Husband Potential Read online

  “Make no mistake, Andre,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Your mother was the unselfish one. She deliberately chose not to tell me she was pregnant because in her heart, she knew of my desire to serve God. Otherwise why wouldn’t I have married her rather than enroll in the seminary in the first place?

  “In the end, your Aunt Maudelle did something even more unselfish. Despite her shortcomings and her jealousy, she raised you to be a wonderful man.”

  “She didn’t even have me christened with your name, Father.”

  “That wasn’t her fault. I’m sure she and your mother decided you should bear your mother’s name so there would be no scandal attached to my family name. Don’t you see? They wanted to protect me.

  “But Benet is a very fine name. Your mother’s name. Be proud of it. Oh, Andre— I don’t deserve such a blessing, but I do know God will reward Maudelle who must have secretly loved you like her own child. Just look at you!”

  He stared at Andre out of loving eyes. “I am so proud of you. You’ve been everywhere, done everything. You’re so knowledgeable about everything, you speak other languages. You’ve acquired a formal education, and have invested your money wisely. No man could ask for a finer son. I’ve told the brothers that you are my true-born son. I want to shout it to the world!”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Father. No one need have known. I never meant to bring you shame.”

  “Shame?” He sounded truly angry. “You don’t understand! Why would I hide anything as miraculous as my own flesh and blood from the brothers I have served all these years? I’ve told them that when I’m gone, I want you to be free to stay here for as long as you like. This can be your home when you want it to be.

  “I’m not a man of the world. I can’t leave you a shop or a farm. I own nothing. But I can give you a quiet place of repose where you can come to be alone, to ponder. I see only one thing lacking in you. You’ve learned everything except the meaning of life. Maybe one day you’ll find it here. Then you’ll enjoy the peace which has eluded you for so long.”

  Andre marveled at his father’s insight and grasped the frail hand reaching for his. When he heard his father sob, it was like a dam bursting. Andre broke down and wept with him.

  “Andre?” he whispered some time later. “I know what’s in your heart. Besides the confusion and anger you feel against me, your mother, your Aunt Maudelle, you have questions. I’ll try my best to answer them all.

  “But you must promise me something in return.” Another battle for breath wracked his body.

  “Andre—promise me you’ll not let anger and bitterness rule your life!”

  His father was asking the impossible, but with Death holding her jaws open wide, Andre didn’t see he had a choice and gave his newly found parent the one promise he couldn’t imagine keeping.

  Fran couldn’t believe it was the middle of May already. Friday was the deadline for the July issue, and she still had to make that trip out to Clarion today to visit some of the descendants of the first Jewish settlers to the state and get pictures.

  “Line two for you, Frannie.”

  “I can’t take it right now, Paula.”

  “But the man called five times yesterday.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He wouldn’t leave it. I told him you would be in for a few minutes this morning and now I’ve run out of excuses.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  She hated it when people refused to be called back, as if she lived to answer their phone calls. Pushing the hair away from her face, she put the receiver to her ear. “Fran Mallory here.”

  “Ms. Mallory. At last.”

  Fran recognized that voice.

  Without volition her body started to tremble for a variety of reasons she couldn’t explain. One thing was certain. Trappist monk or no, she refused to help him out. If that was uncharitable, then so be it. He’d been horrible to her.

  “Yes?” came her sharp reply.

  “I deserved that.”

  The unexpected olive branch caused her eyes to close tightly. Never in her life had she met a person less like a monk, even if she hadn’t personally known one.

  “If the Abbot is well enough to handle an interview, you should be talking to Paul Goates. It’s his story.”

  “I understand he’s on vacation. If you still want to do the article, come to the monastery now.”

  The line went dead.

  She held the receiver in front of her and let out a cry of frustration before banging it down on the hook.

  “Come to the monastery now,” she mimicked him in a Darth Vader voice. Who did he think he was? The divine vessel?

  “Talking to yourself again, Frannie? You know what that’s a sign of,” Paul baited her.

  Paul!

  She swung around in her swivel chair. “What are you doing here?”

  The short blond journalist blinked. “Last I knew, I happened to work here.”

  “But you’re on vacation.”

  “I am? Did Barney finally give me a break? Now? When we’re this close to the deadline? That’s news to me.”

  “That monk from the monastery just called and said I should come for the interview right now. He said you were out of town.”

  “I was. Yesterday.” Paul broke out in a grin. “That monk must want to see you again. If you can’t imagine how hard up they are for the sight of a good-looking woman, I can.”

  Paul was wrong. The particular monk in question didn’t like women. She had firsthand knowledge of that salient fact.

  “Well, I’m certainly not going back there again when it’s your story, Paul.”

  “Ah, come on. Give the poor guy a break.” He winked. “Besides, I’m due at the Dinosaur Museum out in Vernal by noon to get pictures on that new set of Brontosaurus fossils for the July edition. And don’t forget, you’ve already taken outside photos of the monastery.

