Brady stared, the meaning in her words soothing his tortured soul like the balm of Gilead.
“It wasn’t until she became sick and accepted the Lord that she confessed and asked my forgiveness. She said she loved you, John, and had hoped the guilt would drive you back to her. But you left instead, and it crushed her. Because you see, she may have married your father, but it was you she fell in love with, no matter the age difference.” Helena’s eyes welled with tears. “She was a twenty-five-year-old woman who had lost her soul. A little girl with a strong penchant for bourbon . . . and her seventeen-year-old stepson. When you told her no, you destroyed her world.”
Brady blinked to diffuse the wetness in his eyes. “No, Helena,” he whispered, “sin destroyed her world, just like it did mine. But our God delivered us. I’m glad Lucille found the truth before she died.”
Helena shuddered. “But Michael hasn’t, John, and my heart grieves for him.”
Brady stroked her cheek, her tears wet against his palm. “Not yet, Helena, but I have hope. Prayer is a powerful thing.”
She nodded and dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief.
Father Mac rose from the sofa. “Helena, we need to be on our way soon. Would you mind if I had a few words with John alone before we leave? I’m sure he’ll walk us out to the car, and you can say your goodbyes then.”
Brady stood and helped her to her feet. She sniffed, and her smile was shaky. “Thank you for understanding, John, and for being such a wonderful brother and friend.” She perched on tiptoe to brush a kiss to his cheek and then gave him a tight hug. “I love you, Johnny.”
He closed his eyes and squeezed her tightly. “I love you too, Helena. Always have.”
She nodded and hurried from the room, leaving Brady to stare after her with a full heart. He turned to Father Mac. “Thanks, Matt. That was the most precious gift you could have given me.”
A ghost of a smile flitted at the edge of Matt’s lips. “Maybe not, John.”
Brady slowly sat down on the corner of Father Hannifin’s desk and folded his arms. He studied Matt with a narrow gaze. “Okay, what’s up the sleeve of your cassock, Matt?”
Father Mac laughed and strolled back to the sofa. He sat down and lounged back with a faint smile on his lips, a telling contrast to his eyes, which were deadly serious. “Lizzie’s free, John.”
Brady’s body stiffened, along with the smile on his face. “It’s too late, Matt.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Brady’s brows shifted a full inch above his eyes, which were wide with disbelief. “Because I’m going to be a priest, or have you forgotten the strings you pulled to get me in here?”
“No, nor the reason you asked me to.”
Brady glared. “I asked because I have a calling.”
Father Mac never blinked. “No, you asked because you were running away.”
Brady gouged the back of his neck in frustration. “Then why the devil did you do it?”
“Because at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. And you would have made a great priest.”
Brady slammed a fist on the desk. “Will make a great priest, Matt! Nothing’s changed.”
“No, nothing’s changed. You still love Lizzie, and you’re still running away.”
Brady swore under his breath and strode to the window.
“That may be a first, John—swearing in the Chancellor’s office.”
There was a note of levity in his tone that Brady didn’t appreciate. He stared out the window, eyes fixed hard on the boys shooting baskets in the empty lot across the street. He was forging relationships with those boys, making a difference in their lives, drawing them to God. Just like he’d done with Cluny. He closed his eyes and saw Gram’s freckle-faced boy, and a pang of homesickness hit him so strong that he bent over at the window, hands white on the sill. No, God, why now?
He forced his eyes open to clear his thoughts, only to spot a man toting boxes out of a small shop across the way. A rush of longing suddenly overwhelmed him to see Collin again, to feel the rumble of his favorite press, to smell the ink and the solvent, and, yes, even to attend one of Miss Ramona’s blasted recitals.
“What’s stopping you, John? Lizzie is all you ever wanted.”
He spun around. “Not anymore.”
Father Mac eyed him from the couch, his gaze penetrating. “You haven’t forgiven her.”
“I have, Matt, I swear it.”
