Sean glanced up, his half-eaten cookie wedged in his mouth. “What? Who told you that?”
Father Mac chewed slowly, studying Sean with a pensive air. “You forget my weekly meetings with the parish council. Seems Ted Russo was quite put out you refused his magnanimous offer to manage his new Woolworth’s. I actually had to calm the man down.”
Sean sighed and pushed the plate of cookies away, his appetite suddenly diminished. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t leave Emma in the lurch, Mac, nor Mitch and Charity for that matter.”
“Ah, yes . . . your propensity to help others in play once again, neatly timed with my propensity to let people vent.” He brushed cookie crumbs from his lap and leaned back in the chair, assessing Sean with a patient gaze. “Anything you’d like to ‘vent’ verbally rather than on the court?”
The cookies churned in Sean’s stomach like cookie dough in Mrs. Clary’s mixer. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a great idea, talking to Mac about Emma. What had he been thinking, anyway? That I could use some divine assistance, he thought with a clench of his jaw. Preferably before I lose my mind. He ground the ball of his hand along the socket of his eye, trying to alleviate the onset of another headache . . . the same one that seemed to throb whenever he thought about his problem with Emma. He blasted out his frustration with a noisy exhale and peered up at Mac, eyes shuttered to keep him at bay. “What makes you think I need to vent?”
The priest responded with a low chuckle, propping his legs up on the seat of another chair. He locked his hands behind his neck. “Well, I suppose I could convince you that it’s my keen sense of intuition, but that would be dangerously close to a lie. So, let’s just say as a priest, one’s skills of observation tend to become finely tuned.”
Sean leaned back in the chair and folded his arms, a trace of a smile shadowing his face. “Yeah? How so?”
“Well, for instance, when a typically easygoing and unusually kind parishioner annihilates his pastor on the court like Beelzebub himself, one begins to take notice that something is amiss.”
Sean’s smile crooked higher.
“And then of course, when said parishioner chooses an evening with the parish priest over decadent desserts baked by his mother and sisters, one gets a wee bit suspicious.”
Sean grinned, shaking his head.
“But the true tip-off, my boy, is something so remarkable that, indeed, the Vatican itself might classify it as a miracle . . .” Father Mac inhaled deeply, obviously enjoying his ruse.
“Yes?” Sean hiked a brow.
A smile eased across Father Mac’s face. “Sean O’Connor, stopping at one cookie—indeed, rarer than canonization for sainthood.” The priest leaned in to fold his arms on the table, his smile subsiding, along with the jest in his tone. “So, tell me, Sean, why are you really here tonight?”
His pulse stilled. This was it. The moment he could finally unload all the grief and acute disappointment strangling him inside. To confess it to another human being. Someone who could comfort him, counsel him, and yes, even pray for him. Sean looked up at the man who had not only offered his friendship, but could offer his absolution as well, and his eyelids weighted closed. He didn’t want to reveal his pain, his weakness, his sins to anyone, but he needed peace and God knows he needed absolution. Absolution for what he had done . . . Shame burned in his throat. And absolution for what he feared he would continue to do—at least, in his mind.
He sucked in a shaky breath and put a hand to his eyes. “For the first time in my life, Mac, I’ve run into a situation where I don’t know what to do.” He exhaled loudly, his gaze glued to the table while his voice trailed to a whisper. “I’m in love with a married woman.”
His statement was met with silence, and when he glanced up, he saw the shock on Father Mac’s face before sympathy edged in. Sean looked away, wishing he had never come.
“Emma Malloy?” Father Mac asked quietly.
Sean nodded and leaned on the table, his face in his hands. “I never meant for it to happen, Father . . . and neither did she.”
“So she’s in love with you as well?”
“Yes.”
“Have you . . . acted on it?”
Sean shook his head. “Not adultery, but the seeds of it—in a kiss.”
Father Mac paused. “A single kiss . . . and no other intimacies?”
Heat gorged Sean’s face. “Yes, a pretty intense kiss, to be sure, but no, no other intimacies.” He shielded a hand to his eyes. “Except for those in my mind.”
