CHAPTER 8
On the day that Marjorie died, Katharine had been in the midst of appointments, struggling to maintain control of Orion’s newest client, the archbishop of the Anglican Church. Inexplicably, Archbishop Staunton had decided to personally promote the plans of St. Timothy’s Church to sell out to a shopping-mall developer.
Katharine’s male partners had voted unanimously to assign personal charge of the client to her. The senior partners would control the important matters of design and structure. Surely, a man of the cloth required special tact and sensitivity to guide him through the shoals of planning departments, city council meetings, and legal briefs. A woman’s gentle touch was needed; no male was suited for the role of handmaiden.
They did not know Archbishop Staunton. In their ignorance, they expected a kindly, older gentleman, ready to bless their every thought and deed. Shielded by their preconceptions, they saw what they expected. For Katharine, this new client was surprisingly difficult, exhibiting keen intelligence, sophisticated worldliness, and outright pigheadedness. A clerical collar was no guarantee of benevolence. No robe could disguise his cool and calculating manner. His interest in the project was intense. Just like a domineering white male, she thought.
Katharine had revised plans to present to the archbishop at his legal counsel’s office. The head of the church knew the wisdom of retaining the law firm of Cheney, Arpin. The expertise and connections of their most senior urban development lawyer, Tony McKeown, were at their disposal. McKeown was at the pinnacle of the urban-planning law world.
According to Katharine, a woman needed the right combination to succeed in a man’s world: hard‑nosed business acumen, tempered with just enough femininity; competence mellowed with just the right degree of vulnerability.
Last night she had sensed that McKeown was buying into the package. She could guess at his assessment of her: competence, yes; smarts, yes; killer instinct, undoubtedly; easy lay, maybe. But for her, McKeown was hard to read.
“We advise. The client instructs,” McKeown had said last evening. Then, with eyes lowered, he added, “Tomorrow, Mrs. Rowe, you and I will woodshed a priest. By the time I am finished, he will have become an effective witness.” The wry smile and the depth of pleasure in his eyes were more than disconcerting.
Although she sensed danger, she could not place its source. He was very attractive, in a rough and threatening way.
For Katharine, sex was an indispensable weapon in any woman’s arsenal. As a rule, men were weak and vulnerable pawns. But McKeown was different. He was polished like an elegant stone, but there was a sharp and dangerous edge to his charm—a challenge she could not resist.
The next morning, as the elevator to McKeown’s office slowed, Katharine glanced into the mirror. The woman who stared back seemed remote and disconnected from her. She could not deny the desperate hunger in her eyes. Although she had everything in life, no man had ever satisfied her, at least not in bed. And then there was the business of love, she thought bitterly. Her husband, Bob, claimed he loved her, but it was a suffocating, deadening kind of love. Stepping from the elevator, she caught the reflection of her bright and brittle smile.
First Katharine visited the washroom. As she checked her makeup, she heard sobbing from the lounge. Two women were seated on a low cushioned bench. The soft cries threatened to rise, but then subsided.
“He really was a bastard. No, a monster!” choked the younger woman.
She’s only a child, thought Katharine.
“All through dinner, he was wonderful. So I thought it’d be okay to go back to his place.” The older woman put her arm around the girl.
Heard this one a million times before, Katharine thought. Women could be so stupid and trusting. At the shelter, they tried to teach women—girls, really—how to protect themselves. Usually, it was a hopeless task. To Katharine, such naïveté was a cardinal sin.
“He said that some women were meant to be hurt. Then he dragged me into the bedroom and told me to take off all my clothes.” The girl’s face streamed with tears. “He said that before he touched me, he had to examine me. He was holding a tiny silver knife in his hand.”
The girl’s shoulders shook. She could not continue for some moments. “And when I said no, I didn’t want to do that, he hit me right across the mouth, real hard. Then he just dragged me to the door and shoved me out.” The girl flung herself into the woman’s arms. “He called me ‘filthy trash’ and slammed the door.”
Oh God, thought Katharine, the child doesn’t stand a chance. But even so, she had to concede that it was nearly impossible to protect yourself from a charming madman. Katharine could do nothing. While she pitied the girl, she was contemptuous of such naïveté.
