Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 37)
Chapter 15 Part II
Cindy Bradford
The next day after he called and asked if he could see her again, he stopped to buy bread and wine along with a hanging basket of fuchsia. As she met him at the door, he kissed her and followed her in.
“I love the basket of flowers. Let me show you why,” taking his hand and leading him out back to see her lavender, rosemary and other herbs. He had noticed she had some flowers the night before, but as he looked closely again he could not believe how many there were. Her backyard was aglow with flowers, rhododendron shrubs, beach roses, crocus scattered among what seemed like hundreds of ferns and other greenery. Staring at the beauty, he was amazed and convinced that she was obviously an artist in many ways. Already he knew he was falling in love with her and hoped she felt something close to that for him. Pulling her toward him, he kissed her. She looked at him straightforward and smiled, knowing he would not leave her house this night.
Over dinner, they discussed their lives. She told him about her two year affair with a magazine editor who was married and about her work at the art gallery. “I thought he loved me and would leave his wife. I was so stupid. For two years I dated no one but waited for him to come over when he could, to squeeze me into his life,” she said with a tinge of bitterness still in her voice. “Sometimes he stayed all night. I don’t know what he told her. She must have known. I met her twice and she was friendly enough, but I think she knew.”
Carol paused and then pushed herself to go on. “Anyway, I got tired of waiting and after going on one of my photography trips and being away from him for a couple of months, I knew I could survive without him. When I told him I was tired of having him part time, the left-over part, he simply left. I never saw him again. Shortly after that I left the gallery and came here.” She smiled, seeming to be relieved to have told him.
Patrick told her about his family and how close he and his older brothers were, of his basketball days, and of life in Indiana and then Rome. She knew he had been raised Catholic from previous conversations and asked him what happened. “I became disillusioned,” not quite telling the whole truth. “There were just a lot of things I could no longer accept. The Catholic Church is just not changing with the world. I couldn’t live a life I didn’t believe in anymore,” Patrick offered, but he didn’t elaborate.
Carol pressed, but he sidestepped her direct questions, “I guess I just got older and realized that some things were just not congruent with who I am now; I’m not bitter that I spent all that time believing in some things and some people, but I’m glad I’m where I am now.”
And Carol was glad, too. Carol urged him along, “But why the Congregational Church, why not Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Baptist or some other?”
“Well, growing up in New England, I had heard a lot about the Congregational Church, as I’m sure you had too, especially since you’re from Connecticut. There are quite a few Congregational Churches there. They share many similarities with these other religions, especially Presbyterians in New England. There are many reformed churches that are a result of a series of unions between other groups like the United Church of Christ and the Congregational Christian Churches, but you don’t want to hear a lesson,” he laughed. “Did you know that Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, William Bowdoin and Amherst were all founded by Congregationalists?”
“No, but I hadn’t really thought about it,” she teased Patrick. “But please keep explaining,” Carol replied.
“I guess the thing that appealed to me most is the democracy of the Congregational Church and the independence. The theory of it forbids the minister from ruling by himself or any single body of people being in complete control. Freedoms are guaranteed to every person; every person has a say. There are checks and balances that keep any one group like the lay officers or the minister or one or two members from having special authority.”
“In the Catholic Church, the priest has all the control, and that’s not good. No one person should have that much power, but enough about that.”
“Well, the word in town is that your church is really growing. People are driving some distance to hear you–the red headed Irish Preacher with the deep voice and funny lilt.”
Patrick blushed. “Now, where are you hearing this?”
Smiling, she loved to banter with him and watch his reactions. “Seriously, I heard a woman at the community center saying you really know the Bible well. And then another said she liked the way you used parables and contemporary comparisons and that you weave quite a story. People like that. It makes them feel comfortable in an atmosphere that might otherwise be stuffy and stiff.”
“I’m Irish, don’t forget. We take great pride in our storytelling,” he replied, a twinkle in his eyes, showing great pleasure in what she had just related.
“I tell you that, but I want you for my very own, and those women better not get any other ideas…”
He gazed directly into her eyes to be sure she was not still teasing him.
“What else should I know about you Irishmen?
“Well, we tend to be somewhat unpredictable, practical, independent thinkers. And, of course, we’re romantic poets, lovers of song and dance” he winked.
“And quite humble I can tell”
After helping her with the dishes, he followed her to the couch. Before long they found themselves in her bed. When she awoke at 5:00 a.m., Patrick had been gone at least an hour, at first light, but had left a note on the breakfast table: “I love you. Can I see you tonight?”
Carol picked up her coffee cup and drifting to the window she watched the sun dance on the dew-covered flowers outside the kitchen. Winter had released its grip and spring had finally caught on, though the early morning chill lingered possessively. The warmth of the room and her old gray sweats made her feel snug and tended to. It was quiet, save Peri’s contented purring. She had planned to paint today, go down to the water with her canvas and launch herself into another art project, think about nothing but the reflection of the light on the cobalt sea. But now all she could think about blue were Patrick’s eyes.
She had not expected to feel this way about him. She hadn’t wanted to fall in love again, not with him. Not really with anyone. It hurt too much if it didn’t work. But last night had changed her mind. Patrick had been so gentle, taking her to a place no man had ever taken her before. She stared out at the ocean. Maybe she would tend to her herbs today and take a long bath, use the new salts she had bought at the little boutique that had just opened in town.
Patrick arrived at her doorstep in Levis and a navy blue lightweight sweater at exactly six o’clock, a wine bottle in one hand and bouquet of calla lilies and lavender freesia in the other.
“You’re spoiling me, Patrick.”
“I hope so.” He leaned to kiss her. “You smell good.”
“That’s because I spent most of my afternoon in a perfumed bath with soft music and a trashy novel.”
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Do I need to,” she smiled wickedly. “But first let me put the flowers in a vase and get the corkscrew for you.”
She went to the kitchen and came back with two wine glasses and a tray of cheeses. While Patrick opened the Bordeaux, she busied herself arranging the flowers in an antique vase. He poured each of them a glass of the rich red wine that immediately emitted the aroma of toasted oak and ripe fruit.
“Mmm. This is excellent. I’m surprised you can find this here.”
Laughing, he said, “I didn’t. I brought several cases with me from Boston. It is good, isn’t it?”
Carol watched Patrick take another sip. She thought it sensuous the way he let the wine linger in his mouth. Curling up beside him, she whispered, “I read your note.”
“And?” he answered nervously touching her arm.
“And I love you.” Her voice was soft, but strong.
He pulled her close in a tight hug, ran his hands through her long hair and touched her face. “This could be the start of something good.”