The Defining Decision: The Father Tom Mysteries, #5

By J. R. Mathis and Susan Mathis

After the astonishing news from the Archbishop, Helen and I are looking forward to possibly having a life together as husband and wife.

 

That is, if the Holy Father grants me permission.

 

While awaiting word from the Vatican, we're getting to know each other more deeply. Going out on dates, spending time together, talking about what our life together will be like if we're allowed to marry. All of this under Anna's watchful eye, and being very careful to keep things secret.

 

But then Gladys runs over the President of Myer College's chief of staff. What looks like a tragic accident takes a bizarre turn when drugs are found in his system.

 

Is the young genius I consider a daughter guilty of murder, or is she being set up by someone from her past?

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. R. Mathis
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393744382

J. R. Mathis

Susan Mathis was born in and grew up in an extremely small town in Alachua County, Florida where her family has lived for more than 100 years. When Susan was still very young, James (J.R) Mathis was born in a somewhat bigger small town about 100 miles south of where she lived. Within a decade, James' small town would become part of Orlando, the biggest tourist destination in the United States. He was not amused. That is how, while Susan was running barefoot, swimming in lakes full of alligators and feeding chickens, James was sitting in his bedroom reading books faster than his father could bring them home from the library. Were James and Susan to write their love story, it would definitely be an enemies-to-lovers trope. They met in the library where he was working. He found her demands for books that he had to pull and bring to her so unreasonable that he actually turned her into the head librarian. She in turn was so anxious to drive him away that when some friends secretly set them up she laid out an entire speech about how miserable her life was (she is typically very upbeat). Little did she suspect that he had a passionate attraction to misery and they were married just over a year later. Fast forward 26 years, three children, four grandchildren and 20 years of James working for the Federal government. He was diagnosed with a highly treatable but still very scary form of cancer. As so often happens, this brush with mortality inspired him to do something he’d always wanted to do, write a novel. After the publication of the second Father Tom Mystery, Susan joined him as coauthor. As far as the Mathises are concerned, writing together is the most fun a couple can have sitting at a computer.

Book preview

One

THE WALK BACK TO THE car in the moonlight is surreal.

The night is cool but not at all cold, not like the last time we were at the Archbishop’s residence.

But then, nothing is like the last time we were here.

That time, we were only hoping that he would let me remain in Myerton, that he would allow Helen and I to remain friends—close friends and companions, but nothing more than that. Now, with the miraculous news that I might be granted permission to marry the woman I love, well, everything has changed.

There is a new warmth in the air and in ourselves, a warmth that seems to come from both outside and in, creating a thick fog of joy around us where the two meet.

I want to take Helen’s hand—hell, I want to grab her and hug her and swing her around in the air, though of course neither her voluptuous body nor my 46-year-old back is conducive to that. Still, the need to do something, to expend the pent-up energy that this newfound happiness has filled me with makes it hard to just keep walking. Instead, I want to skip and sing and dance for joy.

At the same time, I’m nervous she will change her mind. Nervous that, having worked so hard to get to where we are, she will think that this is where we should stay. What if she comes to believe that ultimately she just wants to be friends? What if she wakes up tomorrow and decides that is how she really feels?

I want to say something suave. I want to say something romantic and memorable that will make her stay in love with me. Instead, noticing the daffodil shoots coming up through the mulch, I say, It's warm for April tonight, isn’t it?

Then, Helen does the most incredible thing imaginable.

She laughs. A deep, throaty, joy-filled laugh that so fills my brain that there is no room for doubt.

I stop. I take her hands and pull her to me. Our mouths meet in a kiss, deep and long, with a sense of passion unfulfilled and hope to come. I want it to last forever, but I stop because I want so much more.

I want a future with her, not just in my bed, but in my kitchen, waiting for me to make coffee. I want her in my living room arguing with me over who owns Boardwalk or whether William Shatner can act. I want her on the first row in the church and at the back table at parish events. I want her to sit by my side at Archdiocesan functions and applaud no matter how many times the same guy makes the same speech.

So I stop, but this time with the hope that it’s only temporary.

And that makes all the difference.

We manage to get in the car but I don’t crank it. I am suddenly seized with the fear that if I turn the key everything will disappear, that I will suddenly wake up in my bed back at the Rectory, alone. But even more alone because my greatest dream has once again been dashed.

Then Helen asks, What do we do now, Tom?

