“Spend the rest of the evening with me.”

Fran stared straight ahead. “I don’t accept invitations from virtual strangers.”

“We’re hardly strangers.”

Her head swung around in reaction. The banked fire in Andre’s eyes excited and frightened her at the same time. “You are to me.” Her voice trembled.

“Surely the news that I’m a mere man who finds himself attracted to you should come as a relief. Now you don’t have to feel guilty that you’ve been tempting me beyond my endurance.”

“You’re wrong, Mr. Benet! If anything, your confession makes you more suspect than ever!”

“I didn’t start out with the intention of lying to you. I didn’t want to feel an attachment to you so I perpetuated this myth, and then tried to forget you. But that immediate attraction has never gone away. Now I want to explore what there could be between us—because I know you feel that attraction, too.”

Rebecca Winters, a mother of four, is a graduate of the University of Utah. She has won the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award and been named Utah Writer of the Year.

Husband Potential
Rebecca Winters

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

FROM THE STEPS of the Trappist monastery on the hillside, Fran Mallory could see out over the entire Salt Lake Valley. At seven in the morning, the sun had barely come up over the mountains behind the sandy rock-faced edifice.

Dew still bathed the freshly mown grass on this glorious late April morning. A feeling of peace pervaded the grounds covered in acres of clover and flowering trees.

All this and more she’d been cataloguing with her camera as the delicious perfume of fruit blossoms acted like an aphrodisiac on her senses. She stood gazing at the clouds which moved across a brilliant blue sky like huge, fat white pillows piled as high as the eye could see.

Living by the dictates of a hectic agenda, she wished there were some way to store this moment as she would a piece of information on her computer, then come back to this exact spot with a click of the mouse whenever she needed to regroup and get in touch with her real self, whatever that was….

So far, she had no idea. Fran only knew that at rare times like this, her soul yearned inexplicably for something she couldn’t put a name to.

As she stood there musing, the haunting sound of the monks singing Gregorian chant permeated the outside walls of the chapel. The beautiful male voices came from those celibate men who were dedicated to a higher cause in the service of God.

She couldn’t fathom men who denied themselves their earthly passions in order to show their devotion.

On the other hand, her own selfish father hadn’t been able to control his passions. After being unfaithful to her mother with more than one woman, he’d left the state never to be seen or heard from again.

Fran wasn’t the only girl among her group of friends whose family had known tragedy. Marsha Hume’s father was serving time in prison because it was discovered he’d been married to two women at the same time living in separate towns.

Fran hadn’t been able to fathom that either. Nor could she countenance that several male students in her classes at the university turned out to be married men who’d come on to her while they’d been studying, actually believing she might be interested. Revolted and disillusioned, Fran found her distrust of men in general was growing.

If God had wanted man and woman to be married and cling happily together as one flesh forever, she didn’t see it happening in the world she inhabited. Grudgingly she admitted there were a few exceptions. Her uncle and her pastor—and a couple of men at her work.

The monks she could hear singing could be added to the list. She supposed they were honorable men, although she put them in another classification of human being altogether.

She would sell her soul for one good man, but after twenty-eight years, she despaired of ever finding him. Tossing her head with its silvery-gold mane, she opened the heavy door, anxious to put aside any irritating thoughts on such a lovely day.

The chapel foyer appeared to be deserted. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was far too early in the day for visitors or tourists.

A sign indicated that guests should go upstairs to observe the mass. Another sign pointed to the gift shop on her right. Paul had said the Abbot would meet her in there for the initial interview. Depending on the outcome and his willingness, she might get some inside shots as well.

As Fran opened the gift shop door, her breath caught in her throat. After everything Paul had told her, she had been prepared to greet a man in his seventies.

The tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven monk behind the counter had to be in his midthirties. He was dressed in the same kind of brown work shirt and trousers she’d seen the monks wearing out in the orchards. Despite his attire, he had a princely bearing.

At her entry, he stopped stacking jars and flicked his dark, piercing gaze to hers. His intelligent eyes looked black but were probably brown. The dim light in the shop obscured details. After an unnerving silence she heard him murmur, “May I help you?”

This monk spoke in a deep, rich masculine tone, unaccountably stirring her senses.

“I’m Ms. Mallory from Beehive Magazine. The Abbot made arrangements to let someone from our magazine interview him for an article we want to run in the July issue. I was told to meet him here at seven.”

“I’m afraid Father Ambrose is unwell this morning. He hopes you will forgive him for the inconvenience and make another appointment.”

He went on filling the rest of the shelves with the kinds of jars of honey and jams she’d occasionally purchased here in past years.

“Of course.”

Fran had never been this totally ignored before, but then again, she’d never come face-to-face with a Trappist monk either.

“Do I make it through you?”

