Mortal Sin (19 page)

“You just got into his truck and left with him? A total stranger?”

“What can I say? I was young and foolish. I must have had a guardian angel watching over me, because he was a decent family man. When we got to New Orleans, he and his wife took me in while I tried to figure out what to do next. What I ended up doing was meeting husband number two. Jackson Forrester. We only knew each other a few weeks before we went down to the courthouse and made it legal. Lord, did I love that man.”

She paused, watched a pair of gulls fighting over a scrap of refuse that had washed up on shore. “I was a little older, a little smarter. Or so I thought. I really believed this was the one that would last. I was cashiering nights at Winn-Dixie. Mindless work, and while my fingers were punching the cash register, my mind was wandering. I used to weave these elaborate fantasies about a little house with a white picket fence, a couple of kids, a dog. Hell, I even threw in the minivan. Sarah Connelly Forrester, the domestic goddess. But Jackie had a drinking problem, and when he lost his job, the drinking got worse. It took me a while, but I finally realized that no matter how much I loved him, no matter what I did or said, he wasn’t going to quit. So I had myself a big old cry, then I packed his things, changed the locks, and filed for divorce.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. Me, too.” Overhead, a jet heading for the runway at Logan passed so low she could read the writing on its underbelly. She drew her coat tighter around her. “You suit you want to hear the rest of this? It’s not a pretty story.”

“I want to hear it all.”

“All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. After Jackie left, I still had to keep up the rent on our apartment. I was barely making ends meet. Nobody ever got rich working at Winn-Dixie, and I had to eat. One of the other cashiers told me about a dance club on Bourbon Street where a girl with the right stuff could make a couple hundred bucks on a good night. I sat myself down, took stock of my assets, and decided I had the right stuff. So I bleached my hair platinum blonde, strapped on a push-up bra under a low-cut blouse, poured myself into jeans that were two sizes too small, and took the bus downtown.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, gauging his response, wondering if her blatant honesty would send him into cardiac arrest. But he was still just walking along beside her, hands in his pockets, a tranquil expression on his face as she painted her ruby-red picture of sin and shame. “You still with me, sugar?”

“I’m still with you.”

“Well, let’s just say it wasn’t the high point of my life, being ogled by a bunch of horny old drunks while I danced on stage wearing a pair of pasties and a G-string. But the money was good. I moved into a nice apartment in the French Quarter, one that didn’t have any roaches, and I bought myself a car. I wasn’t exactly wallowing in dough, but I had enough money to pay the bills, tuck some away into savings, and still have enough left over to eat beignets for breakfast any time I wanted.” She paused, took a breath. “That’s where I met Remy. He came into the club one night with a bunch of people. He was a big tipper, and he had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. A few days later, we ran into each other at the corner grocery and discovered we lived just a few blocks apart. He asked me out for coffee. I turned him down. Remy was very persistent. Somehow, he managed to get my unlisted phone number, and over the next few weeks, he called incessantly. I finally gave in because it was easier than continuing to say no. Besides, I really liked him.”

She smiled at the memory. “So we went for coffee, and the next thing I knew it was dinner at Antoine’s, long walks through the Quarter, late nights at jazz clubs down on Bourbon Street. We became best friends. In hindsight, I can see we should’ve stayed friends. But Remy was determined to save me from myself. And I, with my customary flawless judgment, confused gratitude with love. One morning I woke up in his bed, with rice in my hair and a gold ring on my finger, and my dancing days were over. It was a little like hitting the lottery, because Remy wasn’t just nice, he was loaded. People whispered behind my back, said I’d married him for the money. But his money was never that important to me. I married him because I liked him so very much.”

Quietly, he said, “So what happened?”

“We were together for six years. I owe so much to Remy. He gave me the leverage I needed to pull myself by the bootstraps up and out of the gutter. He paid my way through college, took me on long vacations. Paris, Egypt, the Medi-terranean. We were like two kids together, spending his money, with the entire world as our playground. But after a while, it wasn’t enough. Not for me, and not for Remy either, not if he was being honest about it. We loved each other, we just weren’t in love with each other. There’s a big difference, you know?”

“Yes. I know.”

“Still, we probably would’ve stuck it out if Kit hadn’t come to live with us. Kit was mouthy, sneaky, prone to lying to get her way. Remy saw right through her and didn’t like what he saw. She refused to show respect for the way he put a roof over her head, food in her mouth, clothes on her back. After a while, the conflict between the two of them rubbed off on us, and we started fighting. In six years of marriage, we’d never done that. When the quarrels turned nasty, I knew I had to move out. Remy was my dearest friend, and if I didn’t end our marriage, I knew I’d lose his friendship. That would have broken my heart.”

“I suppose you realize that’s an amazing story,” he said. “Not many women, when faced with a choice between her niece and her husband, would choose the niece.”

Her stomach muscles knotted. “Kit and I have a special bond,” she said. “We always have.”

