Читать книгу: «Husband Potential»
“Spend the rest of the evening with me.”
Fran stared straight ahead. “I don’t accept invitations from virtual strangers.”
“We’re hardly strangers.”
Her head swung around in reaction. The banked fire in Andre’s eyes excited and frightened her at the same time. “You are to me.” Her voice trembled.
“Surely the news that I’m a mere man who finds himself attracted to you should come as a relief. Now you don’t have to feel guilty that you’ve been tempting me beyond my endurance.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Benet! If anything, your confession makes you more suspect than ever!”
“I didn’t start out with the intention of lying to you. I didn’t want to feel an attachment to you so I perpetuated this myth, and then tried to forget you. But that immediate attraction has never gone away. Now I want to explore what there could be between us—because I know you feel that attraction, too.”
Rebecca Winters, a mother of four, is a graduate of the University of Utah. She has won the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award and been named Utah Writer of the Year.
Husband Potential
Rebecca Winters
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
FROM THE STEPS of the Trappist monastery on the hillside, Fran Mallory could see out over the entire Salt Lake Valley. At seven in the morning, the sun had barely come up over the mountains behind the sandy rock-faced edifice.
Dew still bathed the freshly mown grass on this glorious late April morning. A feeling of peace pervaded the grounds covered in acres of clover and flowering trees.
All this and more she’d been cataloguing with her camera as the delicious perfume of fruit blossoms acted like an aphrodisiac on her senses. She stood gazing at the clouds which moved across a brilliant blue sky like huge, fat white pillows piled as high as the eye could see.
Living by the dictates of a hectic agenda, she wished there were some way to store this moment as she would a piece of information on her computer, then come back to this exact spot with a click of the mouse whenever she needed to regroup and get in touch with her real self, whatever that was….
So far, she had no idea. Fran only knew that at rare times like this, her soul yearned inexplicably for something she couldn’t put a name to.
As she stood there musing, the haunting sound of the monks singing Gregorian chant permeated the outside walls of the chapel. The beautiful male voices came from those celibate men who were dedicated to a higher cause in the service of God.
She couldn’t fathom men who denied themselves their earthly passions in order to show their devotion.
On the other hand, her own selfish father hadn’t been able to control his passions. After being unfaithful to her mother with more than one woman, he’d left the state never to be seen or heard from again.
Fran wasn’t the only girl among her group of friends whose family had known tragedy. Marsha Hume’s father was serving time in prison because it was discovered he’d been married to two women at the same time living in separate towns.
Fran hadn’t been able to fathom that either. Nor could she countenance that several male students in her classes at the university turned out to be married men who’d come on to her while they’d been studying, actually believing she might be interested. Revolted and disillusioned, Fran found her distrust of men in general was growing.
If God had wanted man and woman to be married and cling happily together as one flesh forever, she didn’t see it happening in the world she inhabited. Grudgingly she admitted there were a few exceptions. Her uncle and her pastor—and a couple of men at her work.
The monks she could hear singing could be added to the list. She supposed they were honorable men, although she put them in another classification of human being altogether.
She would sell her soul for one good man, but after twenty-eight years, she despaired of ever finding him. Tossing her head with its silvery-gold mane, she opened the heavy door, anxious to put aside any irritating thoughts on such a lovely day.
The chapel foyer appeared to be deserted. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was far too early in the day for visitors or tourists.
A sign indicated that guests should go upstairs to observe the mass. Another sign pointed to the gift shop on her right. Paul had said the Abbot would meet her in there for the initial interview. Depending on the outcome and his willingness, she might get some inside shots as well.
As Fran opened the gift shop door, her breath caught in her throat. After everything Paul had told her, she had been prepared to greet a man in his seventies.
The tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven monk behind the counter had to be in his midthirties. He was dressed in the same kind of brown work shirt and trousers she’d seen the monks wearing out in the orchards. Despite his attire, he had a princely bearing.
At her entry, he stopped stacking jars and flicked his dark, piercing gaze to hers. His intelligent eyes looked black but were probably brown. The dim light in the shop obscured details. After an unnerving silence she heard him murmur, “May I help you?”
This monk spoke in a deep, rich masculine tone, unaccountably stirring her senses.
“I’m Ms. Mallory from Beehive Magazine. The Abbot made arrangements to let someone from our magazine interview him for an article we want to run in the July issue. I was told to meet him here at seven.”
“I’m afraid Father Ambrose is unwell this morning. He hopes you will forgive him for the inconvenience and make another appointment.”
He went on filling the rest of the shelves with the kinds of jars of honey and jams she’d occasionally purchased here in past years.
“Of course.”