“Then you’re afraid . . . because she hurt you once, and you don’t trust her. And you’d rather run away than risk that again.”
Brady stared, the truth of Matt’s words piercing him to the core. He moved away from the window and slumped into the chair. He exhaled a weary breath. “You know me too well, Matt. I can’t go back there.”
“Never figured you for a coward, John.”
Brady glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Well, maybe you don’t know me so well.”
Father Mac rose to his feet and stretched his arms high overhead. “I know you, John. Too well. Which is why I brought Lizzie here.” He moved toward the side door.
Brady jumped up, his body going numb. “You’re lying!”
Father Mac grinned at the look on his face. He rested a hand on the knob. “Nope, priests aren’t supposed to do that, or haven’t they covered that yet?” He turned the knob and opened the door, shooting Brady a stern look over his shoulder. “Don’t give her any trouble. I got you into this place, I can get you thrown out.” He disappeared into the next room, and Brady felt the floor shift beneath his feet.
“Hello, Brady.”
His pulse took off the moment she stepped through the door. It had been over seven months since he’d seen her, and he wasn’t prepared for the shock of it. No semblance of the little girl he’d once mentored remained in the woman standing before him. She seemed taller and more willowy than he remembered, lips fuller and eyes more violet. Her face had a dewy glow that was uniquely Beth, and her lilac scent carried across the room like a hypnotic drug. He took a step back, for once grateful for the clerical protection of his priestly garb.
“Hello, Beth,” he whispered.
She took a timid step forward and pressed a delicate hand to the scalloped neckline of her blue silk dress. She inclined her head to his cassock and gave him a shy smile. “You look like a priest.”
He sucked in a deep breath and took another step back, resting a hand on top of the wooden chair. “Not yet.”
She nodded and moved forward, closing the distance between them until she hovered behind the chair next to his. Her tone was low, soft. “I’ve missed you.”
He gripped the back of the chair, his hands slick with sweat. “Yeah, I’ve missed . . . Boston.”
She hesitated. Graceful fingers lighted on the back of her chair. “Only Boston?”
He wasn’t sure if it was the seclusion of this hallowed place or the fact that he hadn’t been close to a female in over seven months, but the woman standing two chairs away put the fear of God in him like no seminary ever could. He knew then that Matt had been right. He was running away. And at the moment, he couldn’t do it fast enough. He opted for safety and slowly eased around the desk to sit in Father Hannifin’s chair, fortified by the heavy oak barrier that now stood between them. He drew in a calming breath and forged a bright smile.
“No, of course not. I miss Collin, Cluny, you, and your family.”
His gut tightened when he saw the disappointment in her face. Suddenly she was his Beth again—eyes wide and vulnerable and that full lower lip shifting to the right as if fighting the urge to chew on it. His heart softened and he wanted to vault over that desk and pull her into his arms, stroke her hair, and make the worry go away. But he couldn’t. Not this time. That would only lead her on, and his mind was made up. He’d made a commitment to God.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about Michael.”
She blinked. He was sorry? That she hadn’t married Michael?
H
er lips parted in hurt while her mind swayed at the gamut of emotions swirling through her. After a month of prayer, she believed she’d done the right thing asking Father Mac to bring her here. And when he’d agreed without batting an eye, she felt it confirmed. And yes, she had been nervous, chattering like a magpie on the long drive down, certain that Father Mac would have liked to put her out at the next stop. The wait in the next room had been torturous, just knowing Brady was with Father Mac on the other side of the wall.
Her stomach had fluttered at first sight of him, bonded with a longing so powerful, it weakened her knees. He was far too tall and handsome for a priest to be, his sculpted features tanned and weathered as if he spent hours outside. Or maybe he was just flushed. The cinnamon-colored hair was considerably shorter now, accentuating the clean line of a stubborn jaw. And his dark hazel eyes, usually melting with warmth, seemed more than a bit wary. He was nervous, she knew, judging from the death grip he’d had on the chair, and the realization had infused her with the strength she needed—until he’d distanced himself behind that ridiculous desk. This was the man who had claimed to love her with all his heart? The man who hadn’t wanted a long engagement? And all he could say was . . . he was sorry she hadn’t married Michael?
