Magdalene Read online

  MAGDALENE

  Book 3 in the Tales of Dunham

  by

  Moriah Jovan

  A Mormon bishop.

  An ex-prostitute.

  A man with a vendetta.

  Let the games begin.

  Smashwords Edition

  Published on Smashwords by:

  B10 Mediaworx

  9754 N Ash Avenue, #204

  Kansas City, MO 64157

  b10mediaworx.com

  Copyright 2011 by Moriah Jovan

  Edited by Eric W Jepson

  Copyedited by M. Elizabeth Palmer

  Cover and illustrations by Adam K.K. Figueira

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  * * * * *

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  May 2007

  Never an Honest Word

  Lady Marmalade

  Cabiria

  Mid-Life Crisis

  Rough Boy

  Roxanne

  Quench My Thirst With Gasoline

  Steel in Vase

  Uptown Girl

  Hey, Big Spender

  When Did You Fall

  Long Nights, Impossible Odds

  Gypsies, Tramps, & Thieves

  Sweet Valley High

  The Heavyweight

  And We Touch

  Yentl

  Let Us Make Man in Our Image

  Cell Block Tango

  Your Holy Man

  Baby I Love U!

  Ere You Left Your Room This Morning

  It’s Just a Phase

  That’s the Way Love Goes

  Satine

  Smooth Operator

  Every Member a Missionary

  Iron Coke, Chromium Steel

  An Innocent Man

  The Last Temptation

  How to Marry a Millionaire

  No Immunity, No Guarantee

  BFFs

  The Nuclear Family Unit

  Hadassah

  A River of Surprise

  More Room in a Broken Heart

  Languid and Bittersweet

  Between the Moon and New York City

  Took the Hand of a Preacher Man

  Jacob’s Well

  Everything But Yul Brynner

  Apron Strings

  Feel the Fear in My Enemy’s Eyes

  Rich Man’s Frug

  Remedial Mormonism

  The Big Finish

  If We Work Hard, If We Behave

  Oil and Tears

  High Voltage

  A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief

  Korban Pesach

  Tarry Here and Watch

  The Hour is Come

  Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?

  INRI

  Twelve

  Nisan 15

  The First Day of the Week

  Ascension

  Revelation

  ∞

  •

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More?

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  But if they cannot contain, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn.

  I Corinthians 7:9 (KJV)

  * * * * *

  MAY 2007

  I didn’t go into prostitution because I was desperate; I did it because I was bored: Bored with my hausfrau existence, bored with my husband both in bed and out, bored with my ingrate daughters who don’t (yet) understand what it means to be the sacrificial lamb in the nuclear family setup and that being a wife and mother can be its own category of prostitution. They will. And I’ll laugh.

  I was never the stereotypical whore with a heart of gold, which seems to be used as point and counterpoint: If you’re pure in heart, being a whore is tolerable, forgivable even; if you’re just a mercenary bitch who likes sex and, moreover, getting paid for it, it’s the unforgivable sin. Ultimately, however, I had to choose my clients on their ability to pay my exorbitant prices and leave the good sex to my carefully selected lovers.

  I didn’t quit prostitution for some sort of wish fulfillment of born-again virginity; I quit because I was bored. Fucking for money involves a certain amount of acting ability and while I’m a very good actress (thus, a very good whore), it takes some amount of concentration that is not usually conducive to having a real orgasm.

  With a healthy bank account, one ex-husband whose current partner sports genitalia similar to his own, four grown daughters, my forty-third birthday on the horizon, and with professional ennui setting in, I had to find something else to do.

  * * * * *

  Never an Honest Word

  November 9, 2010

  It was Tuesday night at church, and Mitch could tell: The sound of twenty teenagers’ laughter echoed from the gym. Toddler squeals came from the nursery and carried across the building. Murmurs and chuckles drifted from the kitchen where women gathered to learn the art of creating decent meals out of food storage.

  They weren’t doing so well.

  He headed out of the room to escape the cooks who knew the food was bad but were determined to brazen it out.

  “That’s right! Leave us to our misery!”

  Mitch tossed a grin over his shoulder at the woman who’d spoken. “Self-induced, Prissy,” he called back. “You get no sympathy from me.”

  Chuckling, he looked down at his BlackBerry and nearly barreled into another woman. He stifled a groan and stepped back immediately. “Excuse me, Sister Bevan,” Mitch murmured, refusing to use her first name.

  “Bishop, can I talk to you?”

  He didn’t want to.

  But he would.

  Because he had to.

  “Certainly,” he said politely, and gestured toward the hall that led to the bishop’s office. She preceded him and once inside, he closed the door behind her and checked a second door to an adjoining room to make sure his clerk was present and puttering about with church records. Mitch left that one open an inch.

