Husband Potential

This trip was not only going to be a great adventure, it was vitally important to her career. She wasn’t about to jeopardize her work because of a monk she had no business thinking about.

With her mind made up, she found the excitement contagious as she, along with the Choir, arrived at Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles by bus for their concert given to a sellout crowd.

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?

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