Nothing Sacred. Tara Quinn Taylor
to enjoy, but she hadn’t actually consumed one herself since she’d managed to lose her husband to a woman who didn’t have hips widened by four pregnancies in quick succession.
“Krispy Kreme.”
The freshly made, trademarked confections were delivered from Phoenix to the Valley Diner seven days a week.
“What kind of guy brings doughnuts to work when he isn’t even going to be here to eat them?” she mumbled. Since she’d come to work for Keith Nielson, who was not only her boss, but her friend, he’d been making it difficult for her to maintain her staunch hatred of the male species.
“One who’s feeling guilty?” Cindy suggested, grinning. Martha hadn’t realized she’d mumbled out loud.
“I’ll pass on the doughnut,” she said, thinking of her meeting ahead. “But a cup of coffee would sure be welcome.”
“Got it.” Cindy grinned again and was off.
Of course, bigger hips might discourage preachers, which was a good thing—but the navy slacks and jacket she’d donned that morning looked better when they weren’t bulging at the seams.
Okay, she could do this. She was not going to allow herself to be that weak, to pick up the phone and cancel the meeting. It wasn’t a big deal. And it wouldn’t be a replay of that day almost a year ago when she and Keith had walked into Pastor Edwards’s office for this very same meeting and found him and the beautiful Mrs. Emily Baker making out like randy teenagers. And if she did find David Marks emulating his predecessor, feeling up one of his parishioners, all the better. Then he’d have to leave town.
And no one but Martha and her kids would know that Todd was going to be a father again.
Without her.
No one would know that her four babies hadn’t been enough.
“YOU’RE NUTS, you know that?” Martha laughed. And then stopped, startled, when she heard herself. She hardly ever laughed anymore. Unless she was with Keith, who tried to make her see the lighter side of things.
But not here, not with David Marks, in the chapel at Shelter Valley Community Church. That hallowed room was made for feeling intimidated, reverent, slightly guilty. For listening to sermons. Writing grocery lists. And, as it turned out, for taping a church program.
“I know you’re trying really hard to think so,” the minister challenged with an easy grin. They’d been there an hour, planned almost the entire segment of the show, and he still hadn’t mentioned that afternoon eight days ago when Todd had called with his hideous announcement.
The Moore household had been subdued ever since. But Marks didn’t have even a hint of pity in his eyes when he looked at Martha. Instead there was a genuine warmth, as though he was enjoying their conversation. There was something else, too. Peace, maybe? A kind of empathy unlike any Martha had ever known.
“No one makes contracts to suffer awful things and die,” she said, certain about this at least. “No way is anyone going to believe that we all chose our fates before we were born.”
This was only one of four similar arguments they’d had over the past hour. And while she might’ve had to concede victory on the last three, Martha knew this one she was going to win. Sliding her notebook back into the black satchel, she hooked the strap over her shoulder.
They’d had a good interview. The show would probably be the most interesting they’d had during almost a year of airing the Sunday morning spiritual hour. Open to all kinds of religious groups, the show had featured a variety of segments, but none that were so down to earth and accessible. She was ready to go back to school and pass on her notes to the camera operator, who’d be doing the actual filming at her direction.
“I never said our fates are decided,” he said, leaning back with his feet up and resting on the pew, “only that throughout our lives, our souls choose the circumstances that best allow us to progress. The most important characteristic human beings have is free will.”
With a picture in her mind of some gauzy white clouds inhabited by little blobs arbitrarily choosing to get diseases or have fatal car accidents or be left alone by husbands who preferred sweet young things over years of loyalty and loving, she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees as she glanced sideways at him. Martha opened her mouth to speak. And then changed her mind, several times, about what to say.
“YOU’RE TOO ODD FOR words.”
It probably hadn’t been the best choice. Certainly not the most professional remark she could’ve made. It was the best she could do.
Hands folded across the waist of his light-blue, buttoned shirt, David said, “You think it’s odd to have found a way to live a happy and peaceful life?”
“You’re telling me you’re happy?”
“Yes.” His eyes didn’t waver. Martha had a split-second’s wish that they were rolling the camera right now. She wanted this on tape.
“So you like living alone?”
“I’m not alone.”
“Oh, yeah, you have your angels flying around all the time.”
She felt a tiny bit bad for the sarcasm in her voice, but sometimes this guy was just too hard to take. Martha knew all about faith and hope. She’d had plenty, once upon a time. And then she’d found out the meaning of “things unseen.”
“I do have spiritual companionship.” He nodded, his eyes still alight with that warmth.
“But what about family?” she asked. Despite everything she’d suffered in the past few years, she’d do it all again for the chance to have her brood. They were what made her life worth living, not angels and faith and long-forgotten decisions.
“My parishioners are my family,” he told her. “I consider myself one of the luckiest guys around. Where most men have only one family, I get a hundred of them.”
“Sounds like a hell of a lot of work,” Martha muttered. And then, as usual, stole a red-faced glance upward, apologizing for her irreverence.
“It’s a lot of home-cooked meals,” he countered.
His calm assurance and good-natured response irritated her. And what irritated her even more was that she wasn’t proud of her original reaction. Was she so shallow that she begrudged someone inner peace simply because she hadn’t found it herself?
Or was it more than that? An intolerance for anything but complete honesty? An inability to accept pretty words that covered up the darker side of life?
Or was her irritation self-directed because she used to be naive enough to believe in those pretty words?
“So you can honestly tell me you’ve never longed for a wife of your own?” she asked him. “Never held a baby and wanted one with your own blood running through its veins?”
The question was far too personal. But her need to challenge him was too compelling to stop.
He didn’t move, didn’t drop his legs from their casual position. But his answer was longer in coming. And his knuckles, on hands that had been loosely clasped, were white.
“Never.”
Liar.
“So you like being alone in that house out back every night? You like waking up to the silence every morning?”
What in the hell was the matter with her?
“I didn’t say that.”
The words were so soft they carried their own peculiar kind of power. It resonated through her.
“But you don’t want a wife or family,” she said with equal softness.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring downward. “No, I don’t.”
“Then