After pausing to collect herself, Katharine proceeded to the reception desk of Cheney, Arpin. She was right on time for her meeting with the archbishop and Tony McKeown. Moments later, she was ushered past the circular staircase and down the paneled hallway to the boardroom. The rosewood conference table was twenty-five feet long. Richly upholstered armchairs lined both sides of it. The dark wainscoting gleamed in the sunlight. In the shadows at the far end of the table sat the archbishop who was talking to a woman who was filling his coffee cup from a silver carafe.
“Good afternoon, Archbishop Staunton.” Katharine quickly covered the length of the boardroom and extended her hand. The archbishop began to rise.
“Please don’t get up,” she said.
The sunlight caught the unyielding angle of the cleric’s jaw. A wintry smile graced his lips as he replied, “It’s good of you to come on short notice, Mrs. Rowe. I see you have the revised plans.”
Straight to business, thought Katharine, placing the roll of plans on the table and sitting down.
The archbishop glanced at his watch and frowned. “Mr. McKeown is on the phone with the planning department.” His words were clipped and his manner brusque. “The whole diocese is very much concerned about the opposition to the church application. Tell me, Mrs. Rowe, what are our chances?”
A clear, honest answer was demanded by this intelligent and perceptive client; no glossing over or false promises for him. Katharine took a deep breath and proceeded. “Mr. McKeown is really the one to answer your question, sir. But the city councilors I’ve talked to consider the proposal somewhat unusual.”
“Really? Why?” The archbishop’s heavy eyebrows shot up, animating his face.
Katharine met his eyes, then opened her maroon leather binder, which contained notes of conversations with various aldermen. With her best level gaze, she began. “Bottom line, sir, they don’t want increased commercial development in the neighborhood. Somehow, the idea of a church property being used for commercial retail space is a problem for them.”
The archbishop turned angrily and said, “But we have the evidence! What about all those planning reports the church has paid for? They recommend the project because the tax base will increase.” Staunton waved his hand in disgust and sat back in his chair. “I thought aldermen always liked that sort of thing.”
Katharine waited until he had finished, and then began quietly, “Unfortunately, the element of resentment is strong. The council sees the church as a wealthy institution owning valuable property and not fairly bearing the tax burden. Other businesses see it as a threat, while the residents regard it as an intrusion.” Katharine did not speak of the alderman who joked about driving the moneychangers out of the temple.
She was surprised at the archbishop’s low chuckle. “Mrs. Rowe, don’t they realize that the church is building up a colossal debt just to pay its heat and light bills? No one tithes anymore. We can’t count on donations. If people want churches for their weddings and funerals, they’ll either have to become reliably generous, or else let us raise it in our own way. What business ever survived on charity?” Spent with frustration, Archbishop Staunton sank back in his chair and glared at Katharine.
A clerical collar was no guarantee of immunity from secular concerns. The aggressiveness of the archbishop was disconcerting, and the idea of a church dirtying its hands in a commercial complex did seem undignified. She spread the plans on the table.
Memories flooded through her. St. Timothy’s was an immense limestone structure built on a triple lot, right next to the house in which she had grown up. Katharine’s grandfather, Colonel William Mortimer Deighton, was a decorated war hero. Wishing to dominate the congregation of St. Timothy’s, the colonel had built immediately to the north, preventing the construction of the manse nearby. This act ushered in several decades of an uneasy balance of power between the church and the Deighton family.
Katharine had lived there for eighteen years with her parents, George and Mildred Deighton, and her Aunt Marjorie. Katharine was the eldest, then came Gerry, and last, Suzannah.
Until she was eleven, Katharine had attended Sunday school at St. Timothy’s. Shortly after her confirmation, she had simply refused to go back. She despised the sanctimonious vicar and his church. Hadn’t Jesus said, “Come, little children, unto me”? she thought bitterly. Without her, Gerry would not go. Despite threats, cajoling, and even bribery by her parents and Aunt Marjorie, she had sullenly resisted. None of them had thought to ask why, and Katharine preferred to keep secrets. Secrets gave her power.