  “They were fabulous, by the way. In fact some of those wide-angled lens shots capturing the mountains were inspired. It’s all yours with my blessing, Frannie baby.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she muttered, not in the least happy about the sudden change in plans. She almost dreaded seeing him again, though in her heart of hearts she had to admit the monk fascinated her. He made her feel things she’d never felt before and couldn’t put a name to. The only saving grace was the fact that she’d be in the Abbot’s company for the duration of the interview.

  As for the monk, she could pray he wouldn’t be anywhere around. If she did happen to bump into him, she would pretend he wasn’t alive.

  But a half hour later she had to recant those words when she discovered him waiting for her in the parking lot of the monastery grounds. Before the car had even come to a stop, the adrenaline was surging through her veins.

  He opened the door on the driver’s side and took the camera case from her. Heat suffused her face as she felt his glance on her long, shapely legs where her dress had ridden up. She quickly got out of the car, noticing that he was dressed in the same dark work pants and matching shirt he’d worn the other day.

  On her first visit, she hadn’t realized how tan he was. The gift shop had been too dim. In the strong sunlight, his skin looked burnished to teak, witness of the many hours he spent in the out-of-doors. His dark aquiline features and strong, hard-muscled body took her breath. Embarrassed to be caught staring, she averted her eyes.

  “You must have surpassed the speed limit to have arrived here this fast, Ms. Mallory.”

  “I’m on a deadline. This stop is only one of several I have to make today, but I suppose that to you it’s another sin you can lay at my feet.”

  “Another?”

  “No doubt you’ve compiled a long list by now.”

  “Why would I do that?” He shut the door for her.

  “Why, indeed. Is the Abbot waiting inside?”

  “No. He passed away four days after your visit.”

  Fran let out a shocked gasp. “I don’t underst
and. Why didn’t you tell me this when you phoned?”

  “Why?” He stroked his strong chin. “Surely his death could mean nothing to you. You’ll still get your story.”

  She turned on the monk, her hands curled into fists. “How can you say that? Paul told me that over the phone he came across as a wonderful, delightful person. I was looking forward to meeting him and am very saddened by the news.”

  “I stand rebuked,” he murmured.

  She swallowed hard. As an apology, it wasn’t much. But obviously this monk had never developed any social graces.

  “I understand he was the Abbot here for over thirty years. Being that you monks live in such a close community, I can only assume that he’ll be terribly missed.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  He gave a careless, yet elegant shrug of his shoulders. “Not at all. On the contrary, I shall miss him more than you know,” he said in a raw voice that oddly enough lent credence to his words. Maybe the Abbot’s illness and death had brought out the worst in him.

  Hadn’t she read somewhere that nuns and monks weren’t supposed to become attached to each other? In Fran’s mind, a person would have to be pretty inhuman not to care.

  “Father Ambrose honored me by asking if I would handle this interview in his place.”

  Something was going on here. Some strange undercurrent she didn’t understand, but she had no desire to fence further with this enigmatic monk.

  “Our magazine would love to honor him and his memory.”

  “Tell me about the magazine you work for, Ms. Mallory.”

  “We print a monthly publication that sells Utah to the world. We do in-depth articles on geographical locations of interest, history, religion, industry, recreational sites, people.”

  “Why a story on the monastery after all these years?”

  “We want to devote an issue to Utah, then and now. It will include stories about the diverse groups of people still here today who can trace their roots back to pioneer times.

  “As I understand it, this monastery got its start in the 1860s, but the first wooden structure burned to the ground from a lightning strike. I researched enough to find out that it didn’t become a truly self-sufficient community until a hundred years later when Abbot Ambrose was sent here. Now it’s a place of beauty and a sanctuary for those who visit as well as those who make up its religious community.”

  “I’m impressed you know that much about it. I suggest we start the interview by taking a walk through the orchards.”

  For the first time since they’d met, he seemed a little less defensive. This in turn helped her to relax somewhat. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll turn on my tape recorder as we talk.”

  He nodded. She had to walk fast to keep up with his long strides. He moved with an effortless male grace she couldn’t help admiring. “Were the orchards his idea?”

  “Yes, those and the beehives, both of which brought in enough revenue from their homemade honey butter and preserves to purchase more land and sustain the community without any funds from the outside.”

  “Where did he get his recipes?”

  “The Abbot grew up in Louisiana. He had a friend whose mother cooked for a wealthy white family who owned one of the plantations and used it to entertain friends on the weekend. Apparently the boys would watch her make jam and honey butter. He brought the secret of good old Southern cooking with him.”

  “The honey butter is fabulous. I often buy it. What a fantastic story. Oh, I would have loved to have talked to the Abbot in person.”

  “He was far too ill at the end to grant anyone an interview. But I can tell you this much. When he arrived here thirty years ago, there was nothing but a Quonset hut left over from World War II set on a plot of ground filled with rocks and weeds.”

