Husband Potential

Being a fan of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old Choir, Fran had attended dozens of their home concerts. For years she had listened to their international Sunday broadcasts, and was familiar with much of their repertoire. Certain songs thrilled her, others moved her to tears.

But there was one song in particular that always left her and the audience weeping. Afterwards, there would be this electric silence before the crowd rose to its feet in thunderous applause. To Fran, that awe-filled silence proved the greatest ovation of all.

Tonight she was ready with her camera to capture the enchanted expression of some attendee’s face. The right picture always told the tale.

She wanted to find that one photograph which exuded the magic of the night. Barney was counting on her. If she were successful, it would go on the front cover of Beehive Magazine, a coup she hadn’t yet accomplished, but maybe this time.

The song she’d been waiting for came soon after the intermission. She’d obtained permission to set things up near the orchestra where she would be out of the way, yet obtain frontal shots with her telephoto lens.

The choir leader stepped to the podium and raised his baton. When everything grew quiet, the sopranos began singing their moving entreaty. The heartrending music pierced a part of Fran’s soul not reached in any other way. It happened every time, not just to her, but to everyone in the listening crowd.

Slowly she panned the audience, snapping one picture after another. By the time the full swell of male voices began, she happened on a face glowing with pure joy. There wasn’t another word to describe it.

A woman in her midsixties maybe, gray hair, a sweet expression on what looked like her Eastern European features.

The tears rolled down her rosy cheeks. Her eyes seemed transfixed by the music.

Fran swallowed hard and took a dozen pictures in succession. There was no need to look anywhere else. Something told her that this woman was the one she’d been hoping to find in the audience, the one who reflected the feelings of everyone around.

Maybe Fran could find a subject this perfect in Australia, but she doubted it. The moment was an illuminating one. She felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck.

Driven by a compulsion she didn’t understand, she was anxious for the concert to be over so she could approach the woman. There had to be a story behind that face. Fran wanted to get it, not only for the article, but out of a burning curiosity.

After the Choir sang their last number, the audience must have clapped for a solid five minutes. No one wanted the concert to be over.

With purposeful steps, Fran insinuated herself into the crowd and waited at the end of the row for the woman to exit. While everyone around was expounding on the remarkable performance they had just heard, Fran approached her.

“It was a beautiful concert, wasn’t it?”

The woman whose face glistened with fresh tears threw her head back. “It was as wonderful as I remembered it back in Germany.”

“You heard the Choir there?”

“Oh, yes. Many years ago. When I was a little girl growing up in East Berlin, my mother told me that if I ever got the chance, I should get away to a place where I could be free to worship God. I didn’t know what she meant.

“Then many years later came détente. I fled with my family to Frankfurt. It was there I heard this beautiful music for the first time. Later, when we moved to Zurich, in Switzerland, I heard the Choir again. That’s when I found God.” She shook her head. “You can’t imagine.”

But Fran could. She’d even captured the woman’s ecstasy on film. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” she whispered. “I work for a magazine in Utah and have been taking pictures tonight. I took some of you. Do I have your permission to use them and your story?”

The woman smiled. “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” Fran murmured as she watched the woman rejoin her family slowly making its way out of the row into the crowded aisle.

With her own eyes tear-drenched, Fran turned to go the other way and found herself face-to-face with a man who could have been the monk’s twin, except that his hair was longer and he wore a suit and tie.

Hadn’t she read somewhere that everyone on earth had a double?

There seemed to be an air of unreality about the entire evening. Her heart was really being given a workout. First the woman, now this haunting face from the past, a face she’d tried in vain to forget.

Angry with herself for staring at him, she averted her eyes and attempted to step past him.

“Ms. Mallory?”

Fran froze in place. That voice.

“If you’re afraid I’m an apparition, I assure you I’m not.”

She whirled around, confused and disbelieving. “When I took the magazines to the monastery, one of the monks told me you were no longer there. I had no idea you’d come to Los Angeles.”

“I left the day after your last visit.”

Her breathing had grown too shallow. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You didn’t seem to fit the mold.”

His lips twitched. “You’re right about that.”

Once again his honesty disarmed her. “Did you run away?”

There was an almost imperceptible nod of his dark head. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Can a monk do that?” she cried softly. “I mean, aren’t there certain formalities you have to go through if you want to leave your Order?”

“Endless formalities, including petitioning for a dispensation from the Pope in Rome.”

Fran had only seen movies about nuns and monks. She had no idea about the process, except through film. She doubted Hollywood could ever produce a performance that portrayed the true anguish involved in such a decision, if one had been devout.

“H-Have you already been excommunicated?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

By now most of the people were making their way out to their cars. It was a good thing. Her shock would have been visible to anyone watching or listening.

