loved the Rocky Mountains. He loved growing things. A flower, a four-leaf clover, those were miracles to him. He craved the stability of one location. A simple man with simple tastes who liked to work with his hands and accepted his daily lot without question. A cheerful, obedient, temperate individual who didn’t need a woman. A man who believed God existed.
How could Andre have come from such a man?
For that matter, how could he have come from a mother who had no schooling past the eighth grade, who had no dreams, who was forced to go to mass once a week and was content to sew dresses for wealthy ladies?
According to his father she was a beautiful young woman who had many admirers, but fell in love with a man who wanted to be a monk. None of it made sense to Andre.
Possibly this was how some adopted children felt when they learned about the lives of their birth parents. They simply couldn’t relate.
He wiped his jaw with a towel, noting the rasp of his beard. A shave was in order. He’d get cleaned up when it was time to meet with Ms. Mallory at nine. Once he had approved the layout of her article, he would send for a taxi and head for the airport.
No matter how kind the brothers had been, he was a stranger here. It was time to move on.
However, as long as he had come to the States, he decided now would be the right time to fly to Los Angeles and sign on a freighter making runs to Alaska, a place he had never visited. New sights were what he needed. For the time being, he craved the open sea, particularly the calm, sunny waters of the Pacific.
At a loose end, he decided to dress and join the brothers out in the orchard. They were up and on the job by five. Three or four hours of hard labor would make the time go faster. In the mood he was in, a book wouldn’t hold him. It was better to keep physically busy so he wouldn’t think.
Throughout Andre’s extensive travels he’d met many exotic, mysterious women. He’d had relationships with several of them. But living at the monastery with his ailing father had been a different proposition altogether.
Apart from being at sea for long periods with the men, he supposed this was the longest time he had ever gone without having the slightest interest in a woman. Therefore he had to assume that Ms. Mallory’s image kept intruding because unlike the other female visitors to the monastery, he linked her presence with his father and knew she would be back to finish up the interview.
Four hours later the woman in question walked into the gift shop with a large folder tucked beneath her arm. Andre was not pleased to discover that he’d been listening for her footsteps. Nor was he very happy about the sudden race of his pulse when he finally acknowledged her presence.
So much for following in his celibate father’s footsteps.
She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. But there was something different about her. Even in the dim light, she glowed with health, as if she’d brought the essence of the day with her. That had to be the missing ingredient in the others.
“Good morning.” Her voice had taken on a husky tone that reached to his insides.
“Ms. Mallory. Go ahead and lay it on the counter.” He moved a few jars to make room.
She opened the folder, then turned it to face him. “As you can see, there’s a colored picture of Father Ambrose at the head of the article. The archives department of the Catholic administrative offices donated it.
“I understand it was taken at least twenty years ago. He was a very handsome man in his robes. You’ve been so kind to allow us to do the article, I had the original framed as a gift for the monastery. It’s m—the magazine’s way of thanking you for your time.”
Andre caught the brief slip she’d made before she propped the framed picture on the counter next to the folder. His thoughts reeled as he stared into the burnished face and dark blue eyes of the man who had sired him.
One look erased the haunting memory of the much older, worn-out monk who had struggled with every breath until he’d died in Andre’s arms.
Ms. Mallory had spoken the truth.
In his father’s younger days, he’d been a good-looking man. He stood tall in his monkly vestments, and appeared very distinguished. An unexpected rush of filial pride shook Andre to the core.
Those leaf-green eyes of hers darted him an anxious glance. “I-Is it all right?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes,” came the gruff response. Andre no longer felt the desire to bait her, particularly not when she’d given him a gift beyond price.
There was a slight hesitation before she murmured, “Please— take your time looking over the article and pictures. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back shortly.”
He didn’t know if she was just being sensitive to his mood, or if she needed to use the ladies’ room, but he was grateful for a few minutes alone.
Once she’d left, he read every word, marveling over her grasp of his father’s life’s work. The photos captured the tranquillity and beauty of the church and its surroundings.
A deep pain seared him because his modest parent hadn’t been able to hang on long enough to enjoy reading this wonderful tribute to the monastic life and his contribution to the community in general.
The article made his father come alive in a brand-new way. Deep in thought, he hadn’t realized that Ms. Mallory had come back in the room until he caught the flowery scent of her perfume.
“Is there anything you want changed? Anything you don’t agree with?” Her eyes searched his.
“No. If the Abbot were alive, he would have cherished this.”
“I’m glad,” she said quietly before looking away. “When it’s published, I’ll bring several copies for everyone.”
I won’t be here, Andre mused to himself. “The brothers will be pleased.”
He heard her suck in her breath. “Good. Then I won’t keep you any longer. I need to get back to the office straightaway. Goodbye.”
She closed the file folder and put it under her arm. The action drew his attention to the alluring shape of her body beneath the yellow suit before she started out of the room.
Andre should have answered her, but the word stuck in his gullet. Rather than escort her outside, he remained behind the counter, as if it were his refuge.
One less memory to deal with.
Andre didn’t like Salt Lake and had no intention of coming back.
Fran might have had a dozen errands to run in preparation for her upcoming assignment to cover the Salt Lake Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s tour to Los Angeles and Australia. But she’d been counting the minutes until the July issue of Beehive Magazine was off the press. She hadn’t slept all night waiting for this morning so she could take several copies to the monastery.
After her last trip out there, she’d made up her mind that she would send the magazines in the mail. It would be the right thing to do. The moral thing to do considering she’d been having fantasies about a Trappist Monk.
But some force beyond her will couldn’t or wouldn’t let it go at that.
I have to see the monk one more time. I have to.
Her mother would be shocked if she knew the truth. Fran herself was shocked by her own behavior.
If the pastor of her church knew, he would tell Fran the adversary was devious and knew how to get to people when they were at their most vulnerable. She’d heard it all before from the pulpit, but had never placed any credence in those words.
She still didn’t. But there was no doubt in her mind that going to see the monk this time was wrong.
“You’re not the first curious female to cross over this threshold, intrigued by a man’s decision to remain celibate.