Husband Potential. Rebecca Winters
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