“Are you in torment over your decision?”

He cocked his head. “Are you worried about my immortal soul?”

She could stand anything but his mockery. “In a manner of speaking, yes!” She parroted his earlier comment. “After the unorthodox way you treated me when I first came to the monastery, I didn’t see how you would survive there.”

“So you did think about me.”

Her eyes flashed. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I’m touched that you cared.”

Fran couldn’t take any more. Obviously the man had to be in pain, but it was nothing to do with her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’ve been too outspoken. It’s one of my worst faults.”

“I find that fault refreshing.”

She swallowed hard. “I had no right to say that to you. I don’t know anything about you or your life. I’m just surprised to see you here of all places.”

“Did you think I couldn’t appreciate a concert such as this?”

“Of course not. The Gregorian chant I listened to at the monastery was some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. But that isn’t what I meant. “

“What did you mean then?”

“Surely I don’t have to explain it to you. We both happen to be in Los Angeles at the same time. The odds of our running into each other like this must be in the millions.”

“I was thinking the same thing when I discovered you talking to Gerda.”

Fran gave a little gasp. “You know her?”

“We met a long time ago. When she found out I was going to be in Los Angeles, she and her family invited me to come hear the choir’s performance with them.”

He studied her upturned features with avid intensity. Fran’s trembling legs would hardly hold her up.

“How is it you happened to talk to her out of all the people in the audience?” he asked.

“I’m here on assignment from the magazine to cover the choir’s trip to Australia. Besides the write-up, I’ll be taking pictures of faces in the audience, watching for reactions that will capture the essence of the Choir’s performance.

“Tonight I found what I was looking for in your friend’s expression. Thankfully, she gave me permission to use the pictures.”

He appeared to ponder her words. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking that made him regard her with such solemnity. “You were fortunate then. She’s a very special person.”

Fran wondered where he had met the older woman, under what circumstances. Her curiosity about everything to do with him and his life was eating her alive.

“I felt that too.”

“You’ll be flying to Sydney tomorrow?”

“Yes. It will be the Choir’s first stop in Australia.”

“You’ll like it.”

“You’ve been there?” she blurted.

“I have.”

When there was nothing else forthcoming she said, “Do you live in Los Angeles now?”

His eyes were shuttered. “No.”

She shouldn’t have asked him. As long as he was a monk, he was probably under some kind of constraint not to discuss anything personal, even if he wasn’t inside monastery walls.

That sense of loss was back, stronger than before.

“I’m looking forward to visiting Brisbane.” She started talking faster and faster to cover her growing emptiness. “I h-hear the beaches are pristine, and the rain forest is magical.”

“All of it’s true. But whatever you do, be sure to take time out to visit the Great Barrier Reef. It’s spectacular.”

“So I’ve been told.” She cleared her throat. “For someone who has lived the monastic life, the world must be a place of continual fascination for you.”

“Oh, it is. And never more fascinating than right now.”

With any other man she might have taken the comment personally. But this man was a monk who was still running away from something he couldn’t reconcile. Among the many sensations he aroused, her compassion seemed to be at the forefront.

“I pray you’ll eventually find what you’re looking for.”

One dark eyebrow quirked. “Are you a praying person?”

She took a deep breath. “It was a figure of speech.”

“So you’re not a praying person.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what were you trying to say?”

She’d had enough of this inquisition. “I’m not the one in the spiritual dilemma here. I need to go. The bus will be waiting. There aren’t that many hours before we all have to be at the airport again.”

“Goodbye again,” he murmured. “Enjoy your trip.”

She said goodbye in a quiet voice before turning on her heel to leave. It killed her that he could allow her to escape without calling her back. She had the awful premonition they would never see each other again.

What else did you expect? Did you honestly think a troubled monk would ask you to spend the rest of the night with him?

Why are you surprised, Francesca Mallory?

Why are you hurt? What could he possibly mean to you, or you to him?

Don’t you know you’re a stupid, stupid fool?

How many times must you have it drummed in your head before you get it?

CHAPTER THREE

“NOW THERE’S A SIGHT for sore eyes.”

One of the shipmen, Jimmy Bing, lived in Los Angeles. His family was down there among the throngs waiting for him. Obviously home was where the heart was.

Andre had his own opinion. He’d sailed into many ports in his lifetime, but out of all of them, San Pedro left the most to be desired. Probably because the early September smog blanketing L.A. hung like a shroud over the sprawling metropolis.

“Where’s your home, Andre?”

“I was born in New Orleans.”

“You don’t have a southern drawl.”

“I left at an early age.”

“With a name like yours, I figured you were from Quebec.”

“A name like mine?”