I’m jolted back to reality. Oh, what a glorious reality, with all our dreams soon to be fulfilled. But every dream comes wrapped in a responsibility, and the bigger the dream, the bigger the responsibility.

And right now, I don’t think either of us fully understand what we’re potentially facing.

Well, I say, finally cranking the car and pulling out of the Archbishop’s driveway, that’s a good question. I honestly don’t know. I mean, this is a bit of a shock for me.

Not just for you, Tom, she laughs. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up in my apartment and find out this is all a dream.

Me, too. But look, the truth is I need time to process this, and I can only assume that you do, too. So, how about this? You come to the Rectory tomorrow for lunch and we can talk about everything then.

She nods and says, Yes, that’s a good idea. That makes the most sense.  We drive for a while in silence, then return to small talk.

I want to be wise. I want to be careful and do everything right this time. But when we get to her apartment, my heart trumps my head. Before she can open the door, I say, Helen, I need to make something clear to you. I need for us to wait until tomorrow to talk because I love you. I am determined to woo you into becoming my wife. You deserve wooing, because you have given up so much in our relationship to make this all possible. I want to make a plan of attack, if you will, that gives me the very best shot at making you mine.

She turns to me, her azure blue eyes catching the light of a street lamp and sparkling. In a low, throaty voice she says, Tom, you can have me now.

Her words set my brain on fire.

Again I stand with David, watching Bathsheba from that roof. How many times did he stand there? How many times did he return, again and again, to the source of his darkest hopes and deepest temptations?

Obviously, one time too many.

Even though God did mercifully redeem him, many paid the price, especially the gorgeous Bathsheba. I force myself not to make the same mistake.

Looking in her eyes with all the love for her I have, I stroke her hair and say, And I would take you now, my darling, without hesitation, if I were free to do so.  But, I am not yet free.  You deserve a free man, a man who is free to give you all that you deserve, with all the honor and dignity that comes from being a wife, not just a lover.

The passion and desire still in her eyes, she smiles and caresses my cheek. I’m sorry, Tom, she says, taking a deep breath. I don’t know what came over me. Thank you for saving me from myself.

Well, Helen, I say with a smile, it's not like you haven’t saved me a few times in the past. I lean over and whisper in her ear, And will probably have to save me a few times in the future before all is said and done.

Well, then, she says, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, we’ll just have to save each other.

With that, I go around and open her car door. I walk her to her door and then, as she looks at me expectantly, I raise my thumb to her forehead and make a small cross. I then kiss the place I marked and say, God bless you, my darling. Good night.

Then, using every bit of self-discipline I’ve gained in the past ten years, I turn and walk back to my car, hoping that my very cold shower will not wake Anna.

Two

I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning and wonder for a horrible moment if it was all a dream.

I take another shower, hot this time, and stumble down to the kitchen for coffee, waiting for some sort of sign that I didn’t imagine everything. That sign comes in the form of Anna’s beaming face and big hug as she says, gleefully, Oh, Tom, I am so happy for you both!

So you know, I say.  Kind of a dumb thing to say, I know, but then I haven’t had my coffee yet. I thought it's supposed to be a big secret.

Oh, it is, she says conspiratorially. In Myerton, only the three of us know. After all, someone’s gotta keep an eye on you two.

What do you mean by that? I ask, a little offended.

I mean, after all, Helen and I are adults.

And we’ve exercised self-control in the past.

Sort of.

Don’t get mad, she says, shoving me toward the table that is laden with a delightful bounty of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and, can it be? Can it really be? Grits! The comfort food of my homeland. Anna never makes grits because they take so long to cook.

Anna, I say, overwhelmed, you made grits.

Yes, well, when the Archbishop called me last night and told me the good news, I went ahead and put them on in the slow cooker. I knew we’d have a lot to discuss.

The Archbishop called you last night? I ask, incredulous.

Of course he did. He has been calling every week, just to check in and see how I thought you two were doing.

So you knew all during Lent what was going on and were reporting on Helen and me to the Archbishop?

She sits down and folds her hands. Clearing her throat, she says, Tom. I think now you have the right to know something. And I hope you don’t hold it against me that I kept this from you. But Walter and I both agreed it was the best thing.

Did Anna just call the Archbishop by his first name? Walter? Anna, what do you need to tell me?