  Meanwhile, Sally had made herself comfortable in the chair across from Mitch’s desk. As usual, she had dressed in her best, something approaching a cocktail dress, but not quite making the look work for her. She should probably not wear red.

  He dropped into his chair, leaned back, and intertwined his fingers behind his head. “What can I do for you?”

  What can I do for you?

  His life’s refrain.

  Of course, he didn’t have to be told what he could do for her. She’d made herself abundantly clear in the last year, and hadn’t been too subtle before that.

  She launched into her usual litany of complaints against her husband, Da
n, most of which involved his inability to find or keep a job. But jobs at Dan’s level were scarce and the man was overeducated and overqualified for anything he could get in Allentown or Bethlehem. Apparently, he hadn’t told Sally he was looking for jobs in Manhattan, Chicago, and Atlanta—and not just because there were better opportunities.

  Dan wanted to get Sally away from Mitch, and Mitch was perfectly happy to assist him in that endeavor. They’d never talked about it, but the knowledge lay heavy between them.

  Mitch wasn’t listening to her. He’d heard it before and didn’t believe a word of it, so he stared at a spot just to the left of the woman’s ear and said “uh huh” and “no” and “yes” in all the appropriate places.

  A knock sounded on the door, and with far too much gratitude, he said, “Come in.”

  It opened and a seventeen-year-old girl stuck her head in his office. “Hi, Bishop.”

  “Hi, Hayleigh.”

  “Is Trevor here tonight?”

  “He’s at the mill.” Which she knew. It was code for I really need to talk to you now, Bishop.

  “Don’t you think it’s kind of weird that the bishop’s son doesn’t come to the youth activities?”

  That stung, but she didn’t know. Mitch didn’t need another reminder that Trevor hated Church—everything about it, from doctrine to culture—and would rather clean rest-stop toilets with his own toothbrush than come to church.

  But he did attend on Sundays and, to the kid’s credit, he did everything he was asked with a smile and without complaint.

  Mitch might have been happier about that were it not for the stab of guilt he felt because he’d farmed the kid out to someone else to raise during his most impressionable years. Now it was too late.

  Sally rose abruptly, obviously offended that he had allowed her to be interrupted. “Thank you, Bishop,” she said tightly.

  “You’re welcome, Sister Bevan.”

  Hayleigh Sitkaris opened the door fully and moved out of Sally’s path. She waited until the older woman had disappeared, then slipped into the office and plopped herself on a chair. “Bishop—”

  He waited, but she looked down at the floor. Twisted her diamond bracelet around with her finger. Swallowed. Maybe tonight would be the night she’d confide in him the way a few of the other kids did, the ones who didn’t trust the charismatic youth leader—

  —Hayleigh’s father.

  “I— Uh, I need—”

  “You better tell me quick, because your dad’s going to be here any minute.”

  She paled.

  “Hayleigh,” he said abruptly, no-nonsense. Her head snapped up. “Whatever it is, I can help you. You have to trust me.”

  “Nobody believes me,” she whispered, casting a glance at the cracked clerk’s door. Mitch leaned over and gave it a gentle push until the latch clicked.

  “Except Trevor?” It was a stab in the dark.

  She paused. “He...doesn’t get it.”

  Well, Mitch hadn’t understood it himself until recently, either, and the girl had no faith that he ever would.

  A sharp series of raps on the door made the girl stiffen. “Just a moment,” he called. “Hayleigh,” he said softly, leaning over his desk to offer her the ever-present tissue box. “Mop up.”

  She obeyed. Mitch waited and watched as she struggled to pull herself together. Finally, she took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Come in.”

  Enter Hayleigh’s father. He stilled when he saw the girl, and said smoothly enough, “Hayleigh, dear, your mother’s looking for you.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said brightly, popping out of her chair and acting for all the world that she was happy to see him. But she never met his eyes, and cast a glance at Mitch. “Thanks, Bishop.”

  “No problem.”

  She squeezed past her father, who watched her, then closed the door and looked at Mitch. “Appropriating something else of mine, Mitch?” he said low. “Raising two daughters of your own wasn’t enough that you feel the need to raise mine, too, or are you into teenage girls?”

  “Siddown.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  Of course he would. But those tactics didn’t bother Mitch in the least, and he simply relaxed back into his chair again. The hostility was ever-present and had been for the last twenty-five years, but now there were no illusions—or at least, there weren’t any now that Mitch had something approaching proof, though not of the right type.

  “Whaddaya want, Mitch? The kids are waiting for me, and you know I don’t like being at your beck and call.”