He lifted his well-shaped head and stared at her, his eyes narrowing as if he were not pleased with the question.

“No. Phone him in a week. He should be better by then.”

“I hope it’s not serious.”

“I shouldn’t think so.” He turned his back on her, no doubt signaling that this meeting had come to an end. Oddly enough she didn’t want to go. The monks fascinated her, especially this one. His short-cropped hair looked boyish from the back. She tried to imagine him in jeans and T-shirt, his hair a normal length.

“I thought Trappist monks took vows of silence, the Abbot being the exception to handle the public, of course. Why is it that you can talk to me?”

“Though the brothers find excessive conversation unnecessary, the vow of total silence is a myth,” came the even reply over his broad shoulder.

Fran didn’t know that.

“If it’s true, could I interview you while you work? Or is the Abbot the only one allowed to talk to women?”

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t be speaking to you now,” he answered quietly. Too quietly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that comment to sound provocative.”

Suddenly he turned and faced her once more. “Why apologize?”

At the boldness of his question, she had no comeback because a river of heat unexpectedly coursed through her body.

“You’re not the first curious woman to cross over this threshold, intrigued by a man’s decision to remain celibate. No doubt someone with your looks would find that decision incomprehensible.”

“My looks?” She could feel her indignation kindling.

“Come now, Ms. Mallory. You know very well your impact on a man, otherwise you would have framed your question differently.” His gaze dropped lower. “You would have dressed in something less appealing. Only a woman with your kind of confidence lets nothing get in her way, not even the indisposition of Father Ambrose.”

If she were a violent person, she would have slapped him. “I’m not surprised you’ve ended up in here, shut away from the world. Only God would be able to forgive your arrogance, not to mention your colossal rudeness to a stranger.”

“You’ve left out a number of my major sins. In any event, I apologize for offending you.”

“You don’t talk like a monk.”

His hands stilled on the counter. “How does a monk talk?”

She didn’t have an answer for that. She had never known one. Paul had arranged things with the Abbot. In her opinion they were a different breed of men, wanting to be cloistered away from the world to worship.

“I’m sorry if I’ve shattered your illusions, but monks are ordinary people of flesh and blood. In some cases they’re just as prone to flaws as the rest of the world.”

“So I’m discovering.” His frankness had come as a complete shock. “Is that what you want me to include in my article?” she challenged when she could find her voice.

“What I want is immaterial. Without Father Ambrose’s consent, there won’t be one.”

“And if you could influence his decision, he wouldn’t agree to make another appointment. It may interest you to know that I was sent on this assignment because a colleague from the magazine doing this part of the layout is ill with the flu. I didn’t come here with the intention of giving sex-starved celibates their thrill for the morning.”

With her cheeks glowing hot she added, “Judging by your reaction, it appears my presence has titillated you. No doubt your tortured conscience will force you to give yourself some sort of penance which you richly deserve.”

At the entry to the room she paused to shift her camera to her other shoulder. “Tell the Abbot that someone from the magazine will call to make another appointment. Have a good day.”

She overcame the urge to slam the door in his face, then left the monastery without looking back. Her joy in the beauty of the morning had evaporated as if it had never been.

Andre Benet could smell the faint scent of peaches from her shampoo which lingered in the air after she stormed out of the gift shop.

He’d been rude to her. Exceedingly rude, yet he couldn’t summon any guilt. She wasn’t that different from his own birth mother, a woman who lit her own fires. A bewitching woman who went where angels feared to tread and never counted the cost.

His own mother had known of his father’s proclivity for the priesthood, yet she’d tempted him before he’d gone away. Andre had been the result.

He wondered if it was a coincidence that Ms. Mallory had worn a peach-colored, two-piece suit. Even her skin had the proverbial peaches and cream glow. Combine this with gossamer hair, and no man would be totally immune, not even a monk, and she knew it!

Apparently his mother had possessed that same kind of haunting beauty and allure. Enough for his father to sleep with her one more time before he went his separate way.

Andre understood that kind of desire well enough. If he were an artist, he wouldn’t be able to resist capturing the vision of Ms. Mallory on canvas. But he wasn’t an artist, and certainly no monk.

As far as he knew, he had no particular talents. Orphaned at birth, he’d been raised in New Orleans by his Aunt Maudelle, an embittered but basically good woman who worked as a seamstress.

Enamored of the big boats traveling up and down the Mississippi, he had left home in his teens to see the world, working on freighters in various capacities until he’d become a merchant seaman.

In time he became good friends with a Swiss who spoke four languages fluently. Envious of his friend’s ability, Andre enrolled at the university in Zurich where he studied German and French along with history. Though he could have gone into teaching with his degree, Andre returned to the sea, a job that allowed him latitude to keep on the move.