She smiles. Tom, Walter and I are old friends. We practically grew up together, even attended the same high school. Oh, don’t look at me that way—there was never anything romantic between us. I always thought of him as a brother. He knew he was becoming a priest, and I was very careful not to get my heart broken. But we’ve kept in touch over the years, and have remained friends.

She hesitates. Remember I told you he called me the Tuesday after you got back, asking me to stay at the Rectory because he was concerned about your concussion?

Yes?

Well, that’s not the only reason. After swearing me to secrecy, he told me what was going on—including the possible opportunity that lay before you. He asked me what I thought of you, of Helen, and your relationship. And I told him what I honestly believe, that you two will always be better together than apart, no matter what happens. That’s when he asked me to serve as his Mata Hari, his eyes and ears.

I shake my head. I have to tell you, Anna, I feel a little like my privacy has been violated. You should have told me!

The Archbishop asked me not to. I open my mouth to protest, when she puts her hand up to stop me. Tom, it felt wrong to me at first, too. But this was the only way that you and Helen could have a chance to work things out. I wanted you to have that chance, and so I agreed.

It just doesn’t seem right, I grouse, even as I spoon eggs and grits onto my plate.

Doesn’t it, Tom? The Archbishop is giving you and Helen a chance, a real chance for happiness together and even marriage in the future. But he is also taking a tremendous risk. If this goes wrong, it could not only destroy your and Helen’s futures, but that of other men in your position who might want to marry someday.

Well, I say, reluctant to give up my argument but really anxious to have the cup of coffee she’s holding, I sorta see his point, and I think I could see it even better if I have some coffee.

She hands it over, then joins me at the table.

So how’s Helen? she asks. Is she excited?

I remember the look in her eyes last night, but manage to say with some level of discretion, Oh, sure, yeah, definitely. Then I add, The only question I have now is, what do we do next? I mean, I can’t just ask her to marry me, not after all the time we’ve spent avoiding that issue. And anyway, I’m not free to ask until the paperwork comes from the Vatican, and there’s no telling how long that will take. To make matters worse, we still can’t be seen in public together as more than friends. It's kind of a mess.

OK, Eeyore, she says playfully. Stop trying to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory. If you ask me, or even if you don’t, I think you should ask her out on a date.

A date? I ask, a bit surprised.

Yes, Tom, a date. Surely you remember what that is. Dinner, a movie, putt putt golf?

But we can’t be seen doing anything like that here.

No, you can’t. You’ll have to sneak around, go out of town. But how fun will that be? she says with a twinkle in her eye that reminds me she wasn’t always my dead wife’s mother.

Joan. 

Oh, my God. I forgot about her.

I haven’t thought of her all night. I didn’t pray for her soul. I didn’t whisper goodnight to her before I fell asleep. What kind of man am I?

I look at Anna, who is staring at me curiously, no doubt wondering how I fell from the heights to this so quickly.

What’s wrong, Tom? she asks gently.

Joan, I whisper. I forgot about her last night.

She pats my hand with tears in her eyes. Tom, Joan is in heaven with Jesus. I very much hope that she thinks about you from time to time, but I also hope that she spends most of her time thinking about and praising Him. You are still here, on earth, and Jesus is not here with you in the flesh, except for those few sacred moments each day at the altar. It's not just OK that you don’t think about her all the time. It’s right and healthy that you don’t.

I don’t disagree with Anna but I don’t really feel like talking anymore. I am suddenly overwhelmed again with everything that has happened in the last 12 hours. I finish my breakfast more or less silently, making small talk but not discussing anything important.

I plan to go upstairs and change, but before I can get there, Anna says, Oh, I forgot to tell you. Leslie asked if she could come by at 8:00 a.m., since, as she said, she ‘would have completed her morning run by then.’

I glance at my watch. It's 7:55 a.m. I realize I don’t have time to change into my clericals so I decide to finish my coffee instead. It's not like I’m in pajamas. I had slipped on some old sweat pants and a t-shirt before I came down. 

At precisely 8:00 a.m., the front door bell rings.  I answer it to find Leslie standing there, dressed in a pair of crisply pressed black slacks and a pale gray sweater.

Good morning, Father, she says, coming inside. I am glad to see I’m not the only one who believes in the health benefits of morning exercise.

I’m confused by this until I catch a reflection of myself in a mirror. Yeah, I do look like I’ve been outside doing something. There are even some old grass stains from the last time I tried to mow the lawn.

‘Fraid not, Leslie. I just threw these on before coming down to breakfast. I’m almost done here. Would you care for some? There’s plenty left.

