and walked over. He pumped Brady’s hand with a solid grip. “John, it’s good to see you.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “And good to see you’re sharpening your basketball skills with such keen competition.”

  Brady’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “Hate to tell you, Father, but the competition here is actually a step up.”

  Father Mac laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “You look good, John. Seminary life must agree with you.”

  Brady glanced at Father Hannifin with a smile. “Well, it’s not easy by a long shot, but I think I’m holding my own.”

  “Well, if you two don’t mind, I have a class to attend to.” Father Hannifin picked up a portfolio and rounded his desk to shake Matt’s hand. “It’s been good to visit with you again, Matt. Are you sure you can’t stay the night?”

  “I wish I could, but I need to get back. It’s a long drive to Boston, so I’ll leave right after I speak with John.”

  Father Hannifin nodded, then glanced at John as he headed for the door. “Take your time. I’ll let Father Lyons know you won’t make class this afternoon.” He slipped out a side door and closed it with a somber click.

  Father Mac sat down on one of two wooden chairs in front of the chancellor’s desk and angled toward Brady.

  Brady followed suit and drew in a deep breath. “I’m glad to see you, Matt, but why are you here?”

  Father Mac ignored the question. He pursed his lips and studied Brady’s face for a moment. “Are you happy here, John?”

  Happy? Brady sank back and forced a smile, forearms flat on the arms of the chair. “As happy as I can be, given what’s happened. I think a better word to describe how I feel is peace. I can honestly say I’m at peace for the first time in my life.”

  “No grudges, then?”

  Brady closed his eyes and began to massage the bridge of his nose. Grudges? Toward Michael for betraying him? Toward Lizzie for not loving him? Hurt that felt the size of a basketball bobbed in his throat. He opened his eyes and managed a smile. “I’m working on it . . . and praying like a fiend.”

  The corners of Father Mac’s mouth flickered.

  “So! Since you’re here, how is Boston?”

  Father Mac propped elbows on the arms of the chair, hands tented. He assessed Brady through hooded eyes. “You mean, how’s Beth?”

  Brady flinched. Just the sound of her name produced a slash of sadness that unnerved him completely. He stood to his feet and wandered to the window, struggling to keep his voice light. “And Collin, and Cluny and all the rest.”

  Father Mac chuckled. “Well, Collin and Cluny are fine, of course. Collin’s taken Cluny under his wing since you left, which is a good thing because now Cluny actually wins at basketball.”

  Brady grinned out the window.

  “But Beth . . . Lizzie . . . well, she’s fine too, I suppose . . .”

  Brady stared, his heart slowing to the pace of the watery wisps of clouds easing across the pewter sky. “So, marriage agrees with her then.”

  Matt’s tone was hesitant. “Well, not marriage so much as . . . the escape of it.”

  The words moved in Brady’s brain in slow motion, like the clouds drifting before him. He turned. His eyes locked on Matt’s. “The escape of it? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means she didn’t marry Michael.”

  Brady blinked. Relief flooded him against his will. “Why not?”

  Father Mac’s gaze never wavered from his. “Because the day of the wedding, your stepsister Helena told Lizzie that Michael’s been cheating on her all along and had no intention of stopping after they were married.”

  He felt the blood leach from his face. “Dear God, no . . .”

  “So Lizzie called the wedding off while Collin and Mitch sent Michael packing.” Father Mac’s lips twisted. “And none too gently, I understand.”

  Brady sagged into the chair with a sick feeling in his gut. He dropped his head into his hand. “God help her, she must hate us. Deceived by both Bradys.”

  Father Mac cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s all three.”

  Brady looked up. “What?”

  Father Mac turned in the chair to stare at Brady dead on. The concern in his eyes tightened Brady’s throat. “You see, Helena deceived Lizzie too. She allowed her to believe she was someone else.”

  Brady squinted, trying to make sense of Matt’s words. “What are you saying?”

  Father Mac spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice just above a whisper. “I’m saying that Mary Carpenter is Helena Brady.”

  Brady’s mind reeled. Mary? His stepsister? But how could that be? His thoughts flashed back to the day she first walked into the shop, and the truth of it hit him full force. Helena. The same golden hair, gentle spirit, and haunted eyes he’d seen in her as a child seemed all too obvious now. He closed his eyes, seeing her thirst for God and her kinship with him. The image of their hug on the couch the night Cluny had found them suddenly burned in his mind. Heat surged up his neck. Lord, no!

  He felt Father Mac’s touch, gentle on his arm. “John, you didn’t know. And you didn’t act on it.”

  He swallowed and nodded. “Then who . . . was the woman in New York?”

  “A girlfriend of Michael’s, apparently. He set the whole thing up to play on your guilt in an effort to keep you away from Lizzie. But Helena’s here with me now. She wants to see you— to ask forgiveness—and to give you a precious gift.”

  Brady looked up, his
eyes moist with shock. “A gift?”

  Father Mac rose and gripped Brady’s shoulder. “The truth, my friend.” He moved to the side door and opened it, nodding to someone in the next room.

  Brady stood to his feet.

  Mary stepped through the door, and he struggled to fight the emotion welling in his chest. She came and stood before him, hands pinched in a tight clasp. Her chin seemed to quiver as she looked up at him. “Oh, John . . .”

  His heart squeezed in his chest, and he heaved her up in his arms with little regard for the tears streaming his own face. “Oh, Helena, I’ve missed you!”

  “John, all those years, I’ve never stopped thinking about you.” They clung for several moments while Helena’s weeping filled the room.

  Father Mac gently tugged on her arm, indicating the chair next to Brady. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Helena as she sat down, then quirked a brow at Brady. “You have your own, I trust?”

  Brady produced his from the pocket of his cassock, feeling pretty foolish as he wiped his eyes. “This thing lacks comfort and is as hot as the devil, but at least it has deep pockets.”

  Father Mac grinned. “You’re not here for the wardrobe, John.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s not exactly a selling point, Father.” He took Helena’s hand and smiled. “You’re beautiful, Helena. I always knew you would be.”

  She blushed. “Not on the inside. Not until you.”

  It was his turn to blush.

  She laid her hand on top of his. “I’m sorry, John. Sorry it took me so long to confirm to you what I already know. You’re a man of principle. Something I knew nothing about until I met you for the second time. If only . . . if only I hadn’t deceived you, maybe all of this could have been avoided. Forgive me, John, please.”

  He lifted her chin with his finger. “Helena, we share the same past. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. All that matters now is that the blood of Christ has set us both free.”

  A smile quivered on her lips. “No, John, that’s not all that matters. The truth matters, and I want you to know it.” She paused and drew in a deep breath, her eyes finally meeting his. “That night that I found you and Mother fighting in your room . . . I want you to know that what she accused you of didn’t happen. She confessed it to me before she died. Said she wanted to hurt you as badly as you had hurt her, and when she found you passed out, she took a gamble that you wouldn’t remember much of what went on. So she lied.” Mary leaned forward and put a gentle hand on Brady’s arm. “Nothing happened, John, I swear.”