She stood in her kitchen dicing tomatoes for the salad, her hand jittery as it gripped the knife. On the stove simmered a pot of coq au vin, wafting out steam fragrant with the scents of red wine and chicken. An easy, familiar meal that she could cook without consulting a recipe, without having to stop and think about it. She could not cope with any meal more complicated. Her mind was completely focused on the man who was now pouring two glasses of pinot noir.
He placed one glass beside her on the counter. “What else can I do?”
“Not a thing.”
“Make the salad dressing? Wash lettuce?”
“I didn’t invite you here to make you work. I just thought you’d prefer this to a restaurant, where it’s so public.”
“You must be tired of always being in the public’s eye,” he said.
“I was thinking more about you.”
“Even priests eat out at restaurants, Maura.”
“No, I meant…” She felt herself flush and renewed her efforts with the tomato.
“I guess it would make people wonder,” he said. “If they saw us out together.” He watched her for a moment, and the only sound was her knife blade rapping against the cutting board. What does one do with a priest in the kitchen? she wondered. Ask him to bless the food? No other man could make her feel so uneasy, so human and flawed. And what are your flaws, Daniel? she wondered as she slid the diced tomatoes into a salad bowl, as she tossed them with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Does that white collar give you immunity to temptation?
“At least let me slice that cucumber,” he said.
“You really can’t relax, can you?”
“I’m not good at sitting idle while others work.”
She laughed. “Join the club.”
“Would that be the club for hopeless workaholics? Because I’m a charter member.” He pulled a knife from the wooden block and began to slice the cucumber, releasing its fresh, summery fragrance. “It comes from having to help out with five brothers and a sister.”
“Seven of you in the family? My god.”
“I’m sure that’s what my dad said every time he heard there was another one on the way.”
“So where were you in that seven?”
“Number four. Smack in the middle. Which, according to psychologists, makes me a natural born mediator. The one always trying to keep the peace.” He glanced up at her with a smile. “It also means I know how to get in and out of the shower really fast.”
“And how do you go from sibling number four to being a priest?”
He looked back down at the cutting board. “As you might expect, a long story.”
“One you don’t want to talk about?”
“My reasons will probably strike you as illogical.”
“Well, it’s funny how our biggest decisions in life are usually the least logical. The person we choose to marry, for instance.” She took a sip of wine and set the glass back down. “I certainly couldn’t defend my own marriage on the basis of logic.”
He glanced up. “Lust?”
“That would be the operative word. That’s how I made the biggest mistake of my life. So far, that is.” She took another sip of wine.
He slid the sliced cucumbers into the salad bowl and rinsed the knife. She watched him standing at the sink, his back to her. He had the tall, lean build of a long-distance runner. Why do I put myself through this? she wondered. Of all the men I could be attracted to, why does it have to be this one?
“You asked why I chose the priesthood,” he said.
“Why did you?”
He turned to look at her. “My sister had leukemia.”
Startled, she didn’t know what to say. Nothing seemed appropriate.
“Sophie was six years old,” he said. “The youngest one in the family, and the only girl.” He reached for a dish towel to dry his hands, and neatly hung it back on the rack, taking his time, as though he needed to measure his next words. “It was acute lymphocytic leukemia. I suppose you could call it the good kind, if there’s any such thing as a good leukemia.”
“It’s the one with the best prognosis in children. An eighty percent survival rate.” A true statement, but she was sorry the instant after she’d said it. The logical Dr. Isles, responding to tragedy with her usual helpful facts and heartless statistics. It was the way she’d always coped with the messy emotions of those around her, by retreating into her scientist’s role. A friend just died of lung cancer? A relative left quadriplegic from a car accident? For every tragedy she could cite a statistic, drawing reassurance in the crisp certainty of numbers. In the belief that behind every horror, there is an explanation.
She wondered if Daniel thought her detached, even callous, for her response. But he did not seem to take offense. He simply nodded, accepting her statistic in the spirit she had offered it, as a simple fact.
“The five-year survival rates weren’t quite so good back then,” he said. “By the time she was diagnosed, she was pretty sick. I can’t tell you how devastating it was, to all of us. To my mother, especially. Her only girl. Her baby. I was fourteen then, and I was the one who kind of took over keeping an eye on Sophie. Even with all the attention she got, all the coddling, she never acted spoiled. Never stopped being the sweetest kid you could imagine.” He still wasn’t looking at Maura; he was gazing at the floor, as though unwilling to reveal the depth of his pain.
“Daniel?” she said.
He took a deep breath, straightened. “I’m not sure how to tell this story to a seasoned skeptic like you.”
“What happened?”
“Her doctor informed us that she was terminal. In those days, when a doctor renders his opinion, you accept it as gospel. That night, my parents and brothers went off to church. To pray for a miracle, I guess. I stayed behind in the hospital, so Sophie wouldn’t be alone. She was bald by then. Lost it all with the chemotherapy. I remember her falling asleep in my lap. And me praying. I prayed for hours, made all sorts of crazy promises to God. If she had died, I don’t think I would have set foot in church again.”
“But she lived,” said Maura softly.
He looked at her and smiled. “Yes, she did. And I kept all those promises I made. Every single one. Because that day, He was listening to me. I don’t doubt it.”
“Where is Sophie now?”
“Happily married, living in Manchester. Two adopted kids.” He sat down facing her across the kitchen table. “So here I am.”
“Father Brophy.”
“Now you know why I made the choice.”
They refilled their wineglasses. She sliced crusty French bread and tossed the salad. Ladled steaming coq au vin into serving bowls. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; was that what she was trying to reach, what she really wanted? Daniel Brophy’s heart?
But when she’d married Victor, she’d thought he could never hurt her either.
They had just finished their meal when the ringing of the doorbell made them both stiffen. Innocent though the evening had been, they exchanged uneasy glances, like two guilty lovers caught in the act.
Jane Rizzoli was standing on Maura’s front porch, black hair frizzed to an unruly mass of curls in the humid summer air. Though the night was warm, she was dressed in one of the dark business pantsuits she always wore to work. This was not a social call, thought Maura, as she met Rizzoli’s somber gaze. Glancing down, she saw that Rizzoli was carrying a briefcase.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Doc. But we need to talk. I thought it’d be better to see you here, and not at