He stayed in touch with Maudelle and always sent her money. On the rare occasion, he came home to New Orleans for a short visit, but nothing could anchor his soul or curb his restlessness, certainly not a wife. Females were to be enjoyed, nothing more. Maudelle despaired of his attitude and prayed daily for his spiritual welfare.

He always laughed, but his amusement had vanished when a month ago a close friend of his aunt’s actually spent the money to phone him aboard ship along the Bosporus and beg him to come home. His aunt was ill.

Andre had a gut feeling it might be fatal. Taking the next flight out of Ankara, Turkey, he found her on the point of death. Though he had never been a churchgoer and had no religious views, he knew she was a good Catholic so he called her parish for someone to come and administer the last rites.

While he held her hand and waited for a priest to appear, Maudelle began her confession. He had heard of deathbed repentance, but he’d never given it any thought. Not until certain revelations began pouring from her mouth.

Her confession had turned Andre’s life inside out and had brought him to Salt Lake City, Utah, a place he had always thought of as the back of beyond, a wasteland the hated Mormon Pioneers of the 1840s had been driven to found during America’s Western Expansion, a place no one else on earth wanted.

Andre loved the water.

The great Salt Lake Desert with its great Salt Sea was anathema to him. Yet here he was on temporary leave from his job…a stranger in a strange land…living in undreamed-of circumstances.

He could scarcely credit that he was really alive, except for the lingering scent of peaches which was a powerful reminder of his mortality. And, of course, the ailing monk lying down in his cell-like room at the other end of the sanctuary. A monk known to the world as Abbot Ambrose, Andre’s biological father, born Charles Ambrose sixty-six years earlier to parents of English and French heritage.

According to Father Joseph, recurring bouts of pneumonia had aged his father a good ten years. The gaunt, frail monk was a shell of his former self.

As Andre let himself inside the room, his father turned his head and stared up at him. “Did you show the journalist around?”

“No. I told her you’d be better in a week. You’ve spent your life’s work building this monastery to what it is today. No one else should give her your story but you.”

His father lifted his hand. “I have done nothing. It is all God’s handiwork, my son.”

“Whatever you say, Father. Nevertheless, we’ll let you get your strength back so you can be the one to guide the interview.”

“I won’t recover this time.”

“Nonsense,” Andre snapped. To lose the father he had just found, the parent he desperately wanted and needed to get to know, was killing him. “I’m sending an ambulance for you. You should be in a hospital and waited on.”

“No.” The older man wheezed, struggling for breath. “No hospital for me. I always hated them.”

Another thing Andre and his father had in common.

So many things.

So many years gone by that they had been denied a knowledge of each other.

“You’re my greatest earthly comfort now. Come closer. It’s a joy to talk to the son of my flesh. You’re a divine gift at my last hour.”

That had to be a lie.

Andre’s sudden appearance at the monastery ten days ago announcing that he was the Abbot’s son, had come as such a great shock, Andre was convinced his pneumonia had taken a turn for the worse.

No matter how much his father denied it, Andre knew the truth. He was the one responsible for the older man’s present condition. It weighted Andre with fresh grief.

“You are not to blame for anything, my son. Indeed, you are a victim, and my heart grieves that you’ve been robbed of your family.

“If there is an accusing finger, it should be pointed at me for taking my pleasure with your mother before I said my final vows to become a monk. It was the most selfish thing I have ever done, and entirely unfair to you and your mother.”

Andre’s head reared back. “According to Aunt Maudelle, my mother tempted you beyond your endurance.”

He raised his hand once more, then it fell back at his side. “Maudelle was your mother’s elder sister. She never married, never knew a man. Her jealousy of Lisette made her say unkind things.

“Don’t believe her accusations. A man cannot be tempted unless he allows himself to be, my son. You’ve been in the world. You know that’s true.”

Andre did know.

“Your mother’s family was French. She was very beautiful. I see so much of Lisette in your black hair, your eyes,” he cried softly before the coughing took over. “Though I had always wanted to serve God, I loved her, too. My heart was torn because of conflicting loyalties.

“If she had let me know she was pregnant with you, I would have married her. Maybe a part of me was hoping it would happen. I told her I was being sent to Utah, but she remained silent. I never saw or heard from her again. I had no idea she died of complications after you were born.” Tears rolled down his flushed cheeks.

“Make no mistake, Andre,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Your mother was the unselfish one. She deliberately chose not to tell me she was pregnant because in her heart, she knew of my desire to serve God. Otherwise why wouldn’t I have married her rather than enroll in the seminary in the first place?

“In the end, your Aunt Maudelle did something even more unselfish. Despite her shortcomings and her jealousy, she raised you to be a wonderful man.”

“She didn’t even have me christened with your name, Father.”