One Sunday in early April, a week before her eleventh birthday, Katharine had been waiting for Gerry to come out of the junior class. She and her friend Betty had been talking about birthday-party plans outside on the lawn, and had almost forgotten him.
Pulling the heavy side door open, she walked down the darkened and silent hall to his classroom. Everyone was gone. A gentle breeze filtered through the windows stirring the Lent calendar on the notice board. The secretary in the office directed her to the vicar’s study.
Standing silently in the hallway of vaulted ceilings, she heard muffled sobs and pleading. Cupping her ear to the vicar’s door, she held her breath. Gerry’s voice! She was able to hear it plainly. She turned the knob slowly and silently the door swung open.
Reverend Purvis, in his surplice, stood motionless. A belt dangled from his hand.
Gerry, a slight and submissive figure, was bent over the arm of the sofa, his buttocks bared and his legs splayed. Slowly and confidently, Purvis strode about the room, as if delay might heighten his pleasure. Katharine was transfixed as the man unbuttoned his gown. He did not see her. Suddenly, the Reverend’s face became florid. He approached her brother with a brutal rush of energy.
Katharine screamed. The Reverend turned. Only two Sundays before, he had smiled down on her at her confirmation. Now he scowled. Disgust rose in her. Confirmation of dedication to Jesus and the Church. For an eternity, she and the Reverend stood motionless, staring at each other. Horrified, she could see the blood vessels engorged at his temples. At last, the man drew his robe about him.
Her screams rebounded on the vaulted ceilings. The Reverend slapped his hand across her mouth, but she broke free. Dragging Gerry by the hand, she raced from the study, down the hallway and past the locked office. He did not follow them. At the outer door, she turned back to see Purvis silhouetted against the stained glass window.
Frightened senseless, Gerry begged her not to tell.
After that, Purvis looked pale and sick, in her presence. Drawn by the power of the Reverend’s dark secrets, a thrill coursed through her body. A sense of control over both her brother and men grew swiftly within her. The keeper of secrets was the master of the game. So thought Katharine at eleven, as her burgeoning sense of power became inextricably linked with dark sexual stirrings.
To banish the recollection, Katharine smiled warmly at the archbishop, who rose from his chair and rested his hand on her shoulder as he looked at the plans. With his gold pen in hand, he traced the perimeter of the church lands and the property to the north. “Any word, Mrs. Rowe, whether we can get the Deighton lands incorporated into our plan for the shopping mall?”
Shocked, Katharine stared at him. “I didn’t know they were part of the development.” She withdrew slightly from his touch.
He jerked his hand away. “They’re an integral part. Didn’t Mr. McKeown explain that to your senior partners?”
Momentarily, Katharine appeared confused. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” she managed to say. Her office was full of cutthroats. Intentional neglect to pass on key information was a common form of sabotage. “How does the property fit into the plan?” she asked.
“We need parking.”
“But isn’t it underground?” Katharine consulted the plan.
“Some is. But we need more.”
Katharine found nothing in her file. “I’ll speak to the senior partners, sir. I’m sure it’s an oversight.”
The Archbishop asked, “Don’t you report to Donald Coventry?”
Katharine nodded, furious that the vice-president of planning had succeeded in such a simple game of corporate subterfuge. Wearily, she exhaled.
“Then he should be here, I think,” Staunton grumbled.
The boardroom door flew open. Tony McKeown strode past, closely followed by two young men laden with stacks of legal texts. The lawyer was in his shirtsleeves, collar open and tie loosened. He acknowledged no one’s presence. Throwing himself into the chair next to Staunton, he motioned the junior lawyers to set out the books. Only then did he look at the archbishop.
“Now, Mr. Staunton,” Tony began, “we’ve got problems, and they have to be sorted out before tomorrow. One of them is you, sir.”
The archbishop remained in shocked silence. His eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. Finally he said, “Me? And why am I a problem?”
