A Passion Denied

  Cluny shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled to the sofa without a word, parking himself as far away as he could.

  Brady sat and put his face in his hands. “I owe you an apology, Cluny, for screaming at you like I did. I’m sorry, I . . . I lost my head.”

  Cluny folded his arms and scooted into the crease of the couch. “From the looks of you and that gal, Brady, I’d say you lost more than your head.”

  “No, it’s not what it looked like, bud—Mary’s only a friend and nothing happened.” Brady closed his eyes, remembering the desire her simple hug had provoked. “But it could have, being alone with a pretty woman in my apartment like that. That’s never a good thing.” He opened his eyes to confront the boy head-on. “So I owe you a second apology because I was wrong. Again.” Brady exhaled and leaned back on the couch. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared straight ahead before letting his arms drop limp at his sides. “Remember the night we went to the O’Connors’? When I told you I was sick?”

  “Yeah, I remember. I thought you were gonna die.”

  “Well, I am sick, Cluny. Spiritually. That’s why I screamed at you about the canteen . . . and that’s why I’m embarrassed you found me hugging Mary like you did. I’m sick, kind of like Pete across the hall.”

  Cluny cocked his head. “You drink too much? I’ve never seen you drink before.”

  “No, not alcohol . . . at least not anymore.” He paused, finding it difficult to put into words. “Somebody like Pete, well, he can stop drinking and he’s fine. He’ll be a great husband to Eileen, a good neighbor to us, a great guy all around. But when he takes a drink of alcohol, it’s like it controls him, changes his personality, he can’t seem to stop. You understand?”

  Cluny nodded. “But I thought you said you don’t drink?”

  “I don’t. But I’m kind of sick like that too, when it comes to both alcohol and . . .”

  He squinted at Brady. “Alcohol and what?”

  Brady swallowed hard, then turned to look Cluny straight in the eyes. “I . . . have a problem with temptation and . . . women. Do you know what I mean?”

  A spray of pink deepened the freckles on Cluny’s face. He nodded. “Would you and Mary have . . . you know, done more than hug . . . if I hadn’t come home?”

  “No. Because it’s not right. I know that, and I would have sent her home immediately if you hadn’t walked in. But sometimes it’s hard to say no when your body says yes. Which is why I stay far away from women. Because that kind of intimacy is a gift from God, little buddy, and leads to things God intended between a man and his wife. That means you stay far away from temptation—whether it’s Johnny Lander’s bathtub gin or—” Brady swallowed hard. “Or other things. Okay?”

  Cluny nodded.

  “Promise me, Cluny, especially about the alcohol. Tell me you’ll stay far away from it because it can destroy your life. I can vouch for the damage it’s done to my past and what it’s doing to Pete right now. I love ya, bud, and I just don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

  Cluny hurled himself into Brady’s arms. “I’m so sorry for bringing that stuff home. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

  Brady closed his eyes and squeezed the slight boy, wondering for the thousandth time what he would do when Gram finally came home. “Just promise me you’ll steer clear of all of it. And I promise I’ll do the same. Deal?”

  Cluny pulled away and stuck out a hand. His freckles made way for a grin that stretched ear to freckled ear. “Double deal.”

  Brady stood in the doorway of Father Mac’s study with a stomach as jittery as that of a seven-year-old pickpocket making his first confession. He glanced inside and drew a bit of calm from the quiet and steady feel of the room that reflected the same warmth and comfort of its owner. From its floor-to-ceiling bookcases overflowing with rich, leather-bound books, to the mahogany-slatted windows that washed the room in hazy ribbons of light, Father Mac’s study exuded a sense of peaceful solitude and humble reverence. Like the man himself.

  He’d been reading, apparently, legs crossed on his desk and a book in his lap, but his eyes were now closed. One hand relaxed on the open pages while the other hung limp over the arm of the chair. His head rested against a crocheted doily knitted by Mrs. Clary, no doubt, providing a halo effect that brought a quirk to the corner of Brady’s mouth.

