Forbidden Fruit by Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa Page A

lightning, I had a name for the nameless thing that had been slowly
     taking shape in me for days. It was a name so ordinary, so often used by me as well as by millions of others, I never realized
     I had not once appreciated it until I came to know Eamonn. It was love.
    Recognition took all the strength out of my legs. I just made it to the grassy dunes where I collapsed and lay out of the
     wind under a blue sky. I was exhausted in body yet filled with boundless spiritual strength.
    Love. So this, finally, was love. I laughed aloud at my long ignorance. Boyfriends, even my husband, from time to time had
     said to me, “I love you,” and I had responded with “And I love you.” I was now ashamed for having used this precious phrase
     so glibly, so mindlessly.
    Love was pure and everlasting, and it surely happened only once if at all in any lifetime. In my gratitude at having found
     it, at having begun to understand it, I outflew the birds. So effortless the soaring sea-gulling of the heart in love.
    But did Eamonn feel, as I did, that our meeting was part of a common destiny? And even if he did love me, would he ever feel
     free to express it?
    I do not mean by kissing me passionately. That had to be a mistake on his part, never to be repeated, but at least it proved
     the strength of his feelings for me. Still less did I mean it sexually—he was committed to living a celibate life. What
     I had in mind was, rather, a lifelong sharing of intimate thoughts, hopes, dreams that neither time nor distance could obliterate.
     In his absence abroad, I had absolute confidence in a oneness of the spirit, his and mine, that would overcome all obstacles.
    Calling to mind his sweet face, I realized that lately he had lost much of his former calm and self-assurance. Seeing him
     in a mirror when he thought I was not looking, I had caught him frowning uncharacteristically, as if he had a burden he would
     like to share. Often, while talking over the fire at night, this precise man had become entangled in a sentence that grew
     ever more complex until he had to stop and shake his head as if to clear it. He wanted to tell me something but either lacked
     the words or the courage to do so.
    Was he, too, stumbling toward the discovery of a path that led to the magic and eternity of love?
    I prayed that he would find some way of communicating with me, some way of opening his heart to me as I had begun to open
     myself to him. He would not find it easy, that was obvious. He knew more of charity than of love. He was expert at giving;
     receiving was far harder. He had schooled himself through years of service to offer sympathy, not to accept it. His vocation
     in life was to appear strong for the sake of others, not to show the weakness and need that accompany love among equals.
    That day and the days that followed were the first test for my new existence. Eamonn never left my mind nor did distance separate
     us. I no longer had the slightest doubt that he was the one person with whom I could share everything and be completely me,
     if only he would allow it.
    Something else was special about him. He was the one man whom I trusted physically. Others had abused me terribly. Eamonn
     never would. In this respect, his celibacy was a help, not a hindrance to our love.
    I was in such a peaceful frame of mind I was totally unprepared for the manner of his homecoming.
    Late in the evening, I heard his car on the drive, but so slow I realized something was wrong. I wanted to rush out of my
     room, fling open the front door, and embrace him, but it was Mary’s job to greet him, not mine.
    I sensed something terrible had happened. Maybe he had met up with a fellow bishop, made a confession of his sins and returned
     home determined to cast me out of his life forever.
    In fact, he was ill. I could tell that by his slow tread as he went via the hallway into the living room. He was ill enough
     to have gone straight to bed; he had chosen to go instead