  She stopped in her tracks and looked out over the lush vista before her, snapping photo after photo of the brothers at work. Slowly her eyes traveled to the monastery itself. “The rocks in the facade—”

  “All of it local stone. Each one was manually hoisted and carried by the monks to build the new structure. It was a painstaking, tedious process. A labor of love that took many years.”

  “The Abbot had vision to make this all work,” she surmised aloud. “What a remarkable monk. Are there any photos showing the way it looked when he first started building the new chapel?”

  “There are a few, but they’re not in very good condition.”

  “We have an expert on the staff who does excellent restoration work. Would you trust me with them? If not, I can consult someone at the Utah Historical Society and see what they have on hand.”

  “I see no reason why you can’t borrow them.”

  Secretly Fran was delighted. For some odd reason she wanted this article to be exceptional.

  “Is it permitted to take any pictures inside the church?”

  “You can take photos in several places. From the loft where the public is allowed to witness the mass, you should be able to get your best shots of the altar. He had the small Pieta specially commissioned from Florence, Italy.”

  “I’ve seen it before. It’s exquisite. Do you think I could take pictures of it as well as the Abbot’s grave? I presume he’s buried on the property. I’d like a picture of his headstone to finish the article and entitle it, ‘Monument to a saint.’”

  The monk’s expression sobered. In a quiet voice he said, “The community cemetery is behind the monastery.”

  For the next hour Fran plied him with questions as they toured the grounds, the kitchen, the library which the Abbot used for his personal study, and the inner sanctuary. Naturally the monks’ dormitory was off limits.

  When they reached the gift store, she took more pictures, then bought honey butter and pear jam to give to her family. She also took some free literature which contained facts she would intersperse in the article.

  “I have one more favor to ask.” He had walked her out to the car. The time had flown and she found herself reluctant to leave. “You’ve let me photograph your brothers. May I take one last picture of you on the chapel steps?”

  “No.”

  It was unequivocal and final.

  A wave of disappointment swept through her but she determined not to show it. What’s wrong with you, Fran? He’s a monk, for heaven’s sake!

  Forcing a smile she looked up at him. “You’ve been more generous with your time and information than I would have expected. I’ll leave so you can get back to your duties. I-I never realized how hard you work, how busy you are.”

  She knew she was talking too fast, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever she got nervous, the words sort of tumbled out.

  “This has been an education for me. I know it will make fascinating reading for thousands of people. When the proofs are ready, I’ll call you and show you a mockup of the layout for your approval.”

  “When will that be?”

  She had to think fast. There was still the drive to Clarion to fit in. If she worked late—

  “Day after tomorrow.” Deadline day. “Probably nine o’clock. Will that be convenient for you?”

  “I’ll be in the gift store.”

  I know.

  That’s the problem. I’m afraid I’m not going to forget.

  What excuse will I have for showing up here after the article has been published and you’ve been furnished a copy?

  “All this time and you’ve never told me the name you go by.”

  His features closed up. “It’s not important.”

  He held the driver’s door open so she was forced to get in. When he shut it, he said, “I’ve been following Father Ambrose’s instructions. Just pretend he was the one giving you the interview. God will forgive this one lie.”

  Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. His words implied that God wouldn’t forgive anything else.

  Was it a warning?

  Had he sensed her natural attraction to him? Had
he felt it from the first moment they’d met?

  If he worked in the gift shop, how many female visitors to the monastery had been drawn to his dark looks and undeniable masculine appeal? Is that why he’d been so rude to her?

  Mortified that this might be the case, she refused to look at him and drove away, her face on fire. But as she rounded the curve at the bottom of the drive, she couldn’t help looking in the rearview mirror one last time. He wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “AUNT MAUDELLE? What was my daddy like?”

  “How do I know. Your mother went with a lot of different men. All I can say is, he wasn’t around when you were born.”

  “I made her die, huh.”

  “Not on purpose. Now stop asking questions and finish the dishes. It’s time for bed and I’m tired. We’ve got to go to mass in the morning.”

  “What’s mass?”

  “Church.”

  “I don’t like church. It’s spooky.”

  “You’re not supposed to like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Duty is different than pleasure. It builds character.”

  “What’s character?”

  “It’s doing something you don’t want to do.”

  “Then why do we have to do it?”

  “Why? Because God said so.”

  “What’s God?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I know who Mary is.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s Jesus’s mommy. He was lucky ’cause he got to see her all the time.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Pierre. I wish I could see my mommy.”

  “Well you can’t, so stop fussing about it.”

  “Okay.”

  Andre came awake from his bad dreams with a jerk. His skin glistened with perspiration. He checked his watch. It was four-thirty in the morning.

  He levered himself from the cot in the sparsely furnished room used by guests of the monastery. Pouring water into a bowl, he sluiced his face with the cold liquid, then raked his hands through his hair to steady them.