Fever Moon by Carolyn Haines Page B

battlefields of France and Germany. The parish suffered daily.
    “I saw Rosa’s hands bleed. The manifestations of the nails had begun to appear in her feet.”
    “And her side? Did it bleed, too?”
    He shook his head. “Primarily the hands. The wound in her feet was a new development.” He closed his eyes to block the memories. The wounds had terrified him, and in his terror, he’d allowed doubt to grow. In his doubt, he’d failed Rosa in the most profound way. Now he would not fail Jolene.
    “You really wrote the Vatican about Rosa?”
    “I did.”
    “Were they considering Rosa as a saint?”
    “They were.” He wasn’t lying. The cardinals in Rome had taken Rosa Hebert’s case under serious scrutiny. What he didn’t tell Jolene was that the Vatican had cast a dim eye upon Rosa. His request that she be authenticated as a stigmatic had met with firm disapproval, and it was too late when he’d understood that the Vatican was not eager for a common American woman to be elevated to the status of miracle.
    “Just because she’s dead, does that mean they’ll stop trying to prove she was real?”
    He stood, wanting to pace the room himself, to enjoy the release of action. He forced himself to stand steady, calm, the picture of composed strength. “Because her death was a suicide, the Vatican won’t consider her case. Had she died under other circumstances, the investigation would have continued. Suicide is a mortal sin.”
    Jolene’s thin bottom lip slipped into a pout. “That’s hardly fair. If my hands opened in gaping wounds and started bleeding every Friday, I might have to consider suicide, too.”
    “That is a damning statement, Jolene.” He shook his head but could not shake loose the sadness. “Suicide is not something to joke about. You are God’s creation. You live by His choice, and it’s for Him to determine when it’s time to call you home.”
    “Sometimes God overloads the wheelbarrow.”
    He saw the pulse in her throat and knew she was aware of her blasphemy. In moments like this, he’d learned to review a person’s past. It gave him what passed for wisdom among his parishioners. Jolene was in an unhappy, childless marriage. Her waist was thickening and her looks were fading. She teetered on a thin line between doing the good works of the church and becoming a bitter, harsh woman.
    “As hard as it is to hear, God has a purpose for all that He puts in our paths. He knows the burden you carry, Jolene, and each day He sees your strength.” He hesitated. “My area of study was the history of the Irish church. My anticipation was that I would be sent to Belfast, to work with a country I loved and understood. A country engaged in a terrible war. I had no preparation for this culture in Iberia Parish. I don’t understand why God sent me here, but I have to trust that He has a plan.”
    “Your trust in God’s grand design intrigues me. How do you know it’s true?”
    He touched his chest and thought he heard an echo. “In here. Faith happens in the heart, not the mind, Jolene.” He knew the proper words, even if he’d lost his belief in them.
    She mimicked his gesture. “There’s nothing here but emptiness. I want to feel something, before I’m too old.”
    Jolene needed to be loved. She needed tenderness. He was moved by her emptiness, but he had no solution for her. “You must pray to God for faith. If you seek it, God will deliver it to you.”
    “I’ve spent hours on my knees.”
    The anger had returned to her voice, and he was suddenly weary. “God demands surrender. You should pray for the grace to surrender to His will.”
    “So that I can go home to Jacques and cook his supper and fetch his slippers.” Her voice rose with each word. “He doesn’t love me, Father. All I want is someone to love me.”
    Michael grasped her shoulders and held her firmly. “God loves you, Jolene.”
    “It’s not enough.” A dry sob tore at her throat. “I just want someone to hold