No, thank you, she says, glancing at the bacon and the biscuits still piled on platters in the center of the table. I am a strict vegetarian and also avoid gluten as much as possible.

Coffee, then? I ask, still trying to be friendly.

No, thank you. I don’t drink caffeine.

OK, then, I say, giving up and escorting her into my office. For the next 30 minutes, she fills me in on the progress she is making in recruiting teachers for the coming school year’s religious education program. While she originally planned to arrive the Monday after Easter, things with her aunt took a sudden turn and required her to relocate to Myerton sooner. After a short, serious illness, her aunt died, leaving her home on the edge of town to Leslie.

Once here, she threw herself into overhauling Saint Clare’s religious education program which, she had commented, was hardly up to date with the latest thought concerning the catechesis of children. I had no argument with that, nor really with her. Leslie’s weird character traits drive me crazy, but I can’t find fault in the way she does her job.

After being given a complete verbal report and a binder full of information, I thank Leslie and send her on her way. 

No doubt she’s busy calculating how many days my poor diet and exercise practices will allow me to continue to live.

Three

AFTER LESLIE LEAVES, I open my email and find a missive from the Archbishop. It’s also addressed to Helen.

Well, I mutter. This ought to give us plenty to talk about.

I text Helen.

What would you like for lunch?

About ten seconds later, she replies.

I’ll pick something up. Chinese?

I smile, because that’s exactly what I had in mind.

Sounds great. You know what I like.

When I see her next text, I can’t suppress a grin.

Will Anna be joining us?

Not anymore ;)

Oh, good. I’ll be there at 1:30

At first I wonder why she’s coming so late, but then it hits me. She’s read the Archbishop’s email and is allowing time for the Noon Mass crowd to clear out.

I spend the rest of the morning on typical post-Holy Week work. Before I know it, it is 11:30 a.m. and I head over to the church.

I celebrate Mass that day with a new sense of awe and wonder. I’m like the child who has been told by his parents that they just can’t afford a bike this year, only to wake up on Christmas morning and find one under the tree. How could it be, I wonder, that Christ, who has already given me so much, would also give me Helen? It’s almost too much to fathom.

I get back to the Rectory around 1 p.m. after spending some time after Mass in prayer, asking for wisdom for my talk with Helen. Anna is in the kitchen, making herself a sandwich. I had mentioned earlier that Helen was coming over for lunch, and she had told me that she would be too busy in her office with the door closed to join us. In my office, I print out a couple of copies of the email, figuring it might be handy to have them to go over together.

Helen arrives about 1:30 p.m. I answer the door, having carefully rehearsed my smooth moves in my mind several hundred times.

Unfortunately, I forgot she would be carrying our food. So when, after carefully closing the door, I reach out for what I had planned to be a romantic hug, I nearly crush our food.

Careful! she cries, as the upended moo-shu threatens to spill out onto her blouse.

Oh, sorry, I say, jumping back like an awkward teenager who accidentally touched a girl’s breast. I try to take the food from her, only to miss one of the handles of the bag, nearly spilling everything. At this point, Helen slides past me and heads toward the kitchen before anything worse happens.

That’s OK. I can still salvage this.

I follow her into the kitchen. Coming up behind her at the counter, I wrap my arms around her, intending to whisper, Hello, darling.  Instead, my hand catches on the handle of her huge tote bag, knocking it to the ground.

Oh, Tom! Helen says, with exasperation. You are clumsy today.

Hey, I say, a little defensive. If you’d carry a purse like any other woman instead of this survivalist go-bag you insist on—

Don’t dis the tote bag, Tom. It has everything I need.

I look down at the spilled contents. Forget the C-4 today? I quip.

She opens her mouth for another Helenesque retort when a laugh escapes her. We both start laughing uncontrollably.

Come here, I say through laughter. I pull her to me unselfconsciously for the first time and squeeze her tight. I bury my face in her hair and kiss the top of her head.

I am really glad to see you, I say softly.

I’m really glad to see you, too, she says. I woke up this morning only half convinced it wasn’t all a dream. I’ve been in a fog all morning. Gladys asked me if I was feeling OK.

Are you?

She pulls back to look in my eyes. Oh, yes. Better than OK. Better than I have in a very long time.

I want to kiss her. I need to kiss her, to once again assure myself that I’m not dreaming.

May I kiss you, Helen?

