I shook more salt over my stew, surprised by this little tidbit of information. Will struck me as someone who broke hearts, not the other way around. This made him seem more human. “Will’s personal life doesn’t interest me.”
“I think it does.” She grinned.
“Should I tell him you’re interested?”
“Tell him he can put his shoes under my bed anytime.”
I raised my eyebrows, my palms growing damp. I knew some women liked to discuss their sex lives, but I’d never felt comfortable doing it.
“Just kidding!” Catherine’s foot nudged me again. “Actually, I’m dying to talk about the fire.”
“What about it?”
“I heard someone threw a Molotov cocktail. And Staff Sergeant Ramsay says you have no suspects.”
The wooden chair creaked as my muscles tensed. “It’s under investigation. I can’t tell you any more than Karen did.”
“So there was a Molotov cocktail?”
I shrugged.
“Oh, come on! I won’t tell anyone where I got my information. You know that.”
“Please, I’d rather not talk about work.” As much as I enjoyed Catherine there was no way I going to blurt out my need to keep the job from consuming me. Besides, I’d never reveal details of an investigation to a journalist.
A look of irritation crossed her face. “Okay, you can’t tell me anything. I understand.” Catherine rubbed the lipstick off the rim of her wineglass. “Can I talk to you about it, though? Maybe I can bounce things off you and you can let me know if I’m on the right track. I know some things about David Jordan you might find interesting.”
Catherine had hooked me. Maybe she would tell me something that would make up for my lack of success at the fire scene. “Okay.” I glanced at my watch, trying to appear blasé. “But nothing that happens between us appears in your paper. Ever.”
“Of course!” She pushed a manila file folder toward me. “I did a story on David Jordan when he arrived here a couple of years ago. He’s pretty weird.”
Inside the file lay a stack of yellowed newspaper stories and pages of notes she must have typed on her laptop.
“About four or five years ago David got fired from a church outside Halifax. From what I could gather he’s one of those zealous types with no people skills. His first wife left him at the same time the church let him go. Took the kids.”
I rifled through the musty-smelling clippings. “The kids I saw this morning didn’t exist four or five years ago?”
“No, this is a new marriage. New kids. His first wife divorces him. The denomination he works for doesn’t take kindly to divorce so they kick him out. He’s broke, depressed, can’t earn a living. Then he’s diagnosed with cancer. The doctors tell him it’s terminal. He becomes jaundiced, pencil-thin, except for a belly like he’s nine months pregnant. There’s a picture of him with the article.”
“And God intervened,” I deadpanned. How is any of this relevant?
Catherine chuckled. “Yes. He believes it was a miracle. His doctors called it ‘spontaneous remission.’”
“So, he’s out to save the world now, is he?” I spooned carrots and potatoes into my mouth.
“Out to save the world. Yeah, right!” Catherine grinned.
For some reason my heart began thudding and my mouth grew dry. My mind drifted. Save the world. Ron seemed like a saviour to us at Holy Child. Suddenly, I saw him standing in my bedroom in Jamaica Plain. The memory was so vivid I almost choked. He popped a clerical collar from around his neck, and placed the stiff white band on the dresser next to the gowned replica of the Infant of Prague Gran had given me.
I was perched on my single bed under a poster of Pope John Paul II, wearing my school uniform, my navy blue and green skirt hiked up so the woollen afghan tickled my bare thigh. My heart fluttered with anxiety as I thought about how much I wanted to please him. “Are you scared, sweetheart?” he asked. He sat down next to me, making the bedsprings groan. He gathered me in his arms, stroked my hair, then loosened my blue tie and unbuttoned my white blouse. I heard the scratchy sound of his fingers on the cloth and smelled his oniony breath.
Feeling my stomach curdle I fought to hear what Catherine was saying. Don’t think about Ron. Don’t. I hadn’t thought about him in years. Why now? Is David Jordan another Ron?
“David Jordan came here as an associate pastor at Cornwallis Cove Baptist. I guess he had to take a junior position to redeem himself. At least they were willing to overlook his divorce.”
“So what’s up with the church in South Dare?” The flashback had made me so tense.
“He’s still at Cornwallis Cove teaching Sunday school. But he started the new church – meets in the afternoon – and moved to South Dare. Maybe he wants to get out from under the authority of the Baptists. Start some kind of cult. I don’t know.”
Unable to concentrate any longer I feigned a yawn and covered my mouth. My watch read 9:07.
“I can’t talk about this now.” I spoke more abruptly than intended. “I’ve got to wind down so I can sleep.”
Catherine’s plucked eyebrows shot up and her mouth formed a small o. “I haven’t even told you the juiciest stuff yet!”
I carried my wineglass, bowl, and utensils to the dishwasher, opened the door, and looked for a place to put them. “I have to get up at five. Going for a run tomorrow morning.”
Catherine padded behind me. “Did something I said upset you?” Catherine tugged the sleeve of my sweater. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. If you tell me more, I’ll be up all night thinking about it.”
I couldn’t look at her. Ron’s face flashed through my mind again. “Let’s go in the other bedroom, sweetheart. That bed is bigger.” I felt the goosebumps on my knees. I was thirteen again. I couldn’t go into Dad’s bedroom, even if he had moved out to live with his new wife. Even if he’d never know. I placed my spoon in the caddy and my bowl on the top rack.
Catherine slid my dirty wineglass toward the sink. “Well, okay. But you might want to hear this. David was active in the anti-abortion movement. He was charged with – ”
“Not now, Catherine.” As I interrupted her, my cheeks flushed and my heart pounded. “I need to sleep. If I’m not alert and rested tomorrow, someone could get hurt.” I slid my arms into the sleeves of my parka.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Catherine’s voice shook a little. She padded back to the kitchen table and fumbled with the file.
“I’m not upset. Tired, that’s all.”
Catherine searched my face. It astonished me how much she seemed to care, how much she seemed to fear damaging our new friendship. The sudden affection I felt for her hurt like a numb arm when the blood starts circulating again. The mask I’d spent years moulding slipped for a second.
“You could read this tomorrow.” She offered the file to me like an olive branch. “Please forgive my pushiness, but there’s stuff you need to know about David. Make sure you look at the affidavit from his ex-wife.”
Chapter 3: The Preacher
With the file clamped under my arm I stumbled across the snow-covered grass clumps back to my house. Thin clouds raced beneath the full moon. Tears stung my eyes but the wind dried them up. Feeling sorry for myself was out of the question. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d cried.
I