“That wasn’t her fault. I’m sure she and your mother decided you should bear your mother’s name so there would be no scandal attached to my family name. Don’t you see? They wanted to protect me.

“But Benet is a very fine name. Your mother’s name. Be proud of it. Oh, Andre— I don’t deserve such a blessing, but I do know God will reward Maudelle who must have secretly loved you like her own child. Just look at you!”

He stared at Andre out of loving eyes. “I am so proud of you. You’ve been everywhere, done everything. You’re so knowledgeable about everything, you speak other languages. You’ve acquired a formal education, and have invested your money wisely. No man could ask for a finer son. I’ve told the brothers that you are my true-born son. I want to shout it to the world!”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Father. No one need have known. I never meant to bring you shame.”

“Shame?” He sounded truly angry. “You don’t understand! Why would I hide anything as miraculous as my own flesh and blood from the brothers I have served all these years? I’ve told them that when I’m gone, I want you to be free to stay here for as long as you like. This can be your home when you want it to be.

“I’m not a man of the world. 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. I see only one thing lacking in you. You’ve learned everything except the meaning of life. Maybe one day you’ll find it here. Then you’ll enjoy the peace which has eluded you for so long.”

Andre marveled at his father’s insight and grasped the frail hand reaching for his. When he heard his father sob, it was like a dam bursting. Andre broke down and wept with him.

“Andre?” he whispered some time later. “I know what’s in your heart. Besides the confusion and anger you feel against me, your mother, your Aunt Maudelle, you have questions. I’ll try my best to answer them all.

“But you must promise me something in return.” Another battle for breath wracked his body.

“Andre—promise me you’ll not let anger and bitterness rule your life!”

His father was asking the impossible, but with Death holding her jaws open wide, Andre didn’t see he had a choice and gave his newly found parent the one promise he couldn’t imagine keeping.

Fran couldn’t believe it was the middle of May already. Friday was the deadline for the July issue, and she still had to make that trip out to Clarion today to visit some of the descendants of the first Jewish settlers to the state and get pictures.

“Line two for you, Frannie.”

“I can’t take it right now, Paula.”

“But the man called five times yesterday.”

“What’s his name?”

“He wouldn’t leave it. I told him you would be in for a few minutes this morning and now I’ve run out of excuses.”

“Oh, all right.”

She hated it when people refused to be called back, as if she lived to answer their phone calls. Pushing the hair away from her face, she put the receiver to her ear. “Fran Mallory here.”

“Ms. Mallory. At last.”

Fran recognized that voice.

Without volition her body started to tremble for a variety of reasons she couldn’t explain. One thing was certain. Trappist monk or no, she refused to help him out. If that was uncharitable, then so be it. He’d been horrible to her.

“Yes?” came her sharp reply.

“I deserved that.”

The unexpected olive branch caused her eyes to close tightly. Never in her life had she met a person less like a monk, even if she hadn’t personally known one.

“If the Abbot is well enough to handle an interview, you should be talking to Paul Goates. It’s his story.”

“I understand he’s on vacation. If you still want to do the article, come to the monastery now.”

The line went dead.

She held the receiver in front of her and let out a cry of frustration before banging it down on the hook.

“Come to the monastery now,” she mimicked him in a Darth Vader voice. Who did he think he was? The divine vessel?

“Talking to yourself again, Frannie? You know what that’s a sign of,” Paul baited her.

Paul!

She swung around in her swivel chair. “What are you doing here?”

The short blond journalist blinked. “Last I knew, I happened to work here.”

“But you’re on vacation.”

“I am? Did Barney finally give me a break? Now? When we’re this close to the deadline? That’s news to me.”

“That monk from the monastery just called and said I should come for the interview right now. He said you were out of town.”

“I was. Yesterday.” Paul broke out in a grin. “That monk must want to see you again. If you can’t imagine how hard up they are for the sight of a good-looking woman, I can.”

Paul was wrong. The particular monk in question didn’t like women. She had firsthand knowledge of that salient fact.

“Well, I’m certainly not going back there again when it’s your story, Paul.”

“Ah, come on. Give the poor guy a break.” He winked. “Besides, I’m due at the Dinosaur Museum out in Vernal by noon to get pictures on that new set of Brontosaurus fossils for the July edition. And don’t forget, you’ve already taken outside photos of the monastery.

“They were fabulous, by the way. In fact some of those wide-angled lens shots capturing the mountains were inspired. It’s all yours with my blessing, Frannie baby.”

“Thanks a lot,” she muttered, not in the least happy about the sudden change in plans. She almost dreaded seeing him again, though in her heart of hearts she had to admit the monk fascinated her. He made her feel things she’d never felt before and couldn’t put a name to. The only saving grace was the fact that she’d be in the Abbot’s company for the duration of the interview.