Chewing on his cigar, Tony rose and began to pace. “All our work goes down the drain unless you can sell the plan to our esteemed council members. So let’s get to it. We’ve got to get you prepared for your examination tomorrow.”
With that, he turned a brilliant smile on the archbishop. “You’ll be on the hot seat, sir. Don’t worry about all the detail stuff. We’ve got experts like Mrs. Rowe to do that. Are you ready, sir?”
The archbishop nodded curtly. Never had he been addressed in such a discourteous manner. This lawyer would have to learn respect for the office.
“Good. Now remember, the aldermen will be throwing all kinds of questions at you. They’re not all that smart, but those questions have been fed to them by the ratepayers, who pay their exorbitant taxes to the city.” McKeown waved his cigar dismissively. “And those aldermen and ratepayers are a bunch of holier-than-thou armchair socialists with the brains of sheep.”
Katharine caught her breath. She had entered a world of domination by a master. Last night’s smoothly polished lawyer had turned into a barroom brawler and bully. A courtroom lawyer, a consummate actor…undoubtedly there were other personae in his repertoire. McKeown lurched forward in his chair and touched the archbishop’s arm.
“Think of it this way, sir.” His tone was deferential at first. “You must surrender yourself into my hands. I am about to create an appropriate personage in you to address these aldermen.”
Smiling, Tony paused to tap his cigar. “It’s something like trusting in God,” he concluded softly.
The archbishop gave an almost imperceptible nod.
McKeown grinned and sprang from his chair. “Let’s get to work, sir!”
With a small smile, the lawyer began strolling the length of the conference table. “Archbishop Staunton,” he began in a respectful tone. “You preside over the diocese of this city?”
The Archbishop was quick to reply, in clipped tones. “I do, and, I might add, my authority and responsibility cover the extended metropolitan area.”
“And in your position, sir, you are primarily concerned with matters of the spirit, church doctrine, and the like?” The lawyer’s tone was casual, even friendly.
“Yes, I am.” The archbishop spoke authoritatively.
“You must be extremely busy, then. How is it that you have time to take such a personal interest in the application of one parish church, out of perhaps two hundred, to sell out to a shopping-mall developer?”
Momentarily, Staunton flushed in confusion, “Why, the church always takes a special interest in the neighborhoods where its parishes are located.”
Tony gazed intently at the archbishop. Delving his hands in his pockets, he nodded thoughtfully and said, “Not bad, sir. Not bad at all.”
Staunton looked vaguely pleased with himself.
“With respect, then, sir, why would you persist in supporting an application that is obviously unpopular with the ratepayers?”
Momentarily, the archbishop looked puzzled, but gaining his composure, he replied smoothly, “Obviously, they don’t see, at least not yet, that the increased revenues will help not only the church, but the neighborhood as well.”
McKeown was at the far end of the boardroom. Wheeling around, he jabbed his finger at Staunton. “Wrong, Reverend. Wrong!” he shouted.
With his voice beginning in a low growl, but quickly rising in strength and resonance, he strolled the length of the room, as if addressing a jury. “You’re not in your pulpit now, Rev. You’re talking to real people like they’re out on the street and you’re one of them. You can’t say ‘obviously.’ That makes them feel stupid. You can’t say ‘yet.’ That’s telling them they’re going to see it your way, once they’ve stopped being so stupid. And, Reverend, you can’t use that goddamned sanctimonious tone of yours, because it makes them real mad.”
Tony dropped into the seat beside the Archbishop Staunton and grinned at his frozen countenance. “Now sir, please,” he said with weary patience “I’m going to tell you what to say and how to say it.”
God, thought Katharine, this is more than woodshedding. She permitted herself a small smile. Staunton deserves it, and McKeown is enjoying humiliating the man. But as the afternoon of grilling and rehearsing wore on, she was surprised to see a more convincing and likeable witness emerge from the austere personage of the archbishop.
Signaling the end of the session, McKeown reached across the table and covered Katharine’s hand. Startled, she drew back. McKeown held her wrist tightly and winked. “Tonight, Mrs. Rowe, we’ll work on you.” With that, he strode from the room, leaving his two silent assistants to clear the materials from the table.
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