“I see.” Father Mac shifted. “When did this begin?”
Sean closed his eyes and exhaled. “A little over a week ago. Emma was bruised up pretty badly by a neighbor’s boyfriend, and I . . . I was just trying to comfort her, I swear.”
Sean felt the solid touch of Father Mac’s hand on his arm. “I believe you, Sean. But what do you intend to do about it now?” he asked, his voice measured and low.
“I don’t know, I guess I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Her husband is still alive in Dublin?”
“Yes.”
Father Mac withdrew his hand and released a heavy sigh, elbows tented on the table. “Well, the only choice you have is to stay away from each other, which will be difficult with you working side by side, day in and day out.”
Flexing his fingers, Sean stared up at the ceiling, his mind traveling back through the last week. “You have no idea, Mac, what a nightmare it’s been at work. Emma avoiding me, stilted and scared when she does talk to me, and then me trying to work and smile like nothing is wrong.” He glanced back at Father Mac, his eyes wandering off into another hard stare beyond the priest’s shoulder. “And the whole time I feel as if my insides have been shredded . . . like I’m going to bleed to death if I don’t get rid of this shame and guilt, not to mention the agony of loving a woman I can never have.”
He heard Father Mac’s plaintive sigh before the priest spoke, his voice laced with compassion. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, Sean, but you have to leave the store.”
He hung his head. “I know, but the truth is I don’t want to.” He jumped up and started to pace, chafing the back of his neck with his hand. “I keep thinking we can do this, maintain our friendship just like before.” He stopped, pleading his case with his eyes. “And I believe that, Mac, honestly I do, because I promised her I would never cross that line again, and I mean it.”
Father Mac peered up, as if contemplating the possibility of such a plan. “We’re fallible human beings, Sean, and we say a lot of things we mean, but as the Bible so painfully points out, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “This is a classic example of avoiding the occasion of sin if ever there was.” He paused, as if to arm himself for the next words he would say. “You mentioned . . . intimacies . . . in your mind. Now that your love for Emma has been awakened, does being around her prompt . . . impure thoughts?”
Heat snaked up the back of his neck, and he looked away. “No, of course not, not if you mean thoughts of . . . making love to her.” He returned his gaze to Father Mac’s, his eyes intense. “Believe me, Mac, I love Emma and respect her far too much to let my thoughts go in that direction. But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think about her, about what it would be like to be married to her, hold her, kiss her, touch her at will.” Dropping back in his chair, he suddenly felt drained, elbow cocked on the table and head in his hand. He stared aimlessly at the floor, his whisper flat and monotone, as if all emotion had siphoned out. “The truth is I want her in every possible way—as my friend, as my wife, as my lover.” Wetness stung in his eyes and he shielded his face. “But I know I can’t have her that way, and every day, it eats at me a little bit more.” A heaving breath left his lips. “And to be honest with you, Mac . . . I’m not sure I can live with that.”
Father Mac rose to refill their glasses, gripping Sean’s shoulder in a show of support before sitting back down. Leaning forward, he locked g
azes with him, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. His voice was low and resonated with a strength that Sean needed to hear. “Yes . . . yes, you can. There’s a very handy Scripture that tells us we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us.” He patted Sean’s hand and eased back in his chair. “Even this.”
“How?” Sean whispered.
“Do you love her?”
A wave of emotion surged in his throat. “More than my own life, Mac.”
Father Mac stared, sorrow etched in the lines of his face. “Then you have to go,” he said, the very utterance of those words depleting all air from Sean’s lungs . . . all hope from his heart. “Because if you stay, something as pure and beautiful as your love for Emma could be used against her in the battle for her soul . . . and yours.”
Sean hung his head, the truth weighing him down . . . and yet, somehow setting him free at the same time. He nodded and exhaled slowly, relinquishing in that one excruciating moment, all hope of a love affair with Emma. Not a love affair of the flesh, no. He’d known from the start that his love for her would never allow him to hurt her that way. But a love affair of the spirit, where he’d hoped to be lovers emotionally, if not physically . . . through friendship.