As for the monk, she could pray he wouldn’t be anywhere around. If she did happen to bump into him, she would pretend he wasn’t alive.

But a half hour later she had to recant those words when she discovered him waiting for her in the parking lot of the monastery grounds. Before the car had even come to a stop, the adrenaline was surging through her veins.

He opened the door on the driver’s side and took the camera case from her. Heat suffused her face as she felt his glance on her long, shapely legs where her dress had ridden up. She quickly got out of the car, noticing that he was dressed in the same dark work pants and matching shirt he’d worn the other day.

On her first visit, she hadn’t realized how tan he was. The gift shop had been too dim. In the strong sunlight, his skin looked burnished to teak, witness of the many hours he spent in the out-of-doors. His dark aquiline features and strong, hard-muscled body took her breath. Embarrassed to be caught staring, she averted her eyes.

“You must have surpassed the speed limit to have arrived here this fast, Ms. Mallory.”

“I’m on a deadline. This stop is only one of several I have to make today, but I suppose that to you it’s another sin you can lay at my feet.”

“Another?”

“No doubt you’ve compiled a long list by now.”

“Why would I do that?” He shut the door for her.

“Why, indeed. Is the Abbot waiting inside?”

“No. He passed away four days after your visit.”

Fran let out a shocked gasp. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me this when you phoned?”

“Why?” He stroked his strong chin. “Surely his death could mean nothing to you. You’ll still get your story.”

She turned on the monk, her hands curled into fists. “How can you say that? Paul told me that over the phone he came across as a wonderful, delightful person. I was looking forward to meeting him and am very saddened by the news.”

“I stand rebuked,” he murmured.

She swallowed hard. As an apology, it wasn’t much. But obviously this monk had never developed any social graces.

“I understand he was the Abbot here for over thirty years. Being that you monks live in such a close community, I can only assume that he’ll be terribly missed.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“You’re mocking me.”

He gave a careless, yet elegant shrug of his shoulders. “Not at all. On the contrary, I shall miss him more than you know,” he said in a raw voice that oddly enough lent credence to his words. Maybe the Abbot’s illness and death had brought out the worst in him.

Hadn’t she read somewhere that nuns and monks weren’t supposed to become attached to each other? In Fran’s mind, a person would have to be pretty inhuman not to care.

“Father Ambrose honored me by asking if I would handle this interview in his place.”

Something was going on here. Some strange undercurrent she didn’t understand, but she had no desire to fence further with this enigmatic monk.

“Our magazine would love to honor him and his memory.”

“Tell me about the magazine you work for, Ms. Mallory.”

“We print a monthly publication that sells Utah to the world. We do in-depth articles on geographical locations of interest, history, religion, industry, recreational sites, people.”

“Why a story on the monastery after all these years?”

“We want to devote an issue to Utah, then and now. It will include stories about the diverse groups of people still here today who can trace their roots back to pioneer times.

“As I understand it, this monastery got its start in the 1860s, but the first wooden structure burned to the ground from a lightning strike. I researched enough to find out that it didn’t become a truly self-sufficient community until a hundred years later when Abbot Ambrose was sent here. Now it’s a place of beauty and a sanctuary for those who visit as well as those who make up its religious community.”

“I’m impressed you know that much about it. I suggest we start the interview by taking a walk through the orchards.”

For the first time since they’d met, he seemed a little less defensive. This in turn helped her to relax somewhat. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll turn on my tape recorder as we talk.”

He nodded. She had to walk fast to keep up with his long strides. He moved with an effortless male grace she couldn’t help admiring. “Were the orchards his idea?”

“Yes, those and the beehives, both of which brought in enough revenue from their homemade honey butter and preserves to purchase more land and sustain the community without any funds from the outside.”

“Where did he get his recipes?”

“The Abbot grew up in Louisiana. He had a friend whose mother cooked for a wealthy white family who owned one of the plantations and used it to entertain friends on the weekend. Apparently the boys would watch her make jam and honey butter. He brought the secret of good old Southern cooking with him.”

“The honey butter is fabulous. I often buy it. What a fantastic story. Oh, I would have loved to have talked to the Abbot in person.”

“He was far too ill at the end to grant anyone an interview. But I can tell you this much. When he arrived here thirty years ago, there was nothing but a Quonset hut left over from World War II set on a plot of ground filled with rocks and weeds.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked out over the lush vista before her, snapping photo after photo of the brothers at work. Slowly her eyes traveled to the monastery itself. “The rocks in the facade—”

“All of it local stone. Each one was manually hoisted and carried by the monks to build the new structure. It was a painstaking, tedious process. A labor of love that took many years.”

“The Abbot had vision to make this all work,” she surmised aloud. “What a remarkable monk. Are there any photos showing the way it looked when he first started building the new chapel?”