“Yes. Benet. Before I got married and moved to L.A., I used to work the St. Lawrence Seaway. One of the shipmen was a French-Canadian who had your last name.”

“So you pegged me for a Canadian?”

“I don’t know. You never hang out with them. You’re kind of a loner. Like me.” He grinned. “Are you going home for a while?”

Home? Where was that?

The question never used to bother him. But since Andre had watched his father’s body being lowered into the ground by the brothers he’d served, the need to know more about who he was had been eating him alive.

“I’m doing another run to Alaska.”

“When is the ship due to go back?”

“In a couple of days.”

Jimmy hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Well, if I can’t talk you into coming to my house, then I guess I’d better get a move on. My wife and kids are waiting for me.” His eyes were alive with anticipation. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Andre.”

Andre nodded. “I enjoyed your company too. Good luck, Jimmy.”

A huge crowd had turned out to meet their ship. But Andre kept his eyes on Jimmy who descended the gangplank as fast as was humanly possible.

In the distance, he saw a pretty, red-headed mother holding the hands of her two children. They were all running toward him. Andre could hear their joyous shouts.

Soon he saw Jimmy lower his bag and throw his arms around the three of them. They clung.

Andre could feel their happiness. He had never envied anyone as much as he envied Jimmy at that moment. The picture became a blur. Suddenly Andre could hear his father talking.

“I’m not a man of the world, my son. 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. You haven’t found the meaning of your life in your travels. Maybe one day you’ll find it here. Then you’ll enjoy the peace you’ve been searching for.”

Andre grimaced, then grabbed his duffel bag and hurried ashore.

One thing was certain. Bumping into Ms. Mallory at Hollywood Bowl two months ago hadn’t helped his state of mind. On top of everything else bothering him, she made him feel guilty for his sin of omission.

On those previous occasions in her presence, he’d had his reasons for not telling her the truth. They’d made perfect sense to him. But no longer.

Maybe the peace and quiet of the monastery was exactly what he needed to get his head on straight. It was only an hour’s flight to Salt Lake. The brothers would give him the space he wanted.

Right now he craved privacy. Living at sea in such close quarters with the other men made that impossible.

Loners were perceived as troublemakers by virtue of their desire for isolation. A loner caused division in the group without meaning to. Division created unrest and low morale among the crew.

Andre was beginning to think that if he didn’t snap out of it pretty soon, his days of working at sea were numbered.

Seven hours later, when the burning orange ball of the sun had long since dropped into the Great Salt Lake, he drove his rental car past the gates leading to the monastery.

The brothers had finished their chores for the day. Not a soul was in sight. Halfway to the edifice he pulled to the side of the road to finish his hamburger and fries.

When he looked up, the mountains seemed to jump out at him. The snow had melted from their peaks, evidence of a hot summer. He hadn’t appreciated them on his first visit. They literally rose from the backyards of peoples’ homes.

His father would have seen this view every day. For a man who had been born in the flat lands of the Louisiana Bayou, the rugged terrain of the Rockies must have been a constant source of amazement to him.

The peal of bells resounded from the church belfry, permeating the tranquillity of the well-tended grounds and orchards. It was a beautiful sound, if not a little lonely. But that was because Andre was on the outside, looking in. This was home to eighty monks who wanted for nothing. Each was content.

Andre was the visitor who didn’t belong, but because of an accident of birth, he had the right to come and go here at will.

However, he didn’t have the right to disturb the brothers any more than he could help. They retired early.

Starting up the motor once more, he continued his drive to the monastery and locked the car. The warm night air smelled sweet. It brought a physical ache clear to his hands.

With a tug of the bellpull, he summoned one of the brothers who greeted him cordially and told him he could use the same room as before.

A feeling of déjà vu accompanied him on his solitary walk through the corridors lined with holy pictures.

The sense of loss grew stronger. He’d had so little time with his parent.

His room appeared to be the same as he’d left it. With one exception. Someone had left a magazine on the desk next to the missal.

Curious, he put down his duffel bag and reached for it. “BEEHIVE MAGAZINE. Your Passport to Utah’s Wonders.”

He opened the cover and scanned the index. Francesca Mallory. His heart gave a hard kick.

Sinking down on the cot, he turned to the article on the monastery. The mockup she’d shown him hadn’t done it justice.

Staring straight at him, taking up the whole page, was the full color picture of his father, Abbot Ambrose, the same picture he carried in his bag.

A lump lodged in his throat and refused to go away.

He read every word of the text several times.

When he thought about it, hundreds of millions of people had lived and died over the centuries, and no one ever knew their stories. Yet many thousands of people had already read this article which witnessed to the world that Andre’s father had performed a special work on the earth and had made a remarkable contribution.

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