Father Louis Lindsey was born in Maryland, the son of Dr. and Dr. Lindsey. His father a radiologist, his mother an internist. He was an only child. He’d attended Ashdown Forest, a prestigious boarding school in Virginia, and graduated from Dartmouth with honors at the tender age of twenty.
The subsequent twenty-four months of his life were hazy, but I gathered he completed two fellowship programs around Washington D.C. before attending Johns Hopkins for med school.
All this I learned surfing the internet over lunch at Blue 5, a trendy restaurant downtown that boasted live music in the evening and took itself a little seriously. I paused my research while the waitress set a burger with bleu cheese and marinated shiitake mushrooms in front of me. Plus sweet potato waffle fries, because I needed veggies and life was good.
Should I also have a Sam Adams?
Without a doubt I should have a Sam Adams.
Information about Louis Lindsey wasn’t scarce online. He had his own webpage, with a blog and links to his articles on religion and philosophy and his lecturing schedule. This past Friday and Saturday he was the keynote speaker at a multi-denominational retreat for married couples. Next weekend he was holding forth at a provincial synod, whatever the hell that was. He had fifty thousand Twitter followers, high for a religious celebrity. His website listed accomplishments such as addressing the National Prayer Breakfast, being an honorable mention for Time’s twenty-five most influential evangelicals, guest speaking at a Billy Graham crusade, teaching courses at Duke Divinity, sitting on various leadership councils, etc. Even to potential skeptics, he was an impressive guy and his life had been full and productive and there could be no denying his profound impact.
Oh, and he was a member of Mensa.
Definitely smarter than me. But, I noted with pride, his biceps were less bulky.
All Saints listed him as the rector, but his duties at the church included only teaching and discipleship. He wanted fewer responsibilities, I bet, to free up his schedule. So the more mundane tasks of administration and prayer meetings and counseling and hospital visits and weddings fell to his staff of clergy.
I didn’t begrudge him this. Different personalities, different talents, different roles. But my eyes caught on discipleship.
Hmm.
Took a while but I found buried information about his family. A wife and one son. That was it. ‘Dr. Lindsey and his wife have one son.’ Not an inch more real estate on his website could be spared for the family.
He’d been on a Red Cross medical relief trip to the Congo in his early thirties when he’d felt the call to dedicate his life to God. I was listening to a podcast, wherein he explained his decision to quit medicine and attend Princeton Seminary, when Veronica Summers walked into Blue 5.
The Veronica Summers. Ronnie. Cutest girl in the whole damn state.
We had history. I first met her in this very restaurant, at that very bar, a seminal moment in my life still resonant enough today that I nearly spilled the Sam Adams.
It was close, but I retained my hold on the glass.
Mackenzie August, captain of his own ship.
Ronnie was Aphrodite herself. Taller than most women, maybe 5’10’’. Still tiny to me. She kept her hair pinned up, a shade brighter than honey. Her high heels had a small white bow over the toe. The bow matched the white belt on her tiny black skirt, and coordinated with her white button-down blouse, collar flicked wide.
I knew my eyes were playing tricks but rooms brightened as she entered them.
Or maybe it wasn’t my eyes. Much of the restaurant paused to admire the incoming sun goddess. The bartender waved to her.
Two interesting tidbits about Veronica Summers. Now only reaching her mid-thirties, she already owned her own successful law firm. And she tended bar at Blue 5 on Friday nights.
She strode into the restaurant far enough to let her eyes adjust. Perfect posture. Kept her attaché case pinned to her hip with her elbow.
I remained calm.
Just kidding. My heart, the coward, thundered.
She scanned the restaurant. Her eyes found mine.
We both felt the jolt of electricity and heat. Like eye-contact created a direct current between hearts.
August, calm down. No need for poetry.
She approached my table. She smiled.
I stood. Any man would. One does not remain seated after receiving such a smile.
“Hello Mackenzie.” She kissed my cheek.
“Hello Ronnie.”
“You were admiring my legs.”
“I’m required to,” I said. “I could lose my private license if I didn’t.”
“I hope you noted that my morning yoga classes have produced a slightly firmer muscle tone?”
“I did. And will again.”
“And that my recent trip to St. Pete has given me an unusually good tan this early in the year? If you didn’t, lie to me for the sake of my insecurities.”
“Are you still waging silent war with the girl in your building?”
“The former college cheerleader with excellent calves, yes. She is perfect. At the moment however, in this particular contest, I’m winning.”
“There are few moments in which you aren’t, Ronnie.”
“Thank you, Mackenzie. Who are you meeting for lunch?”
“I am alone.”
“May I sit with you?”
“For a moment.”
She paused halfway onto her stool. Held me in the blue green of her eyes. Her eyes had always bordered on being too large, like a Disney princess.
“I’m staying longer than a moment, Mackenzie, unless you give me a good reason otherwise.”
“Because I remain besotted with you and being in proximity causes exquisite pain.”
“How could I possibly leave, then? There’s a handsome man at this table who desires me. Every girl’s dream,” she said. “Are you dating anyone?”
“Objection. That’s none of your business.”
“Overruled.”
“I’m not dating anyone.”
“Good. I would wither and die on the spot if you were. My perfect darling baby boy Kix is well, I hope?”