“There are a few, but they’re not in very good condition.”

“We have an expert on the staff who does excellent restoration work. Would you trust me with them? If not, I can consult someone at the Utah Historical Society and see what they have on hand.”

“I see no reason why you can’t borrow them.”

Secretly Fran was delighted. For some odd reason she wanted this article to be exceptional.

“Is it permitted to take any pictures inside the church?”

“You can take photos in several places. From the loft where the public is allowed to witness the mass, you should be able to get your best shots of the altar. He had the small Pieta specially commissioned from Florence, Italy.”

“I’ve seen it before. It’s exquisite. Do you think I could take pictures of it as well as the Abbot’s grave? I presume he’s buried on the property. I’d like a picture of his headstone to finish the article and entitle it, ‘Monument to a saint.’”

The monk’s expression sobered. In a quiet voice he said, “The community cemetery is behind the monastery.”

For the next hour Fran plied him with questions as they toured the grounds, the kitchen, the library which the Abbot used for his personal study, and the inner sanctuary. Naturally the monks’ dormitory was off limits.

When they reached the gift store, she took more pictures, then bought honey butter and pear jam to give to her family. She also took some free literature which contained facts she would intersperse in the article.

“I have one more favor to ask.” He had walked her out to the car. The time had flown and she found herself reluctant to leave. “You’ve let me photograph your brothers. May I take one last picture of you on the chapel steps?”

“No.”

It was unequivocal and final.

A wave of disappointment swept through her but she determined not to show it. What’s wrong with you, Fran? He’s a monk, for heaven’s sake!

Forcing a smile she looked up at him. “You’ve been more generous with your time and information than I would have expected. I’ll leave so you can get back to your duties. I-I never realized how hard you work, how busy you are.”

She knew she was talking too fast, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever she got nervous, the words sort of tumbled out.

“This has been an education for me. I know it will make fascinating reading for thousands of people. When the proofs are ready, I’ll call you and show you a mockup of the layout for your approval.”

“When will that be?”

She had to think fast. There was still the drive to Clarion to fit in. If she worked late—

“Day after tomorrow.” Deadline day. “Probably nine o’clock. Will that be convenient for you?”

“I’ll be in the gift store.”

I know.

That’s the problem. I’m afraid I’m not going to forget.

What excuse will I have for showing up here after the article has been published and you’ve been furnished a copy?

“All this time and you’ve never told me the name you go by.”

His features closed up. “It’s not important.”

He held the driver’s door open so she was forced to get in. When he shut it, he said, “I’ve been following Father Ambrose’s instructions. Just pretend he was the one giving you the interview. God will forgive this one lie.”

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. His words implied that God wouldn’t forgive anything else.

Was it a warning?

Had he sensed her natural attraction to him? Had he felt it from the first moment they’d met?

If he worked in the gift shop, how many female visitors to the monastery had been drawn to his dark looks and undeniable masculine appeal? Is that why he’d been so rude to her?

Mortified that this might be the case, she refused to look at him and drove away, her face on fire. But as she rounded the curve at the bottom of the drive, she couldn’t help looking in the rearview mirror one last time. He wasn’t there.

CHAPTER TWO

“AUNT MAUDELLE? What was my daddy like?”

“How do I know. Your mother went with a lot of different men. All I can say is, he wasn’t around when you were born.”

“I made her die, huh.”

“Not on purpose. Now stop asking questions and finish the dishes. It’s time for bed and I’m tired. We’ve got to go to mass in the morning.”

“What’s mass?”

“Church.”

“I don’t like church. It’s spooky.”

“You’re not supposed to like it.”

“Why not?”

“Duty is different than pleasure. It builds character.”

“What’s character?”

“It’s doing something you don’t want to do.”

“Then why do we have to do it?”

“Why? Because God said so.”

“What’s God?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I know who Mary is.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s Jesus’s mommy. He was lucky ’cause he got to see her all the time.”

“Who told you that?”

“Pierre. I wish I could see my mommy.”

“Well you can’t, so stop fussing about it.”

“Okay.”

Andre came awake from his bad dreams with a jerk. His skin glistened with perspiration. He checked his watch. It was four-thirty in the morning.

He levered himself from the cot in the sparsely furnished room used by guests of the monastery. Pouring water into a bowl, he sluiced his face with the cold liquid, then raked his hands through his hair to steady them.

For the first time in his life it occurred to him that he had never dreamed about missing his father, only his mother. How strange. Even stranger and crueler was Aunt Maudelle’s silence. All those years growing up and she never said a word.

But after his long talks with his father, he began to understand how much it must have hurt his aunt that he didn’t show more appreciation for her sacrifice. Every time he told her he missed his mother, she must have suffered because she had tried so hard to be a mother to him.