  “I can help you with that,” Mitch drawled, making a point to look straight into Greg’s soulless gray eyes. “I’m releasing you from the Young Men’s presidency.”

  “You what?” Greg asked, shocked. It was the first time Mitch had seen him show a genuine emotion in years.

  “Young Men’s president. You’re out.”

  Greg’s face contorted with the anger of perpetual frustration. “Why?” he ground out.

  “Does the name Rohm mean anything to you?” Mitch asked.

  Greg’s rage didn’t abate nor did he fall to justifying, explaining, reasoning. “So what if it does?” he snarled. “You can’t prove anything.”

  Mitch shrugged. “Does it matter? I don’t have to have proof. Maybe I just want somebody else to have a crack at such a...prestigious...calling.”

  “Nobody in this ward can do that job better than I can.”

  That, in fact, was true, but Greg had an ulterior motive: In this neck of the woods, Young Men’s president was seen as the stepping stone to the bishopric and above all else, Greg wanted to be a bishop.

  “Still waiting to sit in this chair, eh?” Mitch said, just to twist the knife a little. It wasn’t very Christlike of him, but he couldn’t resist.

  “Dave’s going to hear about this.”

  “I’m sure he will, bright and early tomorrow morning at tee time. Does Shane know you’re a thief?”

  Greg barked a humorless laugh. “Ah, your father-in-law. He’s always been a tool.”

  Mitch totally agreed, but there was no satisfaction in knowing that Shane was as blind to Greg as everyone else.

  Almost everyone else. There was a minority of people who either understood or had instincts enough to steer clear:

  A couple of the kids.

  The Relief Society president and her husband.

  Mitch’s first counselor and his wife.

  His second counselor, who had had a few run-ins with Greg when they worked together at Jep Industries years before.

  Somehow Mitch had managed to surround himself with the few people in the ward who understood what Greg was about—and he had never noticed.

  “So tell me something,” Mitch said abruptly. “How does it feel, knowing you were the flunky at J.I.? What’d they promise you? A million? Two?”

  Greg’s face flushed and he balled his fists. Mitch knew Greg wouldn’t dare punch him, because Mitch was bigger, stronger, and he had authority over Greg. Getting arrested for assault would take the shine off Greg’s façade.

  Oh, how Mitch wished he had enough proof to take to the D.A., but since he didn’t, he had to settle for punishing Greg ecclesiastically—and even there his options were limited.

  “And leaving the country without you, after you’d done their dirty work? Nice touch.”

  Mitch couldn’t bar Greg from going to the temple. The stake president—Mitch’s superior—would have to okay the decision, which would oblige Mitch to explain. Without proof, explaining to a man that his best friend had been the linchpin in a large-scale embezzlement scheme would be...awkward. At best. And explaining it to most of the people in Mitch’s ward—even if he could—would cause no end of trouble for Mitch.

  Better to release Greg quietly and not call him to anything else. Caught between the most popular man in the ward and the stake president, it was the only thing Mitch could do—and he’d get hammered for it from every side.


  Ah, well. Perhaps then President Petersen would release Mitch from the bishopric so he could go on with his life and do something...different.

  “Considering our history, I don’t know what possessed me to call you in the first place.”

  “It’s because you’re such a damned fool, Mitch.”

  “I’m sure Senator Oth would believe me.”

  Greg planted his hands on Mitch’s desk and leaned over it. “Go right ahead and tell him. He’s as stupid as your father-in-law is.”

  “I can’t disagree with that,” Mitch said blithely. “But Roger has the power to make your life miserable whether I can prove it or not.”

  Greg’s mouth twitched as he slowly straightened to his full height. “You would never go to Oth,” he murmured. “You and your wolf pack aren’t exactly his favorite people, and to him, I’m a nobody. He wouldn’t understand it if you carved it in his skin.”

  That was true, too.

  “You have no conscience, do you?”

  Greg answered Mitch’s question with a smirk, his temper evening out into a vague humor. Fake, all fake. Except the rage. The rage would manifest as “slips” of the tongue and gentle, slyly penitent tidbits of gossip, little seeds of contention planted in the minds of three quarters of the people in the ward and stake.

  Why was Mitch only seeing this now?

  “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Greg said, “but I don’t keep company with women who pose for nude portraits. Or modern-day Gordon Gekkos. Or murderers.”

  “Jesus did.”

  Greg’s rage resurfaced and he reached for the doorknob. “You’re going to regret this, Mitch,” he snarled. “You just can’t be happy unless you’ve taken everything that belongs to me, can you?”

  “I never took anything away from you. Mina didn’t belong to you. Neither does my car, my house, my kids, my company, my bank account, my friends, my calling. Never did.”