Magdalene by Moriah Jovan Page A

mixture of confidence, strength, and humility I
had never encountered in a man before.
    No arrogance, no swagger.
    His cohorts, Taight and Hilliard, Kenard and
Ashworth, had arrogant alpha-male swagger down to a science. Though
I couldn’t tell who was the alpha in that barrel of
testosterone, I understood and appreciated men like that. The
women, as powerful as their men, had their own swagger. As do
I.
    Hollander I did not understand. He knew that
and used it like a weapon.
    I had my first shock when the wine steward
came around and Hollander did not wave him away. “I’m not versed,”
he murmured in a voice as rich and warm as a stream of the darkest
Belgian chocolate, “so I’ll have water, but feel free to serve the
lady.”
    Just to be perverse, I chose the most
expensive wine on the menu. Mitch relaxed back in his chair, his
elbows on the arms and his fingers steepled under his chin, and
simply watched the sommelier and I. At long last it was done and I
sat back in my seat to watch him watch me, and I raised my wine
glass in a small, somewhat mocking, salute.
    His eyelids lowered almost imperceptibly and
the corner of his mouth curled up.
    For a man of God, I decided, he might know a
whole lot more about how to seduce women than I’d given him credit
for. The thought disturbed me.
    I decided to quit the bullshit and be
completely transparent. He would see it as a tactic, and it was,
but at this point, I had no other tricks up my sleeve. I waited
until after we had ordered our entrees.
    “What,” I asked slowly, never taking my eyes
off him, “does a Mormon bishop do, precisely?”
    He smiled slowly as his eyelids lowered, and
I crossed my right leg over my left knee. He didn’t miss that and
his eyebrow rose. I nearly laughed because this man was so out of
the realm of my experience.
    “A Mormon bishop,” he replied with some
care, “is a low-level executive, ah, a project manager, I guess, of
a ward—a congregation. He has two counselors who help and a cadre
of management types and assistants to delegate responsibilities to.
My nearest female counterpart in that hierarchy is the president of
the women’s auxiliary. Relief Society. She reports to me directly,
but has the same structure.”
    “Who’s the CEO?”
    “The president of the Church, also known as
the prophet.”
    “I suppose any large organization like that
would have to have a fairly rigid structure.”
    “Yes.”
    “How much time do you put into it?”
    He thought a moment. “Twenty-five, thirty
hours a week maybe.” I nearly dropped my glass. “I only have one
child at home now, and he has his own timetable so it’s easy to
lose myself in it. Most bishops have wives and children at home and
they sacrifice just as much as the bishop does.”
    Oh, hell, I wasn’t even going to bother with
etiquette. “And you don’t get paid.”
    He shook his head. “No. We don’t have paid
clergy.”
    “And you’re the low man on the totem
pole?”
    “Yes.”
    “Like a Catholic parish, right? So you have
a diocese?”
    “A stake. The stake president is my, ah,
boss.” He broke out into a grin and I had to smile. The Hollander
of Hollander Steelworks was the low man and had a boss.
    “How do you get that job?”
    “If you’re smart,” he said wryly,
“ not voluntarily.”
    I laughed.
    “You get called. The stake president asks
you if you’d be willing to accept the calling. You accept. Or
don’t. By the time you get to that stage, you probably have a
reputation for accepting other jobs and doing them as well as you
can.”
    “Is this a lifetime position?”
    “No, but there are days it feels like it.”
He relaxed back into his chair. Stared at his plate. Played with
his utensils. Suddenly, I felt like I was witnessing a man in the
throes of an unpleasant epiphany. “A bishop is usually called for
five, seven years at the outset,” he said slowly, still not looking
at me, still lost in whatever had jerked his attention from