Part of him wished he had never heard her confession. Now it was too late to go back and tell his aunt how sorry he was that he hadn’t understood.

Wasn’t there an old adage about ignorance being bliss?

Up until her confession, his life hadn’t necessarily been blissful, but he had made a comfortable living, most of which had been invested. There was no question that he’d been able to pursue his education and continue the adventurous lifestyle he craved.

Now suddenly he was grounded for the moment to a piece of land no man owned, in a landlocked desert which might as well be on another planet.

If he had felt no sense of identity before Aunt Maudelle’s confession, he felt it even less now that he’d come face to face with his own father.

They were total opposites.

His father loved the Rocky Mountains. He loved growing things. A flower, a four-leaf clover, those were miracles to him. He craved the stability of one location. A simple man with simple tastes who liked to work with his hands and accepted his daily lot without question. A cheerful, obedient, temperate individual who didn’t need a woman. A man who believed God existed.

How could Andre have come from such a man?

For that matter, how could he have come from a mother who had no schooling past the eighth grade, who had no dreams, who was forced to go to mass once a week and was content to sew dresses for wealthy ladies?

According to his father she was a beautiful young woman who had many admirers, but fell in love with a man who wanted to be a monk. None of it made sense to Andre.

Possibly this was how some adopted children felt when they learned about the lives of their birth parents. They simply couldn’t relate.

He wiped his jaw with a towel, noting the rasp of his beard. A shave was in order. He’d get cleaned up when it was time to meet with Ms. Mallory at nine. Once he had approved the layout of her article, he would send for a taxi and head for the airport.

No matter how kind the brothers had been, he was a stranger here. It was time to move on.

However, as long as he had come to the States, he decided now would be the right time to fly to Los Angeles and sign on a freighter making runs to Alaska, a place he had never visited. New sights were what he needed. For the time being, he craved the open sea, particularly the calm, sunny waters of the Pacific.

At a loose end, he decided to dress and join the brothers out in the orchard. They were up and on the job by five. Three or four hours of hard labor would make the time go faster. In the mood he was in, a book wouldn’t hold him. It was better to keep physically busy so he wouldn’t think.

Throughout Andre’s extensive travels he’d met many exotic, mysterious women. He’d had relationships with several of them. But living at the monastery with his ailing father had been a different proposition altogether.

Apart from being at sea for long periods with the men, he supposed this was the longest time he had ever gone without having the slightest interest in a woman. Therefore he had to assume that Ms. Mallory’s image kept intruding because unlike the other female visitors to the monastery, he linked her presence with his father and knew she would be back to finish up the interview.

Four hours later the woman in question walked into the gift shop with a large folder tucked beneath her arm. Andre was not pleased to discover that he’d been listening for her footsteps. Nor was he very happy about the sudden race of his pulse when he finally acknowledged her presence.

So much for following in his celibate father’s footsteps.

She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. But there was something different about her. Even in the dim light, she glowed with health, as if she’d brought the essence of the day with her. That had to be the missing ingredient in the others.

“Good morning.” Her voice had taken on a husky tone that reached to his insides.

“Ms. Mallory. Go ahead and lay it on the counter.” He moved a few jars to make room.

She opened the folder, then turned it to face him. “As you can see, there’s a colored picture of Father Ambrose at the head of the article. The archives department of the Catholic administrative offices donated it.

“I understand it was taken at least twenty years ago. He was a very handsome man in his robes. You’ve been so kind to allow us to do the article, I had the original framed as a gift for the monastery. It’s m—the magazine’s way of thanking you for your time.”

Andre caught the brief slip she’d made before she propped the framed picture on the counter next to the folder. His thoughts reeled as he stared into the burnished face and dark blue eyes of the man who had sired him.

One look erased the haunting memory of the much older, worn-out monk who had struggled with every breath until he’d died in Andre’s arms.

Ms. Mallory had spoken the truth.

In his father’s younger days, he’d been a good-looking man. He stood tall in his monkly vestments, and appeared very distinguished. An unexpected rush of filial pride shook Andre to the core.

Those leaf-green eyes of hers darted him an anxious glance. “I-Is it all right?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes,” came the gruff response. Andre no longer felt the desire to bait her, particularly not when she’d given him a gift beyond price.

There was a slight hesitation before she murmured, “Please— take your time looking over the article and pictures. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back shortly.”

He didn’t know if she was just being sensitive to his mood, or if she needed to use the ladies’ room, but he was grateful for a few minutes alone.

Once she’d left, he read every word, marveling over her grasp of his father’s life’s work. The photos captured the tranquillity and beauty of the church and its surroundings.

A deep pain seared him because his modest parent hadn’t been able to hang on long enough to enjoy reading this wonderful tribute to the monastic life and his contribution to the community in general.

