She’d seen all of it. Witnessed horrors she could barely recall because her mind had done such a good job of burying the visuals so deep even she couldn’t find them. No one really understood why she did what she did, not even her really. In college when she decided to major in journalism, her advisor told her she had the looks to be a top-notch weathergirl. Her impressive intelligence could get her far, he’d said. But a face and body as choice as hers could take her anywhere she wanted to go. And he’d grabbed her ass and told her exactly where he wanted her to take it. Instead she took it to the dean and got the tenured, award-winning professor canned. As he cleaned out his office, she knocked on his door, smiled at him and said, “Cloudy with a chance of fired,” before walking off. Weathergirl her ass. A man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself had been the death of her brother Adam. Her advisor had been the first abusive man with too much power she’d taken out. Father Stearns might be next.
“Afghanistan,” she repeated. She’d been in war zones. She could do this. Suzanne changed into a reasonably nondescript black dress and pulled her long red hair back into a knot. Earlier that day when she’d hit yet another brick wall attempting to dig up anything on Father Stearns, she’d decided she had no choice but to meet the man. Scanning Sacred Heart’s website she found that Father Stearns presided over Thursday evening mass. Purposefully she hadn’t told Patrick about her trip to Wakefield. He worried about her, worried she’d get hurt. “Afghanistan,” she told him every time he started to patronize her. He chased cheating politicians around the Upper East Side. She covered war zones. That usually shut him up.
Before leaving, Suzanne slipped into a pair of plain black flats. At five-nine in bare feet, Suzanne stood as tall as most men she knew. The priests of her childhood were all small men, old and weak. She wanted this priest to feel comfortable around her, comfortable enough to talk. Intimidating him with her height wouldn’t help the situation.
Being a city girl to the core, Suzanne didn’t own a car. Luckily Patrick did, and he trusted her just enough to let her borrow it. Either that or he really did want her back and would use any means to get in her good graces. Using Google Maps she found Sacred Heart Catholic Church a scant five minutes before Thursday evening Mass was due to start. She raced from the car and into the sanctuary, taking a seat near the back where she could lurk unnoticed. Once inside and seated, Suzanne took the opportunity to look around and get her bearings. Digging in her bag, she pulled out her little steno pad and flipped it open.
Beautiful sanctuary, she wrote. Stained-glass windows depicting Christ’s miracles, traditional architecture—Richardsonian Romanesque maybe? Choir loft above me, seats about 300 people. Truly gorgeous church. I f**king hate it here.
She hadn’t sat in a Catholic Church in years, not since Adam died. Even before that she’d given up on the church, on her childhood faith, on prayer. Any God who could let the sort of evil she’d witnessed happen on His watch wasn’t a God she wanted any part of. And since there didn’t seem to be any other gods out there doing any better, she’d just given up on the concept altogether. She didn’t miss Him or It one bit.
Suzanne stiffened with nervousness as a hymn she hadn’t heard in a million years began and filled the sanctuary. For a 5:30 p.m. evening mass, an impressive number of people were in attendance, almost a hundred by her estimate. Well, if Father Stearns had made the short list to be a bishop so comparatively young, he must have something going for him. Maybe he was one of those liberal theologians who did a lot of social work. Or maybe the church had a fairly active youth group or music ministry. Or maybe…
Suzanne’s body rose from her pew as her heart plummeted through the floor. Shock came first and gave way to disbelief. Disbelief lasted but a moment before suspicion reared its head.
Never before in her life had Suzanne seen a man more strikingly, viscerally handsome. Blond, incredibly blond, and so tall she could have worn five-inch stilettos on her feet without fear of even meeting him eye to eye.
The vestments, the white collar…it had to be him. But how could a Catholic priest be so… She couldn’t even find the right word. Attractive? Beautiful? Desirable?
Still staring, Suzanne nearly forgot to sit down with the rest of the congregation. She’d chosen her seat carefully hoping to go unnoticed in the crowded middle of the sanctuary. But as Father Stearns came up to the altar he cast his eyes across his people and let them rest on her for a long, deliberate moment.
As his gaze touched her, Suzanne felt something stirring in the recesses of her stomach, something that formed a tight knot and sunk in deep and hard. Her hands went numb. Her skin flushed. Even her toes tingled in her plain black flats. For the first time in over a decade, for the first time since Adam died, she felt compelled to release one tiny desperate prayer under her breath.
“Oh…my…God.”
7
If Michael didn’t worship the ground Nora walked on, he’d probably kill her. From what he could tell, Griffin’s horse-house-mansion-farm, as Nora called it, had about a billion rooms. And of all those one billion rooms, she was forcing Michael to sleep here. She’d left Griffin in the grand foyer while she’d escorted him to his room. His room in the—
“The nursery?” Michael asked in horror.
“Isn’t it cute? Griffin said he spent half of his childhood up here. This is his old room. There’s no crib anymore. It’s been redecorated.”