She smiles. I wish you would—on the forehead, like a good brother, she says in her worst Scarlett O’Hara.

To heck with that, I say with a smile. I pull her closer so our lips can meet.

Just then, Anna comes through the door, I told Tom that I didn’t want to be underfoot but I just have to see . . . She sees us in an embrace, surrounded by the contents of Helen’s bag and stops in her tracks.

Who fell and who’s helping the other up? she asks with a knowing smile.

I try to explain but just start laughing again. Helen, I say, I think Anna wants to talk to you. You do that while I pick up.

Helen turns away from me, Anna hugs her, and I once again marvel at how much stuff Helen carries around with her just to get through the day.

A FEW MINUTES, LATER we are seated in the kitchen, delightfully alone, containers of moo shu pork, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, and egg rolls set before us. After helping our plates, Helen and I spend a few minutes catching up on our respective mornings. I tell her about my meeting with Leslie. More important, however, Helen fills me in on Gladys’ work trying to figure out how Brian Dohrmann was able to afford $8,000 dollar suits on his salary.

I still have a hard time believing it’s true, she says.

But the evidence is there, right? And, I’m sorry, Helen, but based on what you’ve told me about, ahem, things, it makes perfect sense to me.

Tom, she looks at me, I should have picked up on something. I worked with him. Hell, I went out with him. I should have figured out he was on the payroll of some pretty bad people.

And Gladys is convinced he’s connected to the same sex trafficking operation as Rose? As I say the name, the face of the woman who held Helen and me at gunpoint, who told me to go to hell when I asked to hear her confession, flashes through my mind.

Several of the payments to his account in the Caymans are from the same shell companies that handled the payments to Gus, probably for the same reason—to get law enforcement to turn a blind eye.

Does that mean there’s sex trafficking going on here in Myerton?

Helen shrugs. Gladys did find evidence when she was in Bellamy that this operation has its tentacles in college and university campuses around the country.

I sigh and shake my head. Changing the subject, Helen looks across the table at the papers near my elbow and says, Are those copies of the Archbishop’s email?

Yeah, I reply, I figured we ought to discuss it. I guess you read it?

Oh, yes, she says.

And?

I thought for a minute I was back at St. Monica’s High School and we were getting the rules for the spring dance.

Oh, Helen, I say, it's not that bad.

Not for you, Helen says, looking and sounding a little perturbed. You’re used to being talked to this way. But I’m not, Tom, and it's going to take some adjustment. Seeing the crushed look on my face, she smiles and adds, But I do want to adjust, Tom. I really do.

I understand, Helen, I say. I’m used to the Church laying down the rules about how I’m to behave and expecting them to be followed. But look at it this way. Every organization has rules and policies, even police departments. And sometimes those policies can even apply to the personal lives of those involved. For instance, I bet the department has rules about how you store your gun, even at home, right?

She nods, then leans forward as a wicked smile plays on her lips. So if I understand, she says mischievously, these rules are about where you’re allowed to put your gun between now and when we’re officially engaged?

My face turns beet red as I barely manage not to spit a mouthful of fried rice on her. I finally get myself back under control enough to say, OK, I guess I deserved that. But look, can’t we just go over this together before you get any worse?

Sure, she says, now that I’ve made my point.

I pass her a copy of the email and take one for myself.

"Dear Tom and Helen,

"I decided to send you this email to clarify what we discussed last night.  It seemed as if you were both still in shock when you left and I want to make sure that you know how I hope things proceed from here.

So far, so good, I think.

"Before we go any further, I need to share something with the two of you, something that I suppose I am reluctant to admit but that you still have the right to know. As much as I wish that everything concerning the Holy See’s decision to expedite your engagement depended only on your own worthiness or the value of the idea, there are still other factors at work. Factors of a primarily political nature.

"Tom, I am sure that you are aware, and Helen, you may have heard, that the Holy Father has been under pressure from more progressive forces in the Church to sanction giving Holy Communion to persons who have divorced and then remarried without the benefit of receiving a formal annulment. After much prayer and consideration, he has decided to maintain the Church’s policy against this.

"As you might expect, it will anger many when this decision is released. So, frankly, the decision was made to expedite your engagement in order to give the press something to talk about besides divorce and remarriage in the Church.

"To be clear, this never would have happened had I not had absolute faith in your commitment to Tom’s vocation to the priesthood. Certainly this Lenten season has put the