A mix of embarrassment and anger heated her cheeks and she plopped into the chair, determined to have her say. She drew in a cleansing breath, forcing her emotions to calm. “Don’t be sorry, John, I’m not. I cared for Michael—or the man I thought he was—but I realize now I was just running away.”
He leaned back against the imposing leather wing chair with all the authority of an archbishop. His face was a mask as he studied her, giving nothing away save the slightest shift of a lump in his throat. He positioned his elbows on the armrest and angled his hands like she’d seen Father Mac do, fingers laced teepee-style, as if in a counseling session. Her mouth twitched. Something they obviously taught in the seminary, she thought, quite certain Brady’s “counseling” would not be to her liking. He remained silent.
She scooted to the edge of her chair and folded her hands, garnering the courage to go on. “You see, I was running away from you, John. I think I’ve loved you from the moment we met, and whether it was the infatuation of a little girl or the deeper yearnings of a grown woman . . . my heart was in your hands.” Her gaze dropped to her fingers, clenched tight on the desk. “A dangerous place to be,” she whispered. She heard him shift in his chair and glanced up, heartened at least to see regret in his eyes.
She drew in a deep breath and exhaled, once more avoiding his gaze. “You turned me away more times than I can count, and although I understand why now, I can’t deny that it cut me to the quick, each and every time.” Her eyelids flickered closed, and she felt the emotion working in her throat. “Enough to make me wary . . . and enough to make me vulnerable—to Michael.”
His chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “Beth, please—”
She put a hand up and lowered her head, her closed lids twitching with resolve. “No, John, let me finish . . . please. This is . . . hard enough as it is.”
The chair squealed once again as he eased back, and she inhaled as if sucking in strength. “When you returned from New York and asked me to marry you, I was overjoyed . . . but I was also afraid. My trust was fragile, John, shattered too many times by my own foolish hopes and dreams. But I loved you so much, I thought . . . I hoped . . . that my trust in you would be restored.” She hesitated, then placed a hand to her eyes to shield her face. “When Michael told me about your past, I was devastated, stunned that in all the years I’d opened my heart to you, you never once trusted me with yours. Suddenly all I could think of was that the man I revered and loved since the age of thirteen was not the man I knew at all. In one fell swoop, all my fairy-tale dreams came crashing down, and I ated you for that—for what Michael said you did, for hiding the depravity of your past, for always touting the truth and then keeping it from me.” She shuddered involuntarily, resting a trembling hand on the desk. “But most of all, I hated you for breaking my trust and wounding my soul.”
She felt the warmth of his fingers as he reached for her hand, and his whisper was as taut as the arm he extended across the desk. “I never meant to hurt you, Beth.”
She looked up into his eyes then, and the grief she saw mingled with her own. “I know. And I never meant to hurt you, either. To turn on you like I did.” Her thumb circled tightly around his. “It taught me a lot about myself . . . and a lot about you. About who both of us are.” A faint smile touched her lips. “We’re nothing more than Christians, John—human beings with clay feet and a strong God. You asked for my forgiveness before you left, and now I’m asking for yours.”
Moisture glinted in his eyes. “You’re a woman after God’s own heart, Elizabeth. I’m proud of you.”
She gave him a feeble grin. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”
He pulled his hands from hers and leaned back in his chair. “Forgiven, yes, but never forgotten. Ever.”
Her pulse skipped a beat. Ever? She searched his face for some sign of promise, the faintest glimmer of hope that he would not turn her away again.
She realized she’d stopped breathing and quickly drew in some air. She exhaled. “Good, because I don’t intend to forget you or even try. I’m in love with you, John, and I don’t want to live without you.”