The article made his father come alive in a brand-new way. Deep in thought, he hadn’t realized that Ms. Mallory had come back in the room until he caught the flowery scent of her perfume.

“Is there anything you want changed? Anything you don’t agree with?” Her eyes searched his.

“No. If the Abbot were alive, he would have cherished this.”

“I’m glad,” she said quietly before looking away. “When it’s published, I’ll bring several copies for everyone.”

I won’t be here, Andre mused to himself. “The brothers will be pleased.”

He heard her suck in her breath. “Good. Then I won’t keep you any longer. I need to get back to the office straightaway. Goodbye.”

She closed the file folder and put it under her arm. The action drew his attention to the alluring shape of her body beneath the yellow suit before she started out of the room.

Andre should have answered her, but the word stuck in his gullet. Rather than escort her outside, he remained behind the counter, as if it were his refuge.

One less memory to deal with.

Andre didn’t like Salt Lake and had no intention of coming back.

Fran might have had a dozen errands to run in preparation for her upcoming assignment to cover the Salt Lake Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s tour to Los Angeles and Australia. But she’d been counting the minutes until the July issue of Beehive Magazine was off the press. She hadn’t slept all night waiting for this morning so she could take several copies to the monastery.

After her last trip out there, she’d made up her mind that she would send the magazines in the mail. It would be the right thing to do. The moral thing to do considering she’d been having fantasies about a Trappist Monk.

But some force beyond her will couldn’t or wouldn’t let it go at that.

I have to see the monk one more time. I have to.

Her mother would be shocked if she knew the truth. Fran herself was shocked by her own behavior.

If the pastor of her church knew, he would tell Fran the adversary was devious and knew how to get to people when they were at their most vulnerable. She’d heard it all before from the pulpit, but had never placed any credence in those words.

She still didn’t. But there was no doubt in her mind that going to see the monk this time was wrong.

“You’re not the first curious female to cross over this threshold, intrigued by a man’s decision to remain celibate. No doubt someone with your looks would find that decision incomprehensible.”

Fran’s face always went hot when she was embarrassed or ashamed. It was hot now just remembering those words.

The monk had known more about her than she had known about herself. Indeed he had very calculatingly revealed her to herself without batting an eye.

What was really humiliating was the fact that she was going back to the scene of the crime, possibly for more of the same treatment. Was she a masochist, or simply a twisted woman who craved this celibate monk’s attention though she would deny it to her dying breath?

Even though there were eighty or so monks in residence, she only brought a couple of dozen copies. The brothers weren’t allowed to keep any personal possessions, so an individual copy wasn’t necessary. But this way there would be enough to circulate and still keep several on hand in the gift shop for any visitor interested in learning more about the history of the religious shrine.

Now that it was the first of July, different trees were in flower on the monastery grounds. The brothers had to be worn out working in this intense ninety-degree heat. During her interview, she had discovered that there was no air-conditioning inside. Fran couldn’t imagine living without refrigeration.

She couldn’t imagine living at a monastery, period!

This time when she parked her car, she noticed other cars and a Greyhound touring bus. People were milling about. This meant there would be more tourists inside the gift shop.

A frown drove her delicately arched eyebrows together. She hadn’t counted on an audience when she delivered her gift.

You wanted to be alone with him.

Francesca Mallory, you’re a fool!

Without another moment’s hesitation she got out of the car and started for the chapel entrance, the magazines in her arm.

As she had suspected, the gift shop teemed with people in sunglasses, carrying cameras, buying everything in sight. Two elderly monks waited on people, but the one who haunted her nights was nowhere in sight.

Her heart dropped to her toes. She waited in the corner until most of the room had emptied before approaching the one closest to her.

“I’m Fran Mallory from Beehive Magazine. I told the monk who granted me the interview on Abbot Ambrose that I would bring by some copies for all of you.”

He gave a slight bow. “You’re very kind.” Then he reached for the magazines. This wasn’t going the way she had planned it. Now she had little choice but to hand them over.

“Would it be possible to speak to the monk I interviewed?”

“He’s no longer with us.”

Fran blinked in astonishment. “You mean he’s been sent to another monastery?” she cried before she could stop herself.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Her skin prickled unpleasantly. “Of course not. I only meant that I’m disappointed that I couldn’t thank him in person for all his help.”

“I’ll pass the message along.”

“Th-Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Shaken by the news, Fran hurried out to the car but didn’t immediately start the motor.

The sense of loss was too staggering.

By the time she left for Los Angeles two days later, she was furious with herself for having allowed his memory to interfere with her work. As she boarded one of the two specially chartered 747s to carry the Choir and staff, she made up her mind to leave all thoughts of him behind and concentrate on her work.

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?

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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