Friends who longed for each other. His eyes drifted closed. Adultery, all the same.
“Nothing satisfies the human heart like the love of God.”
Her words lighted on his mind, driving home a painful truth. His desire for a love affair with Emma in spirit, if not body, could very well jeopardize her love affair with God . . . jeopardize her peace, her contentment, placing his needs above her own. Needs and desires forever unfulfilled, all neatly cloaked in friendship. Tears stung his eyes. God, forgive me.
“Is there . . . anything else?” Father Mac’s voice held a note of caution.
Sean looked up, a crook in his brow. “What do you mean? Isn’t this enough?”
“Yes, this is certainly a start, but . . .” Father Mac hesitated, finally peering up beneath salt and pepper brows. “I was just wondering because Patrick mentioned something awhile back that’s been bothering me.”
“Yeah? What?” Sean squinted, no earthly idea what was on Mac’s mind.
Father Mac exhaled. “Well, it seems he’s worried about you.”
Sean sat straight up, face pinched in a frown. “About what?”
The priest studied him with that somewhat professional air that Sean noticed whenever he went to him for confession, something he usually avoided due to their friendship. A counseling mode that said for the moment, Father Mac wasn’t just his friend, but his pastor as well. “He said that you lost your temper after Katie and Luke’s wedding, something about pulverizing a friend of Emma’s for no apparent reason.”
Heat blasted his face, and he glanced away, unable to face the look of concern in his friend’s eyes. “So what, Mac? Can’t a man lose his temper without it being a federal crime?”
“Not a man like you, my friend—one of the most even-tempered, disciplined men I’ve had the pleasure to know.” His exhale carried the weight of his concern. “Patrick’s not the only one who’s worried, Sean, Steven is too. As am I.”
Sean looked up, lips parting at the seriousness of his tone. He forced a tight smile. “Well, don’t, Mac—I’m fine, I assure you. It was a one-time thing.”
Father Mac paused, the gravity in his voice slowing Sean’s pulse. “Well, tell me, my friend—are the nightmares a one-time thing as well?”
Sean stared, the air in his throat thick with shock. “What are you talking about?”
“Steven says they’re frequent, that you wake him up more often than he likes, thrashing, yelling, cries for help. Apparently it’s been going on since you moved back home, he says. Claims that when it first happened, he came to your room and found you weeping in your sleep, begging for forgiveness. He tried to talk to you, but when he realized you weren’t awake, he let you be.” Father Mac shifted, elbow flat on the table and hand to his head. His eyes were pensive as he studied him, one finger to his temple and a thumb to his jaw. “He let it go, Sean, figuring it was just memories from the war, but when he had to pull you off Emma’s friend at the wedding, he felt he needed to tell someone.” Father Mac huffed out a sigh. “So he told me.”
Sean kneaded his temple, his mind dazed. “I . . . didn’t know. I don’t remember having many nightmares. One or two, maybe, but no more.” He glanced up. “Did he say how often?”
“Weekly . . . but you have no recall?”
He slowly shook his head, stunned by the revelation.
“So you can certainly understand our concern, especially after the incident at Kearney’s.” Father Mac hesitated, as if weighing the effect of his next words. “Did . . . something happen, Sean . . . you know, during the war? Something you need to get off your chest?”
Sean’s breathing shallowed as he bent forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, mind whirling at how the war had come back to haunt . . . first with Emma, and now with Mac. He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, gouging his fingers through his hair. “I’ve . . . ,” he swallowed hard, finding it difficult to expel the words, “had a rage problem, Mac, but only twice in my life, I swear. Once at Kearney’s after Katie and Luke’s wedding . . . and then . . .” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Once during the war.”
“What happened at Kearney’s, Sean?” Father Mac said quietly, his tone patient.
Sean huffed out a sigh and leaned back, gaze focused on the ceiling. His upper arm strained flat on the table while his fist clenched tight in the air. He absently flexed his hand. “I thought Emma’s friend was a drunk who was bothering her. I wasn’t in the best of moods that day because Mr. Kelly threatened layoffs, so I guess my temper got the best of me.”
