Although Brother Timothy’s lingering looks, subtle, out-of-context remarks, and solicitous manner all but shouted that his antennas had picked up troublesome signals, Jason wasn’t inclined to share with him what was going on with Cari. Timothy took the lead by calling Jason into his office.

“So, let me make this easy for you,” Timothy said. “When are you leaving us?”

“What?”

“I’ve seen it before, Jason. It happens.”

“You’re very perceptive, but I’m not leaving.”

“I would have bet my bank account. The whole fifty bucks. Something’s going on. Want to talk about it?”

Jason took a few M&Ms from the bowl on Timothy’s desk and popped one into his mouth. The outer coating was too sweet for his taste, but he liked the chocolate core. He pondered how much personal information he wanted to share with the corpulent man on the other side of a beat-up steel desk. “Are you in listening mode?”

“My ears are two big satellite dishes.”

Jason shared in detail what had happened with Cari. When he finished, it was Timothy’s turn to reach for the M&Ms.

“Man, that is one weird experience. Don’t know if I can help, but let’s kick it around. As to the gun, you said you were glad it wasn’t a tape recorder in her bag. That’s good. Gets past a lot of trust issues. Tell me more about this Rhonda.”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“But what’s your take on her? Is she married?”

“No.”

Timothy leveled his gaze on Jason. “Don’t take this wrong, I’m just thinking out loud. Is she straight? Could she and Cari be more than friends?”

“That crossed my mind, but no, I don’t think so. I’d be astounded if it were.”

“Okay, let’s say there’s only a one percent chance, maybe one tenth of one per cent. Can we—should we—dismiss it entirely? I don’t think so. As to Cari’s refusal to have sex, well, it dovetails neatly with the one percent. The gun might too, in case any man wants to take advantage—you get the picture.

“You said she was always hormonal. Hate to sound cruel, but after a rotten marriage and another bad experience with a married man, it doesn’t take the imagination of a sci-fi writer to see the possibility of her drifting into the empathetic arms of a beautiful female friend.”

“Hell, Tim, a lot of women have gone through worse and not turned into lesbians.”

Timothy tugged his beard, a habit that kicked in whenever he found himself under pressure or in a protracted conversation. “Granted. Then again, would you agree it’s a possibility? Not a probability, but a possibility? Might not be her natural inclination, but a nurtured one.”

“And maybe she wants to backtrack to hetero?”

“Could be you’re the ticket to the show. The reason she hunted you down. Then again, maybe she doesn’t really want to backtrack. You have to factor that in.”

“Then why—”

“She might be testing herself. If she has raging doubts, you might be the litmus.”

Jason felt the violin medallion under his shirt. “She once told me we’d lead strange lives. Little did she know.”

“I think the key is Rhonda. You need to talk to her. She might clue you in. Short of that, she might let something slip. Then you follow your instincts. Has Cari seen a sex therapist?”

“She’s never mentioned it.”

“Maybe you should see one. Get some professional insights into Cari’s behavior. Without using her name, of course.”

Jason arose from his chair and paced the small office. “She’s a good woman who’s had some terrible breaks.”

“And you, my friend, are a romantic. I’m not saying you’re naïve—well, you are—but to be more precise, I am saying you idealize women. This one, anyway. She’s probably a long-held fantasy. After all, you’re talking about teen puppy love. You hadn’t seen her in five years until recently. Everything’s in your memory and imagination.”

When Jason didn’t reply, Timothy leaned the swivel chair back as far as it would go and knitted his fingers together across his ample belly. “You won’t resolve anything long distance. Want my advice? Take a sabbatical. Move in with her. If things work out, good for you. If not, we’ll hold your posh quarters for you.”

“Are you crazy? Or do you think I am?”

“What’s the alternative? Stay here and stew in your juices?”

Jason rubbed his hand across the scar on his forehead. “I’ve wanted her since we were kids. How am I going to live like a monk under the same roof with her?”

“Won’t take forever. The situation will shake out one way or the other pretty darn quick.”

“At least I have my bearings now. I was lost five years ago. But the change I could face today is more pronounced in some ways.”

“Scary, isn’t it?”

“More than scary.”

Timothy’s head tilted back a fraction. “Talk to me.”

“No sense dumping my bucket on you. I’m not the first unemployed forty-year-old to venture into the world with no marketable skills.”

“It goes deeper than that, Jason. Granted, you barely know how to swim and you’re fighting a hell of a current. That’s scary enough. But ‘more than scary’ means you’re afraid to discover who you are.” Timothy ate a few M&Ms in silence. “Let’s go back to square one. I usually learn something about the men who come here. I never pry, but they usually reveal themselves. A word here, a comment there; an image begins to emerge. They often take me into their confidence.