  He cleared his throat. “Father Mac . . . can we talk?”

  Matt’s dark eyes blinked open, and a sleepy smile lit his face. “Father Mac, is it, now? Well, this must be serious. Conviction, evidently, over your treatment of the clergy.”

  Brady smiled, but his eyes were sober. He settled into a chair. “I wish it were that easy, Matt.”

  Father Mac swung his legs off the desk and closed the book. He sat back to study him, the seriousness of his face a mirror reflection of Brady’s. “What’s the problem, John?”

  Brady looked away, choosing to focus on the shafts of sunlight streaming across the scarlet and gold hues of the fringed Oriental rug. “I need counsel, Father, on a problem I had.” He swallowed the pride in his throat. “Have. Something I struggled with a long time ago. I thought it was gone, but . . . well, lately I’ve had . . . thoughts.”

  “Thoughts?” Father Mac’s voice was barely audible. “What kind of thoughts?”

  All courage suddenly fled, and Brady steeled his jaw. So help him, if he could turn around and walk away now, he would. What had possessed him to come here?

  “John? What kind of thoughts?” Father Mac persisted.

  He forced himself to look up and cleared his throat. “Thoughts of . . . desire.” He swallowed hard and lowered his voice to a whisper. “About Beth O’Connor.”

  Father Mac sat back in the chair, hands steepled and poised low on his chest. His brows knitted into a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean lately, I find myself thinking about her as a woman and not as I did before, as a little sister.” He sighed and dropped into the chair, emotionally drained. He put his head in his hands. “I find myself wanting her, Matt. Thinking about her, touching her . . .”

  “In an impure way?”

  “No! Yes . . . I don’t know. All I know is, I crave holding her, kissing her.”

  “It’s not a sin to kiss a woman.”

  “It is for me. With her.” Brady’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Why?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I know you’ve always seen Elizabeth as a sister, but the fact is that she’s not. You’re clearly smitten by her, and from rumors I’ve heard, she with you. Why are you fighting it?”

  “Because it’s wrong.”

  “Why?”

  Brady looked up, desperation straining his voice. “I don’t know! All I can say is that when I think of wanting her that way . . . it feels wrong, dirty, like I’ve committed a horrible sin.”

  Father Mac studied him in silence. His finger absently traced the rim of his lower lip. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Brady’s look was fierce. “So help me, God, I’m telling you everything that’s bothering me, Matt. I can’t have these thoughts about Beth.”

  “Because you feel shame?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they’re not impure thoughts, correct? Thoughts that arouse you to the point of lust?”

  Blood heated Brady’s cheeks. “No, of course not. I don’t allow myself to go that far.”

  Father Mac’s eyes darkened. He stared, not saying a word, then finally exhaled. “You’re keeping something from me. Something from your past that’s warped the way you see that girl. I can feel it.”

  Brady shot to his feet. The air in his lungs thickened with rage, choking him. “Sorry I wasted your time, Father, but I need to go.” He started for the door.

  Father Mac’s voice rose, the steel of his tone as pointed as the shards of fear prickling in Brady’s gut. “You go, but you go knowing that the devil doesn’t want this dealt with. He’s got a grip on you, John
, something from your past, a stronghold that keeps you from all that God has for you.”

  Brady whirled around, his eyes hot with fury. “You’re spouting fairy tales, Matt. Satan has no hold on my life.”

  Father Mac’s gaze burned into his. “No? Then why are you so angry?”

  “Because you’re crazy—”

  “And you’re afraid. He’s got you by the throat. You walk out that door, and he wins and you lose. And all because you refuse to deal with your past.”

  Brady’s teeth clenched so tight, a nerve quivered clear to the back of his jaw. His eyes itched with anger as he glared, moving to the desk with slow deliberation. He shoved the chair hard and sat down, arms folded thick across his chest. “Five minutes,” he hissed, “you’ve got five minutes to have your say, and then I’m gone.”

