Read The Expected One for Free Online Page A

than the others to follow The Way as it was taught — it required more of himself, more internal change. Peter will be misunderstood and there are those who bear him ill. But I do not.
I loved Peter and trusted him. Even with my oldest son.
T HE A RQUES G OSPEL OF M ARY M AGDALENE,
T HE B OOK OF D ISCIPLES

Chapter Three
     
    McLean, Virginia

March 2005
    M cLean, Virginia, is an eclectic place, an odd mixture of politics and suburbia. Off the Beltway, it’s a short drive past CIA headquarters to Tysons Corner, one of the largest and most prestigious shopping centers in America. McLean is not known as a suburban center for spirituality. At least, not to most people.
    Maureen Paschal was not concerned in the least with sacred matters as she drove her rented Ford Taurus into the long driveway of the McLean Ritz-Carlton. Tomorrow morning’s schedule was packed: up early for a breakfast meeting with the Eastern League of Women Writers, followed by an appearance and book signing at a behemoth retailer in Tysons Corner.
    That would give Maureen most of Saturday afternoon to herself. Perfect. She would go exploring, as she always did when she was in a new town. It didn’t matter how small or rural the place was; if Maureen had never been there, it held fascination. She never failed to find the jewel in the crown, the special feature of every place she visited that made it unique in her memory. Tomorrow, she would find McLean’s.
    Check-in was a breeze; her publisher had handled all the arrangements, and Maureen had only to sign a form and grab her key. Then it was up the elevator and into her beautifully appointed room, where she indulged her need for order by unpacking immediately and assessing the wrinkle damage to her clothing.
    Maureen loved luxury hotels; everyone did, she supposed, but she was like a child when she stayed in one. She thoroughly inspected the amenities, scoped out the contents of the mini-bar, checked for the sumptuous crested robe behind the bathroom door, and smiled at the extension phone next to the toilet.
    She vowed she would never be so jaded that she ceased to enjoy these little perks. Perhaps those years of scraping, eating Top Ramen, Pop Tarts, and peanut butter sandwiches while her research devoured what was left of her savings had been good for her, after all. Those early experiences helped her to appreciate the finer things that life was beginning to bestow.
    She looked around the spacious room and felt a brief pang of regret — for all of her recent success, there was no one to share her accomplishments with. She was alone, she had always been alone, and perhaps she always would be…
    Maureen banished the self-pity as immediately as it came, and turned to the greatest of distractions to take her mind off such troubling thoughts. Some of the most tantalizing shopping in America was waiting right outside her door. Picking up her bag, Maureen double-checked that she had her credit cards and ventured out to celebrate the culture of Tysons Corner.

    The Eastern League of Women Writers held their breakfast in a conference hall of the McLean Ritz-Carlton. Maureen wore her public uniform — a conservative designer suit with high heels and a spritz of Chanel No. 5. Arriving in the hall precisely at 9:00 A.M. , she declined food and requested a pot of Irish breakfast tea. Eating before a question-and-answer session was never a good idea for Maureen. It made her queasy.
    Maureen was less nervous than usual this morning as the event’s moderator was an ally, a lovely woman named Jenna Rosenberg with whom she had been in touch for several weeks in preparation for the event. First and foremost, Jenna was a fan of Maureen’s work and was able to quote from it extensively. That alone won Maureen over. In addition, the event was set up in an intimate setting of small tables clustered together so that Maureen didn’t need a microphone.
    Jenna began the Q-and-A session herself, with an obvious but