“You never have. In fact, I find it astonishing that as simpatico as our working relationship is, nothing goes beneath the surface. You’re like a paranoid poker player with your past: as close to the vest as you can get. You’re religious; no one else around here has ever kept a huge crucifix in his room. You’re probably from an academic environment and might even appear on the Internet. I could have checked that out, but I fought my curiosity and chose not to. My guess? You carry some pretty dark secrets and you think you’re in love.”

Jason dropped back into the chair opposite Timothy. “Right on both counts.” He fiddled with the medallion under his shirt. “Pascal wrote, ‘The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.’ A wise man.”

“You say she’s a mystery. You can’t understand her contradictory behavior. Can’t figure her out. How much does she know—really know—about you? Maybe she’s holding back because she thinks you are. Maybe she’s unsure of you and your motives. You’re pretty darn introverted and don’t reveal much of yourself.”

“Please, no psychoanalysis.”

Timothy knitted his fingers together and leveled his gaze at Jason, waiting for him to continue.

“Don’t tell me I’m an introverted loner. You have six other guys living here, and you know what? The only time I see them is at the dinner table, maybe, and none of them says more than “pass the salt.” I know the last names of two of them, Krieger and Duffy. You recruit a batch of mute zombies and accuse me of being an introvert? Give me a break.”

Timothy’s laugh was lusty and infectious. “Are you done?”

“Not quite. Thanks again for that fifth anniversary party you threw for me a while back. Where’d you find all those people? I recognized two from the prison, and three of my donors.”

“They were donors the other guys rounded up. We had to force them at gunpoint to show up.”

“I just love fame and affection.”

Timothy’s demeanor turned serious. “Another thing. I have the impression this woman might be a techie of sorts, a decidedly modern woman in outlook. Which is all okay. However, you are a throwback, my friend. A traditionalist. Would you agree you have a 1980s mindset?” He smiled broadly. “Maybe even the 1940s?”

Jason returned the smile. “Now you’re pushing it.”

“Which may or may not get to some compatibility issues.”

“Without question. Or opposites might attract. Not only attract, but flourish.”

Timothy grabbed a handful of M&Ms, popped a couple into his mouth and gazed beyond Jason for a long moment while chewing the candy. “I’m going to share something with you. Don’t feel you have to reciprocate. That’s not why I’m doing this. I’m doing it because I want to tell someone and I know you’ll keep it to yourself.

“I was a successful realtor in a small city in my former life. Very active in my church. A deacon, in fact. The denomination is immaterial. I loved my work and was committed to my business and my spiritual callings.

“Until I got to know a woman who, despite the fact I was happily married, mesmerized me. She was a member of the congregation who came to me for counseling. We became intimate early on. Before I knew it, I could think of nothing but her. Every restaurant I visited, every movie I saw or book I read, everywhere I went, I wondered if she’d like it and wanted her to share the experience with me.

“My work suffered. My marriage suffered. Everyone around me suffered. The affair became public.

“My wife left me. I couldn’t face my fellow congregants or my clientele. The woman became disenthralled and dropped me like last year’s TV Guide. So on top of everything else, I was publicly cuckolded. The only positive in the whole sordid business was the fact my wife and I were childless. I hurt so many people and destroyed my career.

“After two years of wandering in Dante’s darkened wood in a haze of alcohol and worse, I came to my senses. That’s when I started the Brothers of the Eleventh Hour, an idea and name I stole from a nun who lived in a Mexican prison cell for years helping the worst of the worst.”

“I read about her,” Jason broke in. “Her name is Mother Antonia.”

“Remarkable story, the way she went from being a twice-married Hollywood mother of seven kids to dedicating her life to others under god-awful conditions. Bugs in the food, filthy cells. She lived in scum.

“The son of a friend of mine got picked up on a Tijuana street with a knife on him. Not a switchblade, mind you, but an ordinary pocketknife. They threw him into her prison. Tons of red tape, calls to the American consulate, and a check for a thousand dollars got him out three months later. In the meantime that nun helped the kid keep his sanity.”

Timothy tossed down a few more M&Ms. “My friend and I learned in the process that every year hundreds of young Americans get arrested at the border on trumped up charges. It’s a money-raising scam for the Mexicans that we never hear about. Anyway, that’s how I got here. I’ve never shared this with anyone.”

“We have some things in common. More than you’d ever guess. Someday we’ll have another talk.”

“Let’s do that.”

They shook hands. “One more thing, Jason. Aside from the fact today’s digital recorders are compact and wouldn’t land with much of a thud, one question won’t go away. Why would you think she had a recorder in her bag? What were you afraid of her recording?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Next Chapter: Chapter Eleven