  Father Mac sank back into the chair. The tension in his face eased into cool professionalism. He released one long, slow breath and made a quick sign of the cross. “You’re not leaving until we pray about this, John. We’re going to try and lift a burden off your shoulders that’s been there way too long.” He rose and walked to the door, closing it with an ominous click. He sat back down and propped his feet on the desk. “But first, suppose you tell me all about John Morrison Brady. And start from the beginning.”

  The bell over the door jangled, and Collin looked up. He slacked a hip against the work counter where he was welding a broken lever on a mimeograph press. “Hey, where’d you go? I never even heard you leave.” He squinted through goggles, eyeing Brady from head to toe, then blinked. What the . . . ?

  Instead of sporting ink on his face, his partner stood there dressed like a wealthy playboy fresh off the pages of Vanity Fair. Collin’s jaw dropped a full inch. That getup had to cost him half his week’s salary—plaid linen knickers sported by the country club set and a cream V-necked vest with snazzy bow tie. A straw boater perched back on his head, revealing a more stylish, shorter haircut.

  “Where in blazes have you been and what in the world are you wearing? Did you give yourself a raise or something?”

  “Pardon me?”

  Collin’s brow furrowed. “The glad rags. Who are you trying to impress?”

  Brady’s lip curled into a smile. He removed his hat. “No one. I’m looking for John Brady. Is he here?”

  Collin shoved his goggles up and stared, his mouth gaping about as wide as the open door. He flipped off the control switch on the welding gun and set it down.

  Standing on the threshold was the exact image of John Brady, albeit shorter hair and a decidedly bolder look in his eyes.

  Collin blinked. “St. Peter’s gate, who are you?”

  “Michael Brady, John’s brother.” He nodded at the gold-embossed lettering on the front window. “I take it you’re McGuire?”

  Collin grinned and wiped his palms on his work apron, then hurried over and extended a hand. “Collin McGuire, Brady’s partner. I swear to heaven I’m going to box his ears but good. He never even mentioned he had a brother.”

  Michael grinned and shook his hand. “Get in line, Collin. I’m here to take him on too. Haven’t heard from him in over eleven years.”

  Collin folded his arms and shook his head, shocked at seeing Brady’s double right before his eyes. “A twin, imagine that. Sweet saints above, he’s got some explaining to do.”

  Michael looked around. “Is he here?”

  The sound of a press clanging in the next room suddenly registered. “Yeah, he is. Come on back.” He swung an arm around Michael’s shoulder and led him to the rear. The tendons in Brady’s back shifted as he fed paper into the machine. “Hey, buddy, you got company.”

  Brady glanced over his shoulder, and Collin stiffened when the smile grew cold on his partner’s lips. Collin sidled over and slapped him on the back to cover his own unease. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a twin? So what if he’s better looking— that’s information I could have used. He shocked the living daylights out of me.”

  Michael grinned and motioned his head toward Brady. “Him, too, apparently. It’s good to see you, John. How are you?”

  A lump shifted in Brady’s throat. His eyes darkened to near-black, providing a stark contrast to the abrupt pallor of his cheeks. “What do you want, Michael?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.” He turned back to the press, shoving too much paper into the feeder. The machine sputtered and jammed, eliciting a rare curse from Brady’s lips.

  “No, but I have a lot to say to you. Lucille is dead.”

  Brady flinched, and Collin watched his broad shoulders sag as if the lever on the press had gut-punched him. He rammed it to the off position. “Collin . . . can you leave us alone?”

  Collin’s eyes flicked from Brady, to his brother, then back again. “Sure. I have deliveries to make. You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be back in about an hour. Need anything while I’m out?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Okay, see you later. Nice to meet you, Michael.”

  “You too, Collin.”

  The dead silence between the brothers was awkward as Collin hefted several boxes onto the wooden delivery cart. He shot a worried glance in Brady’s direction, but his partner only stared at the floor, fists clenched at his side. Collin exhaled and shoved the cart into the alley, then closed the door with a silent prayer.

  Brady wheeled around. “I’m sorry Lucille is dead, but what’s that got to do with me?”

