51

After his discussion with Dr. Stephens, Reverend McBride retired to his office. He had intended to write down some thoughts toward that upcoming Sunday’s sermon, but the meeting with the doctor, rekindling those troubling old memories, had worn him out. He loosened his tie and lay across the plush leather sofa in the shadowed corner of the room, intending to enjoy a catnap, after which he would resume work on Sunday’s message.

The moment he closed his eyes, he thought about her.

The passage of forty years had only intensified his recollection of the experience. He had been happily married for almost fifty years to a lovely woman, Claire—God had welcomed her to Heaven just last year—but sometimes, in his moments of weakness, his thoughts traveled back along that well-worn groove in his mind, like replaying an old song on a turntable.

Inevitably, shame followed immediately thereafter.

Take these thoughts from me, dear Lord, he prayed, as he drifted into slumber. Cleanse my spirit to serve only you.

He had been asleep for only a few minutes when a knock at his office door jarred him awake.

“What is it?” He sat up, reached for his glasses. Their office manager was on duty, but he’d told her he was going to be busy for a while and didn’t want to be disturbed.

The door opened.

A young woman who looked exactly like his newly-claimed daughter, Monica, entered. She carried a white cardboard box.

The box was the perfect size to transport a cake.

A chill tapped McBride’s spine. Hand trembling, he reached for his cane.

“Who are you?” he asked, though he was certain of the answer.

“It’s been a long time, dear,” Grace said. After locking the office door, she placed the box on the center of his desk. She lifted the lid. “I’ve brought you a chocolate cake. For old time’s sake.”

McBride barely noticed the gift. He couldn’t stop staring at her. She wore a form-fitting yellow dress, and matching heels. The woman had to be at least sixty years old—or older—but she appeared to be only in her late twenties or early thirties. It was unbelievable.

An abomination, he thought. His hand closed around the handle of his cane. He rose to his feet, though his knees quaked.

“Get out.” He pointed toward the door. “You are not welcome here.”

Grace came around the edge of the broad desk. Her perfume reached his nostrils, a wave of warm rosemary, and the earthy scent made his mind whirl.

“Poor Reverend McBride.” She clucked her tongue. “My, look at how you’ve aged. You used to be so tall and handsome. But you’re an old man now, hunched over with a cane. How predictably pathetic.”