Free White Wind Blew by James Markert Page A

behind the cottage. And voila—Lincoln, it turned out, had a bit of a green thumb.
    Wolfgang perused the choices and found the rose he wanted. Its sturdy stem was upright and scattered with thorns and tiny green leaves. He clipped it, lifted the candlestick from the grass, and returned inside.
    A fresh rose for the vase atop the piano. He felt better now.
    He worked for another hour before his eyelids grew heavy. He finished his third glass of wine and blew out all the candles. At the side of his bed, he said a prayer for the patients. He prayed for McVain. Wolfgang lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the night. Then he did what he always did when he couldn’t sleep.
    He thought of Rose.
    ***
    It had all started with a glance on the steps of the Cathedral of the Assumption in downtown Louisville. But in truth, his love for her had started weeks before, when Wolfgang took his seat in the back of the cathedral and spotted her arrival. Or, rather, heard her arrival. She was a few minutes late, and the clicking sound of her heels on the marble floor drew his attention. In that moment, a tug-of-war began in Wolfgang Pike: between Rose Chandler and the Lord.
    He was twenty years old, with two years of major seminary under his belt and home for the summer from Saint Meinrad, where he’d been schooled for the past six years, through high school and into his college studies. That summer he couldn’t wait to go to the cathedral and listen to the choir. He loved listening to the monks chant at the abbey, but he missed the harmony of female voices. When her slender fingers and red nails dipped into the baptismal pool, he was mesmerized—but not by the choir this time. Instead, he followed her fingers as they touched her forehead, the shallow valley between her breasts, her left shoulder and then her right, motioning the sign of the cross. She wore a red dress that conformed to her figure and ended just above her knees. Her black hair had faint swirls of auburn, cut in a bob that hovered like a small black curtain around her neck. She hurried to the row in front of Wolfgang, genuflected, and then sat on the first seat. What had Brother Blackstone told them before they’d left for the summer? To just move along and go on your merry way if confronted by someone of the opposite sex. Wolfgang quietly removed himself from his row and relocated to the other side of the church. But that advice proved useless.
    He still watched her throughout the entire Mass. He watched her lips move as she sang along with the choir. Father Peterson had told them to carry their Liber Usualis with them everywhere they went, and if confronted with temptation, put eyes and mind to word and prayer. Wolfgang didn’t have his Liber Usualis . He’d left it at home on his desk. So his eyes stayed on her every time she stood, sat, and kneeled. Friar Garney had laughed when he’d given Wolfgang advice on women, which was to blur the eyes and pretend they were monsters. Wolfgang tried that as well, but no amount of blurring could mask her beauty.
    He couldn’t get her out of his mind after that day. Every afternoon he returned to Mass at the cathedral with hopes of seeing her again.
    Two weeks later on a Sunday, a light rain fell. Wolfgang hurried along the slick sidewalk with an umbrella, hobbling more because of the rain, and his left foot got too far ahead of his right. He slipped just before the cathedral steps but managed to catch himself with his outstretched hands, avoiding injury. He felt like a fool and quickly wiped his hands off on his pants. Lowering his head against the rain, he moved up the steps. He opened the cathedral door and spotted her coming up the sidewalk, moving hurriedly in a blue dress and heels, protecting herself with a black umbrella. Wolfgang held the door open at that moment, allowing the wind to blow rain inside the front of the cathedral. Finally a cluster of people moved inside, thanking him as he soaked himself in