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men—the man who belonged to that blue bungalow in Oahu, and the man who lived in the quiet passion of twilight and a feather mattress.
    The southern drawl and fallen cowboy hat did not compare to the dizzying need she experienced when thinking of the blond man of her dreams. Her desire for him struck her like a wave, raked her out flat, barely allowing her a gulp of air before slamming her once more.
    She eyed John from beneath her lashes, admiring the width of his shoulders and trim waist and hips. Her dream man was rough with desperate passion. Her cowboy was playful and thorough. John could be all of these, but right now he was treating her tenderly.
    Her nipples bunched into tight peaks and a whisper of sensation rippled over her, as if hot breath fanned her. She put her hand on his arm and he gazed down into her eyes. Torment lived in those black depths, and she swayed toward him, wanting to comfort him. He gripped her against him, pressing the back of her head into his chest. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of powerful male and cologne.
    “Let’s have some lunch, shall we?” he asked.
    She nodded. He caught her hand and they splashed through the traffic to a restaurant with a striped awning over the entrance. He seated her with his usual flair and ordered her the seafood dish he knew she’d love. When his smoldering gaze met hers over the rim of his wineglass, it heated her like a coal. A trickle of warmth slipped downward, spread through her lower belly and captured her pussy.
    She tapped their glasses together, brushing the backs of his knuckles with her own. “To Seattle and the night to come.”
    With a flourish, he removed the fine crystal stem from her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. His unshaven scruff was as sharp as glass, sending another pulse of heat through her. She squirmed and crossed her legs.
    John sent her a grin that meant he knew what he had done to her. After six decades together, he did.
    The meal continued in a heightened state of awareness parallel to foreplay. Lillian delighted in John’s squeamishness when she picked up the squid in ink and bit into it with a groan of delight. He poured her a fourth glass of wine, dipped her fingertip into it and lapped it slowly off.
    “Shall we move on?” he asked, holding her eyes.
    Eager to end the meal and make their way to their hotel suite, she rose immediately. She looped her hand through his arm and followed him out into the muddy streets. They splashed along in silence, listening to the city.
    She drew up short at the sight of the cathedral spire rising into the leaden sky, the cross glowing white at its pinnacle. The rain drummed their umbrella, enclosing them in a private world. Then John crushed her fingers and towed her toward the stone staircase.
    “Come.”
    They pushed through the rich wooden double doors where he had entered countless times as a priest in the late nineteenth century. Lillian paused in the vestibule, unsure, as haunting voices uplifted in prayer reached her. They were saying a mass for the dead.
    With a hand on the small of her back, John urged her into the candlelit nave. The scent of spice and furniture wax, candles and musty damp reached her. At her side, he drew a deep lungful and she knew the images permeating his brain. Countless blessings. Water pouring over the round skulls of infants in baptism, small hands receiving the host, the warm confines of a dark cubicle and whispered confession,  groups of young adults accepting the gift of the Holy Spirit, the glowing eyes of couples joined in matrimony, the excitement of a newly ordained priest,the smell of chrism anointing the sick. The seven sacraments. John had lived, eaten and breathed them for many years.
    Lillian sank her fingers into the bowl of holy water and touched them to her forehead, heart and each shoulder. They genuflected before sliding into the very back pew, and John kept her fingers entwined with his in prayer.
    A dark coffin