  Michael propped against the counter and folded his arms. “A lot, John. She left us a bloomin’ fortune—Helena, you, and me.”

  “I don’t want her filthy money. You two can have it all.”

  Michael laughed. “Believe me, we’d like nothing better, but unfortunately, it seems our wicked stepmother tied all of our hands with a minor stipulation in her will.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That before Helena and I can collect one red cent, you have to go back to Forest Hills and sign all the papers. She divided the bulk of the estate between the three of us, but she left the house to you. After she got sick, she changed, John, turned into a real religious fanatic. I think she wanted to make it up to you. Wanted you back in Forest Hills so we could be a family again.”

  Brady studied his brother, shocked to realize he had no feelings toward him one way or the other. Not love. Not hate. God had healed him of bitterness toward his family a long time ago. But even so, no love remained. But then, he and Michael had never been close, not like twins were supposed to be. At least not since his father had married Lucille. She had taken an immediate affection to John, preferring his quiet and deep personality over Michael’s swaggering ways, inciting irreparable jealousy. Once inseparable, they suddenly had separate lives—Michael spending his time with friends, while John spent his with Lucille. She had fawned over him, trusted him, leaned on him for strength after their father had died, severing any closeness his brother and he might have shared.

  Brady sighed and dropped into a chair. “Nothing can make up for what happened to me.”

  “I know, John, and I’m sorry. I suppose I’m as much to blame as Lucille, for not speaking up, for letting her do what she did. Will you forgive me?”

  “I already have, Michael, years ago.”

  “Then you’ll come?”

  Brady rose to his feet. “No, I won’t. You and Helena will have to contest the will or find another way to get your payoff. I’m through with Forest Hills.” He glanced at the clock. “You need to leave now. I’m expecting someone.”

  “Sorry, John, but I can’t. I’m here to stay until you agree to go back.”

  Brady’s shoulders tensed as he glanced at the front window for some sign of Beth. “I don’t want you around, Michael. I’m warning you now—stay out of my life.”

  “It’s been eleven years, John. I think we need to talk, get to know each other again.”

  A sharp rasp of air cross
ed Brady’s lips. Michael’s gaze followed his. Brady gripped Michael’s arm and yanked him out of view just as Beth passed by the window. “So help me, God, if you breathe a word while she’s here, you’ll never get a dime.” He shoved him into the supply closet at the exact moment the bells rattled over the door.

  Michael grinned. “So, you got yourself a girl, eh, John? What, you don’t want that pretty little thing to meet your long-lost brother?”

  “Shut up, Michael, she’s not my girl.”

  “Brady?” Beth’s voice jolted him from the front of the shop.

  Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. “I’ll be right out.” He gritted his teeth. “Not one word, or so help me—”

  “Say you’ll sign the papers.”

  “No,” he hissed.

  “Then at least let me stay at your place—so we can talk.”

  “Brady? Why can’t I come back?”

  “No, Beth, wait! I’ll be right out.” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “One night.”

  Michael flashed another grin before ducking back in the closet. “Nope, I need time. Enough to convince you. Give me your word, John, or I’ll blow your cover.”

  “Brady?”

  “All right, but then you’re gone. Do you understand?”

  “John Brady!” She appeared at the door, hands on her hips and a teasing smile on her lips. She crossed her arms and tilted her head. “The way you’re acting, I would think you have a woman in that closet.”

  Brady spun around. He managed an off-center smile to deflect the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “Yeah, Beth, you know me so well. I stash women in my closet all the time.”

  She giggled and shimmied into a chair, looking especially pretty with a soft glow in her cheeks and concern in her eyes. “Actually, I was pretty anxious to see you. You weren’t yourself on Saturday, almost depressed, it seemed, so I was hoping Mary cheered you up.”

  The heat in his neck shot straight to his face. “Well, she didn’t stay long. Did she . . . mention anything?”

  “No, she wasn’t in today. Mr. Harvey said she called in sick.”

  “Oh. Beth?”