Ronnie had a lot going for her, as if superior intelligence, spirit, and appearance weren’t enough: she adored my son; she read bedtime stories to homeless children at the Rescue Mission on Thursday evenings; she was generous with her money; other stuff, probably.
She was still overcoming a profoundly painful past—on a weird level, we connected because both our mothers had died too young. She was a mess. She knew she was a mess. But she was trying.
I said, “Kix is still perfect and darling, yes. He misses his ol’ pal Ronnie. We both do.”
“You, above all people, may not call me pal. I haven’t seen you in months. I think you’ve gotten taller and broader.”
“That’s merely in comparison to the lesser men you spend time with,” I said.
“I couldn’t agree more. In fact, by contrast, I wouldn’t even call them men.” We both sat on one side of the raised table, facing each other. She slid out of her heels and crossed her legs, idly kicking her right foot. Her toes made frequent contact with my pant leg. Her toenails were pink.
The bartender brought her a glass of white wine without being asked. The guy adored Ronnie. I did too, but would never stare with gaping mouth as he did, the nincompoop.
“If I had known I’d be on a lunch date with you, Mackenzie, I’d have dressed up.”
“This is not a date. And you’re not dressed up?”
“What I mean to say is, I might have worn less.”
“Ah. I don’t mind if you change.”
“And yes,” she said. “This is a date.”
“If we were on a date, I wouldn’t be making a slob of myself with a messy hamburger.”
She paused to eat one of my waffle fries. I debated chopping her finger with my knife, but I liked that finger. Two waitresses stopped by to say Hello and she introduced me as her date.
They left and she drank more of her white wine. I asked what cases she was working on and she regaled me with stories of rich kids she’d been hired to prove innocent of stupid things they’d definitely done.
“Our jobs aren’t so different,” I said.
“What mystery are you solving at the moment?”
I told her without using names.
She regarded me over the wine glass’s rim. “You aren’t happy.”
“Why not?”
“Primarily because you miss me. Or at least I hope so. I hope that with all my heart, because I miss you too. But also, you don’t want to investigate the church.”
“Oh?”
“I know you. You credit the church with saving you from Los Angeles. You’re a defender of the church’s goodness and necessity. Looking into sexual improprieties within its hallowed walls is like spying on your father, Timothy. Ergo, you aren’t happy.”
“Only I say things like ‘ergo,’ Ronnie.”
“That’s why I said it, Mackenzie.”
“Ah.”
“Do you miss me?”
“I do. But that doesn’t matter.”
She swirled her wine. “Isn’t it interesting. The only man in Roanoke I want is the only man who won’t have me.”
“Isn’t it heartbreaking, Ronnie. The only girl on earth I want is engaged to another man.”
She lowered her wine glass. Wiped her mouth with her manicured thumb and forefinger, a girly motion. Looked down at the table.
I said, “Are you still engaged?”
“I wish you wouldn’t bring him up, Mackenzie.”
“He’s the reason we’re not together. You didn’t admit you were engaged to a federal prosecutor in Washington until we’d been dating several weeks.”
“I remember.”
“So now I sit. Alone. Messily devouring a bleu cheeseburger. Not thinking about you.”
“Yes you were.” She smiled. “If you won’t admit it, I will. I think about you. All day.”
“Have you visited your fiancé recently?”
“I…have. But truly, he doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t share.”
“Why did you come here? To Blue 5?”
“The waffle fries.”
“No. You came because it reminds you of me, Mackenzie. And maybe we’d run into each other.”
“But mostly it’s the fries. How’d you know I was here?”
“I received a deluge of texts. The big gorgeous guy I used to date had arrived.”
“Why’d you come here today, Ronnie?”
“With hopes that the sight of me might jar you lose from your anger.”
“If anything could, it’s that skirt.”
“Oh?” She smiled again. One of her cheeks held a faint dimple. “That was my strategy. It’s hard to covet something you never see.”
“It’ll come close, but it won’t work. I won’t date an engaged woman.”
She finished her wine. Set it down with a clank. Leaned back in her chair. “Ugh. You and your damned scruples.”
“Right?”
“Okay. I’m leaving. I’m late for a hearing as it is. Coming here, I’ve jeopardized the good will of Judge Chandler.”
“Court in that skirt?”
“The judge would open every jail cell in Roanoke for this skirt. But know this, Mackenzie. I’m lonely. Horribly and pathetically lonely. Seeing you has reminded me…” She stood and slid into her heels, a motion I could watch all day. “…how good and perfect of a man you are.”
“Well. There’s that.”
She pressed her hand against my shoulder to prevent me from standing. Bent at the waist to kiss my cheek. Paused, her lips near mine.
I concentrated all willpower on not trembling.
Her fingertips pressed harder against my shoulder.
“I’d forgotten about the muscles too,” she said.
“Some girls are worth working out for.”
“If you were the type of man to give in too easily, I wouldn’t think about you as much.”
“Why I’m stubborn.”
“Goodbye, Mackenzie. Text me later and tell me if the yoga is paying off, please.”
She walked toward the door, her hips moving in an exaggerated swiveling motion, her heels clicking. The restaurant held it’s breath, witnessing the divine.
Unspoken consensus—the yoga was paying dividends.