His body went rigid, if possible, even more than before, seated ramrod straight against the spine of the chair. His color faded, and she saw the same press of his jaw she’d witnessed a thousand times, a John Brady trademark that a battle would be waged. He clasped his hands in clerical mode.
“Beth, you know I love you too, but things are different now. I’ve committed my life to God . . .”
An uncommon anger lifted her to her feet, slow and smoldering, like molten lava rising within. “So you’re doing it again . . . turning me away—”
“Beth, please—”
“Even though you love me and we were meant for each other.”
“No, Beth, I was meant to be here. God is the only thing I want.”
She flinched. So he wasn’t going to make this easy? Fine. Neither would she. She pressed both palms flat on the desk and leaned in, her eyes scorching his. “That’s a barefaced lie, and in a Chancellor’s office too. God is not the only thing you want, and we both know it.”
He rose. “I don’t want to have this conversation, Beth. My mind’s made up.”
“Good. Then let’s set conversation aside.” She shoved a chair out of the way and rounded the desk, too miffed to smile at the look of disbelief on his face.
He stumbled against the chair. “What are you doing?”
“Proving a point,” she said with heat in her tone.
Charity was right. A kiss was the only thing this man would understand, the only thing that would remind him that he loved her, wanted her. And as sure as the shock on his face, she knew his desires were not just limited to God. And once she got her hands on him, he was going to know it too. When it came to seduction, she may not be Charity, but she did have one advantage over John Morrison Brady. She knew his weakness, his Achilles’ heel. Her lips pressed tight as she focused on his mouth. She lunged, and the mouth in question parted in surprise.
He grunted and wedged the swivel chair between them, jowls clamped tighter than a mule’s. “For God’s sake, woman, think what you’re doing! I’m wearing the garb of a priest.”
“And the mantle of a coward, but that’s not going to stop me, either.” She hunched over the chair, fingers gripped tight on the arms. “One kiss, John, that’s all it will take to send me home.”
She tried to jerk the chair to the side, but he only clutched it to him, his breathing keeping pace with hers. “Stop it, Elizabeth! I don’t want this.”
“Then prove it. If that’s true, one kiss will tell me.”
He stared, fingers pinched hard on the leather and knuckles strained white as his face.
He paused too long
and she sprang. She hurled the chair from her path and clutched him. He staggered against the windowsill with a hiss of his breath, and she fell against him, welded to his waist. His scent teased her—peppermint and soap and the hint of a basketball game—and the warmth of longing replaced the heat of her anger. He tried to pry her away, but she pressed in, melding her body to his.
“I love you, John, and you love me.”
“Beth, stop!” She heard the fury in his voice and felt it in his grip. His fingers dug in as he forced her to arm’s length. She blinked several times, and cold reality wrung hot tears from her eyes. In one depleted breath, she sagged in his grasp. A sob wrenched from her throat and she listed to the side.
She had lost.
He relaxed his hold. “Beth, you’ll get over this, you will.” His voice, soft and low, only caused her to cry harder.
She started to turn away and he tugged her to him in one feather-light motion. He wrapped his arms around her and soothed her with gentle rocking, like he had done in all the tragedies of her life. She closed her eyes and allowed the pain of loss to finally have its way.
“I love you, little buddy, and always will. But God has someone better for you than me.”
“There . . . is . . . n-no one better than y-you,” she heaved.
He reached in his pocket and handed her his handkerchief, lifting her chin with his thumb. His lips quirked, but there was pain in his gaze. “It’s time for you to go,” he said softly. He pushed the hair back from her eyes.
Lizzie’s lip quivered. He bent to kiss her forehead, and a blur of black cotton swam before her. She closed her eyes and felt his lips against her brow, just like that night on the porch so long ago. Her breath stilled. One kiss, Charity had said . . . that’s all it would take.
A Passion Denied Page 44