Fran had never been this totally ignored before, but then again, she’d never come face-to-face with a Trappist monk either.
“Do I make it through you?”
He lifted his well-shaped head and stared at her, his eyes narrowing as if he were not pleased with the question.
“No. Phone him in a week. He should be better by then.”
“I hope it’s not serious.”
“I shouldn’t think so.” He turned his back on her, no doubt signaling that this meeting had come to an end. Oddly enough she didn’t want to go. The monks fascinated her, especially this one. His short-cropped hair looked boyish from the back. She tried to imagine him in jeans and T-shirt, his hair a normal length.
“I thought Trappist monks took vows of silence, the Abbot being the exception to handle the public, of course. Why is it that you can talk to me?”
“Though the brothers find excessive conversation unnecessary, the vow of total silence is a myth,” came the even reply over his broad shoulder.
Fran didn’t know that.
“If it’s true, could I interview you while you work? Or is the Abbot the only one allowed to talk to women?”
“If that were the case, I wouldn’t be speaking to you now,” he answered quietly. Too quietly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that comment to sound provocative.”
Suddenly he turned and faced her once more. “Why apologize?”
At the boldness of his question, she had no comeback because a river of heat unexpectedly coursed through her body.
“You’re not the first curious woman to cross over this threshold, intrigued by a man’s decision to remain celibate. No doubt someone with your looks would find that decision incomprehensible.”
“My looks?” She could feel her indignation kindling.
“Come now, Ms. Mallory. You know very well your impact on a man, otherwise you would have framed your question differently.” His gaze dropped lower. “You would have dressed in something less appealing. Only a woman with your kind of confidence lets nothing get in her way, not even the indisposition of Father Ambrose.”
If she were a violent person, she would have slapped him. “I’m not surprised you’ve ended up in here, shut away from the world. Only God would be able to forgive your arrogance, not to mention your colossal rudeness to a stranger.”
“You’ve left out a number of my major sins. In any event, I apologize for offending you.”
“You don’t talk like a monk.”
His hands stilled on the counter. “How does a monk talk?”
She didn’t have an answer for that. She had never known one. Paul had arranged things with the Abbot. In her opinion they were a different breed of men, wanting to be cloistered away from the world to worship.
“I’m sorry if I’ve shattered your illusions, but monks are ordinary people of flesh and blood. In some cases they’re just as prone to flaws as the rest of the world.”
“So I’m discovering.” His frankness had come as a complete shock. “Is that what you want me to include in my article?” she challenged when she could find her voice.
“What I want is immaterial. Without Father Ambrose’s consent, there won’t be one.”
“And if you could influence his decision, he wouldn’t agree to make another appointment. It may interest you to know that I was sent on this assignment because a colleague from the magazine doing this part of the layout is ill with the flu. I didn’t come here with the intention of giving sex-starved celibates their thrill for the morning.”
With her cheeks glowing hot she added, “Judging by your reaction, it appears my presence has titillated you. No doubt your tortured conscience will force you to give yourself some sort of penance which you richly deserve.”
At the entry to the room she paused to shift her camera to her other shoulder. “Tell the Abbot that someone from the magazine will call to make another appointment. Have a good day.”
She overcame the urge to slam the door in his face, then left the monastery without looking back. Her joy in the beauty of the morning had evaporated as if it had never been.
Andre Benet could smell the faint scent of peaches from her shampoo which lingered in the air after she stormed out of the gift shop.
He’d been rude to her. Exceedingly rude, yet he couldn’t summon any guilt. She wasn’t that different from his own birth mother, a woman who lit her own fires. A bewitching woman who went where angels feared to tread and never counted the cost.
His own mother had known of his father’s proclivity for the priesthood, yet she’d tempted him before he’d gone away. Andre had been the result.
He wondered if it was a coincidence that Ms. Mallory had worn a peach-colored, two-piece suit. Even her skin had the proverbial peaches and cream glow. Combine this with gossamer hair, and no man would be totally immune, not even a monk, and she knew it!
Apparently his mother had possessed that same kind of haunting beauty and allure. Enough for his father to sleep with her one more time before he went his separate way.
Andre understood that kind of desire well enough. If he were an artist, he wouldn’t be able to resist capturing the vision of Ms. Mallory on canvas. But he wasn’t an artist, and certainly no monk.
As far as he knew, he had no particular talents. Orphaned at birth, he’d been raised in New Orleans by his Aunt Maudelle, an embittered but basically good woman who worked as a seamstress.
Enamored of the big boats traveling up and down the Mississippi, he had left home in his teens to see the world, working on freighters in various capacities until he’d become a merchant seaman.
