Uncross My Heart by Austin, Andrews & Austin Page A

Monahan.” She took my hand and, without thinking, I said yes to her invitation and asked whether she preferred the roof restaurant or the less formal one downstairs.
    “I prefer getting the hell out of here.” She grinned. “I have a car. Come on, I know a great place.” In the distance I spotted Gladys bearing down on me again, and I was delighted to be outstripping her as Lyra and I headed for the door.
    Within minutes we sailed out of the parking lot in her Saab and across town to a small side street with lots of quaint restaurants. We barely spoke during the drive, taking in air like suffocating fish.
    “This work for you?” she asked as she pulled up in front of The Grapevine, its trailing tendrils cascading down and through the metal lattice that framed the outdoor eatery.
    “Perfect,” I said, thinking about Vivienne Wilde and the way she said that word, and not really caring about food. In fact, lately I seemed to be almost out of my body, performing day-to-day activities like a specter inhabiting someone else’s humanity. I chalked the sensation up to being bored with just about every topic on the planet and more bored with its inhabitants. How could I have ever thought I would make a good priest? I have little sympathy and certainly less love for the vast majority of the world I serve. But then that’s the key, isn’t it? Doing one’s duty whether one likes it or not? If people feel good about the space you take up on earth, you can feel good about yourself.
    I was slightly distressed to learn that Lyra was one of those spotlight diners. She asked the waiter questions, determined ingredients, customized what she wanted, and changed her choice of entrée several times, making herself the center of culinary attention ten times longer than necessary. I only hoped she didn’t eat as slowly as she ordered.
    When I pointed to a dish on the menu and ordered within seconds, she frowned. “You don’t worry about what goes into your food?”
    “I only worry that I won’t get any.”
    She laughed, somewhat shy now, and admitted to being a pain when it came to ordering. I liked her better for her candor. Midway through her meal of hummus and tabouli and fresh pita bread, Lyra stopped long enough to grill me.
    “Why in the world did you become a priest?” She was apparently unconcerned with invading my privacy when we barely knew one another.
    Because it pleased my father. Because I was so brokenhearted there was nothing else to do. Because I wanted to fight the beast from within. “Perhaps to find out the truth about God,” I said.
    She studied me more closely. “And what truth did you learn?”
    “That God created man in his own image and man re-created God in his—because mankind loves to be in fear of something.”
    “Yes, the God we’ve cast performs in the ultimate horror flick. Watches us unseen, hunts us down, judges us by his standards, and condemns us to eternal flames. Ahhh!”
    “What happened to love?” I asked.
    Her eyes softened. “We’re more afraid of love than we are of God, so we’ve tried to make love evil and scary simply because we have no control over it. Love happens or it doesn’t, but it’s as biologically involuntary as…an erection.” I blinked, amazed, and she laughed. “I’ve always envied men that. If they’re ever in doubt about what they’re feeling, they merely have to look south.”
    “Do you say these kinds of things to everyone at random?” I grinned at her.
    “Just people I sense are kindred spirits. You have a very conservative background, being at Claridge and a priest, yet on the panel you leapt forward with liberal remarks. Who you appear to be provides great cover for what you have to say. Terrific. I mean, look at me.” She stretched her arms wide, causing a waiter to dodge her. “What you see is what you get. Are you married?”
    When I didn’t answer she rattled off, “Divorced? Gay?”
    I felt my face flush again. “You’re