A semblance of a smile flitted across Father Mac’s face. “I didn’t even know you had a temper.”
A harsh laugh erupted from Sean’s throat. “Yeah, well, nobody does.” His gaze lowered to meet his friend’s, resignation steeling the line of his jaw. “Nobody but Emma’s friend, that is . . . and some unfortunate man during the war.” Sean averted his gaze, a knot jerking in his throat. His voice was hard. “But only one of them is alive to talk about it.”
Pause. “You . . . killed a man?” Father Mac whispered.
Sean closed his eyes, lips tight at the shock in his friend’s voice. His fist tightened till he thought the tendons in his arm might snap. “Yeah, Mac, I did . . .”
“Talk to me,” Father Mac said quietly, and all at once Sean knew that it was finally time. The moment he’d dreaded—and yet hoped for—was finally at hand. Deliverance. He thought he’d safely buried his past, kept it hidden all these years from the people he loved, but apparently not. It would seem that sins, like vermin, had a way of infesting one’s life. He had begun the process of letting go of his pain with Emma, and now he would finish it with Mac. And maybe . . . just maybe, he would find absolution at last.
He began at the beginning, with Clare, and walked Mac through the dark corridors of his mind—a mind whose torment he had borne alone. Until now. When his voice finally died away and his face bore the ravage of tears, he waited, body bent and elbows on his knees with head in his hands. He felt the warmth of Father Mac’s palm on his shoulder and he closed his eyes, the touch of absolution a balm to his soul. “As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us,” Father Mac whispered with an intensity that brought more moisture to Sean’s eyes. He paused. “But there’s more to this, Sean.”
Sean’s head shot up, lips parted and eyes wide. “What are you talking about? I’ve told you everything, I swear.”
Father Mac eased back in his chair and folded his arms, eyes squinted and lips pursed as if contemplating a move in chess. “You’re not a violent man, my friend, but somewhere along the way, violence found you, and I think we need to get to the bottom of what that is.”
Sean blinked, his heart beginning to race at
the notion that his rage could be related to anything other than his own sin. “What do you mean, Mac? Like when I was a kid?”
“More than likely. These bouts of rage have only happened twice as an adult, correct?”
Sean nodded.
“Did you lose your temper any other time? As a boy, maybe, on the schoolyard, with your family, or in a tussle with anyone at all?”
Brows pinched, Sean closed his eyes, trying hard to remember. “Only once that I recall . . . in the eighth grade when Herman Finkel threw a snowball and made Becky Landers cry. I was sweet on her, I remember, and when I saw Herman hurt her, I . . .” The words froze on his tongue, the memory suddenly as sharp and painful as the fingernails now embedded in his palm from the clench of his fist. He looked up then, his face screwed in a frown. “I remember I beat him up so badly that my father punished me for a year, taking the profits from my paper route.”
“Did that deter you from future bouts of temper?”
Sean grunted. “Oh, you bet it did. I never did anything like that ever again.”
“To win your father’s approval?”
Sean nodded, his smile stiff as his gaze wandered beyond Mac’s shoulder. “I was always the good boy,” he whispered . . . almost wincing because somehow, the admission caused him great pain.
“So, you never lost your temper as a boy except in the eighth grade? Never got angry over anything else—your parents’ discipline, squabbles with siblings, not getting your own way?”
Sean’s eyelids weighted closed, his breathing suddenly erratic as he traveled back in time. “No . . . no, nothing. I was the perfect son—compliant, nonconfrontational, the peacemaker in a family of Irish tempers. I was the oldest, you know, the big brother who was expected to set an example and take care of his sisters . . .” His voice suddenly trailed off, and in one heave of shallow air, his heart cramped in his chest. He squeezed his eyes even tighter, as if to ward off the shock of unwelcome thoughts, while his pulse throbbed in his brain. “Only . . . I . . . didn’t,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with emotion as tears stung his eyes. “Oh, dear God . . . I didn’t . . .”