In time he became good friends with a Swiss who spoke four languages fluently. Envious of his friend’s ability, Andre enrolled at the university in Zurich where he studied German and French along with history. Though he could have gone into teaching with his degree, Andre returned to the sea, a job that allowed him latitude to keep on the move.
He stayed in touch with Maudelle and always sent her money. On the rare occasion, he came home to New Orleans for a short visit, but nothing could anchor his soul or curb his restlessness, certainly not a wife. Females were to be enjoyed, nothing more. Maudelle despaired of his attitude and prayed daily for his spiritual welfare.
He always laughed, but his amusement had vanished when a month ago a close friend of his aunt’s actually spent the money to phone him aboard ship along the Bosporus and beg him to come home. His aunt was ill.
Andre had a gut feeling it might be fatal. Taking the next flight out of Ankara, Turkey, he found her on the point of death. Though he had never been a churchgoer and had no religious views, he knew she was a good Catholic so he called her parish for someone to come and administer the last rites.
While he held her hand and waited for a priest to appear, Maudelle began her confession. He had heard of deathbed repentance, but he’d never given it any thought. Not until certain revelations began pouring from her mouth.
Her confession had turned Andre’s life inside out and had brought him to Salt Lake City, Utah, a place he had always thought of as the back of beyond, a wasteland the hated Mormon Pioneers of the 1840s had been driven to found during America’s Western Expansion, a place no one else on earth wanted.
Andre loved the water.
The great Salt Lake Desert with its great Salt Sea was anathema to him. Yet here he was on temporary leave from his job…a stranger in a strange land…living in undreamed-of circumstances.
He could scarcely credit that he was really alive, except for the lingering scent of peaches which was a powerful reminder of his mortality. And, of course, the ailing monk lying down in his cell-like room at the other end of the sanctuary. A monk known to the world as Abbot Ambrose, Andre’s biological father, born Charles Ambrose sixty-six years earlier to parents of English and French heritage.
According to Father Joseph, recurring bouts of pneumonia had aged his father a good ten years. The gaunt, frail monk was a shell of his former self.
As Andre let himself inside the room, his father turned his head and stared up at him. “Did you show the journalist around?”
“No. I told her you’d be better in a week. You’ve spent your life’s work building this monastery to what it is today. No one else should give her your story but you.”
His father lifted his hand. “I have done nothing. It is all God’s handiwork, my son.”
“Whatever you say, Father. Nevertheless, we’ll let you get your strength back so you can be the one to guide the interview.”
“I won’t recover this time.”
“Nonsense,” Andre snapped. To lose the father he had just found, the parent he desperately wanted and needed to get to know, was killing him. “I’m sending an ambulance for you. You should be in a hospital and waited on.”
“No.” The older man wheezed, struggling for breath. “No hospital for me. I always hated them.”
Another thing Andre and his father had in common.
So many things.
So many years gone by that they had been denied a knowledge of each other.
“You’re my greatest earthly comfort now. Come closer. It’s a joy to talk to the son of my flesh. You’re a divine gift at my last hour.”
That had to be a lie.
Andre’s sudden appearance at the monastery ten days ago announcing that he was the Abbot’s son, had come as such a great shock, Andre was convinced his pneumonia had taken a turn for the worse.
No matter how much his father denied it, Andre knew the truth. He was the one responsible for the older man’s present condition. It weighted Andre with fresh grief.
“You are not to blame for anything, my son. Indeed, you are a victim, and my heart grieves that you’ve been robbed of your family.
“If there is an accusing finger, it should be pointed at me for taking my pleasure with your mother before I said my final vows to become a monk. It was the most selfish thing I have ever done, and entirely unfair to you and your mother.”
Andre’s head reared back. “According to Aunt Maudelle, my mother tempted you beyond your endurance.”
He raised his hand once more, then it fell back at his side. “Maudelle was your mother’s elder sister. She never married, never knew a man. Her jealousy of Lisette made her say unkind things.
“Don’t believe her accusations. A man cannot be tempted unless he allows himself to be, my son. You’ve been in the world. You know that’s true.”
Andre did know.
“Your mother’s family was French. She was very beautiful. I see so much of Lisette in your black hair, your eyes,” he cried softly before the coughing took over. “Though I had always wanted to serve God, I loved her, too. My heart was torn because of conflicting loyalties.
“If she had let me know she was pregnant with you, I would have married her. Maybe a part of me was hoping it would happen. I told her I was being sent to Utah, but she remained silent. I never saw or heard from her again. I had no idea she died of complications after you were born.” Tears rolled down his flushed cheeks.
“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 understand. 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.”
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