“I’m not criticizing. I just think it’s remarkable.”

“It’s not remarkable.” Her clenched muscles relaxed as a fat drop of rain plopped against her cheek. “Just a matter of doing what you have to do.” She glanced skyward as a second drop landed atop her head. “I do believe, Father Donovan, that it’s raining.”

He wiped a drop of wetness from the tip of her nose. “Yes. I noticed.”

Without warning, the sky opened, pelting them with a frigid downpour. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” she shouted over the rain and the wind and the roar of the surf.

“My idea?” he shouted back. “I thought it was your idea.”

“How far away is the car?” The rain was running in her eyes, blinding her, and her hair, hanging now in sodden strings, was already a dead loss.

“About a quarter of a mile. So tell me, Sarah Connelly, do you run like a girl?”

She raised her eyebrows while he stood there, sopping wet, his hair plastered to his head and an impish grin plastered on his face. “Like a girl?” she said. “Like a
girl
? Oh, sugar, to steal a line from your little friend Brandy, you are toast.”

And she took off running.

With those long legs of his, he easily overtook her, then left her behind as she hobbled through dense sand, leaped over an errant snow bank, and scrambled up the concrete stairs to the sidewalk. Splashing through puddles, she focused on his back, a dark blur in the distance ahead of her as she ran. When she reached his car, breathless and exhilarated and soaked to the bone, he was already in the driver’s seat with the heater cranked and Van Morrison on the stereo, the slow jazzy rhythm of horns and percussion keeping time with the rain tapping on the roof. My
momma told me there’ll be days like this
.

He glanced up when she climbed in, then peeked casually at his watch. “What took you so long?”

Still high on adrenaline and exhilaration, she laughed in delight. “Better get that heater pumping, boy,” she said, slamming the door behind her, “because I have goose bumps on top of goose bumps.”

“It’ll warm up in a minute.” He leaned to open the glove compartment and took out a napkin. “Your mascara’s running. Hold still.” He cupped her chin to steady her and scrubbed gently at the smudges below her eyes.

Still exerted from running, her heart pumped a rapid beat. The pad of his thumb pressed lightly against her cheek, and his breath feathered the hair at her temple. Intent on his task, golden eyes narrowed in concentration, he seemed unaware of her rapt perusal. His eyebrows were thick and dark, the left one marred by a tiny white scar she’d never noticed before. Faint laugh lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, and he had absolutely no business looking this good with rain dripping off him and his hair all wet and gnarly. Absolutely no business turning her inside out like this when he was inescapably, utterly unavailable.

Don’t even go there, Connelly. Not even with a twenty-foot barge pole.

Her high took a sudden nosedive, and she realized she was chilled to the bone. “That’s the best I can do,” he said, releasing her. She fell back against the seat cushion with immense relief and released a pent-up breath. “Still cold?” he asked.

“Freezing. I don’t think I’ll ever adjust to your barbaric climate. I need to go home and get into dry clothes. It’d be a good idea if you did the same. Otherwise, we’re both apt to end up with pneumonia.”

“I think you got the worst of it,” he said. “Especially since it took you so much longer to get to the car.”

She closed her eyes and smiled. “You are a very, very bad man.”

“So the bishop keeps telling me.”

“He’s right. You’re rotten to the core. And your taste in music is questionable.”

“My taste in music? What’s wrong with my taste in music? You don’t like Van Morrison?”

The heat blowing fiercely in her face from the dashboard vents had begun to thaw her out. “I love Van Morrison,” she said, shoving her ruined hair back, away from her face. “It’s not so much what you listen to as what you’re
not
listening to. Your CD collection has some serious gaps. Where’s Reba McEntire? Brooks and Dunn? Toby Keith?”

“Toby who?”

She opened her eyes and looked directly into his. The gleam she saw there told her he was toying with her again. She shook her head in mock sorrow.

“Sugar,” she said, “you have truly led a life of deprivation.”

He met Senator Tom Adams for breakfast at a little place called the Elephant and Castle, tucked away on a side street at the edge of the Financial District. They served a sumptuous buffet that was arguably the best breakfast in town. At the next table, a cluster of college students watched a soccer game on the overhead television. Every time the American team scored, they screamed and shouted and pounded the table.

“Soccer,” Tom said over the uproar as he sat down across from Clancy. “Never did get it.”

“Nor I. I don’t even understand the game. Basketball’s more my speed. So how are Bess and the girls?”

“They’re great. Callie’s taking dance lessons, and her first recital’s coming up in a few weeks. She’d be thrilled if you could come. Geneva’s madly in love with some boy at school, and Bess is going nuts as usual, trying to keep track of both their schedules.” Tom leaned back as the waitress poured him a cup of coffee.

“And the Congressional campaign? How’s that going?”

“It’s early, but the numbers look promising. Let’s say we’re encouraged. What’s new with you?”