Standing in the warm spring sunshine, which beamed onto the courtyard outside John’s music room, Maggie watched her fiancé play the piano for a while, unable to believe that he would be her husband in less than a month. Perpetually struggling with her own self image, she constantly worried some younger, more attractive siren would entice him away. If they could just get through this next Easter, she’d be Mrs. John Jacobs, ready to take on all female comers.
And there were many because he was so beautiful.
Margaret had known that from the moment she’d met him seven years earlier. Though few women could resist his muscled body and handsome face, they were more apt to say cute or attractive.
But beautiful? That was a word she reserved for the exceptional, beyond earthly consciousness. God was beautiful. That’s how she knew that John and the Passion Ministry were so very special.
Only later did she witness John’s temper. The combination of a preternatural sensibility and uncontrollable rage was potent. Now, as she watched the man she was about to marry, the dread tormented her again.
One of the Passion Ministry’s main platforms was the sanctity of life, all life. Her lover’s last hit, Our Children, had made that very clear. A lullaby with simple lyrics had somehow created an international sensation. The money and followers poured in. The donations were all spent now, sucked away by the Ministry’s various charitable deeds. Street kids had been housed, single mums, the poor and the sick provided with aid.
Maggie contemplated John’s awesome responsibilities. Still more people in the world needed his help, his ministry, his passion. Only her Apostle could deliver. His Palm Sunday concert was in five days, one of just two yearly appearances. The new record was in stores and the marks of Christ had arrived, thank God.
“John,” she called softly. She moved quietly to stand behind him and gently kissed his head, momentarily appeased by his familiar smell. “Darling, we’ve got to talk.”
John stirred, turned and smiled at her. “Maggie,” he said, as though for the first time. “I’m so tired.”
“Come, darling,” she suggested. “It’s lovely outside.” She helped him to his feet, careful not to touch his injured wrists, and led him onto their private deck. Beneath a small tree sat a large glass-topped table, decorated with pansies and ringed by high-backed chairs. She helped him settle into a chair, then perched on another beside him.
“You’ll not eat, then?”
He smiled wanly and shook his head. She knew that while the marks were visible upon his body, no solid food would pass his lips. Just the thought would make him queasy.
“Drink,” she commanded, pushing an orange smoothie before him.
He sipped the straw tentatively, squelching a gag. “It burns.”
