Nothing Sacred

“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 what do you want?”

“To serve the people in my care. To teach them how to find the peace and happiness they all crave.” He paused, turned to look at her. “To be allowed to live my life in the way I choose—alone—without having to justify that decision to those who can’t understand.”

He was hiding something.

“Then I guess you should’ve chosen a different profession,” Martha replied. “You can’t set yourself up as the authority on morality and moral decisions and just expect the people around you to accept the validity of your pronouncements. Especially not here.”

Not anymore. There’d been a day when the members of Shelter Valley Community Church had been filled with trust. But no more.

“In the first place, I’ve never set myself up as an authority on anything,” David said, sitting up to face her. “However, I do realize that I’m in a position to be an example to those around me, and I will not do anything to jeopardize that. Period. You have my word on it.”

He wasn’t talking about his parishioners anymore. He was talking straight to her.

Unfortunately, his message was one she simply couldn’t believe.

CHAPTER THREE

THE PRODUCTION of Pastor David Marks’s portion of the MUTV Sunday morning spiritual hour took only three meetings—the initial consultation and then two other sessions over the next couple of weeks. One to film, and one to preview and approve the edited version. Disappointed when taping was wrapped up so proficiently, David waited around MUTV the second Monday in February, after the final viewing while Martha gave wrap-up instructions to her predominantly student crew.

He’d really been hoping for an excuse to spend a little more time with her. With luck, they might’ve been able to become friends. He might even have been able to offer her some guidance, or at least reassurance. Whatever instincts prompted him in his work prompted him strongly where she was concerned. The woman was asking too much of herself. Expecting too much.

And helping people was how he filled his calendar.

“You’re very good at what you do,” he said as the last of the students left and she led him to her small office off to one side of the surprisingly modern studio.

She shrugged, her shoulders slim and feminine in the white oxford blouse she had tucked into a pair of black cotton slacks. “I’ve got great kids working for me,” she replied easily. “Enthusiastic, smart, eager to learn. They love what they do.”

“So do you.”

She turned, met his gaze for a brief second longer than the last time he’d been able to catch her attention. “Yeah, I do.” Then she added, “You do, too, don’t you?”

“More than I’d ever imagined.”

It was the truth. His job had given him a life. One that was solid and meaningful.

“Well…” she dropped a clipboard on the desk, then faced him, her arms crossed. “It’s been good working with you, Pastor.”

“David.”

She looked down, her short, flyaway hair tempting him to forget that the part of him that might think running his fingers through a woman’s hair was long since dead and buried.

“I prefer Pastor,” she finally said quietly.