CHAPTER NINETEEN.     The Quality of Mercy

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Content Warning: Homophobia,
Religious Discussion & Themes

DISCLAIMER: I would just like to preface that I do happen to be a Follower of Christ, but I do not share the ideologies of Lorna, nor anyone from the 1950's, and even present day. Sadly, her take (and still many people's takes today) is one shared by lots of Christians worldwide, but also not by all those who claim the faith. I do not want to umbrella any member of this branch of religion, but this does happen to be a viewpoint adopted by several members, and is represented as such in this chapter. Everyone translates the gospel differently, but it does not by any means make it okay to be a terrible person or wish hellfire upon anyone, definitively. That is not the Word of Jesus as I have read it. For those that maybe be triggered by the themes discussed in this chapter, please be advised. Love to all. Thank you for reading my work, and embracing Cassidy, Josette, Killian, and Jack, it means the world to me.

            Hyannis and Chatham, both towns located on Cape Cod, stretch about twenty miles apart, depending on the route taken. The drive between the two typically takes roughly thirty minutes, depending on traffic and road conditions.

            Hyannis, the commercial hub of the Cape, offers a bustling atmosphere—it's where the Chevalier estate is nestled, while Chatham retains a more tranquil, small-town feel, known for its picturesque harbor and charming Main Street. The Moreau's were notable residents of Chatham.

            It took Cassidy a benchmark twenty-seven minutes to reach their home.

            The Moreau's abode was tucked amongst the coastal dunes, the lavish cottage exuding old-world charm blended with post-war opulence.

            Its whitewashed exterior, adorned with wide, airy verandas, featuring scalloped edges and shuttered windows, all framed by sprawling hyacinth bushes and a finely manicured lawn.

            The roof, a steep gabled design, is topped with copper accents that have gracefully weathered to a soft patina.

            Cassidy's throat tightens as his blue eyes push upward to examine the home, an involuntary squeeze that catches his breath. His eyes flicker briefly, caught between a fleeting moment of hesitation and the weight of what was to come.

            With a soft, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, he swallows, the motion slow and deliberate as he tries to push the lump of anxiety down, down, down. His Adam's apple rises and falls with considerable effort, but the discomfort lingers, settling like a stone lodged somewhere just behind his voice.

            He clears his throat, but the feeling remains, a silent reminder of the tension that wraps around him, encompassing and gripping, tightening with every passing second.

            He slips a single hand into the pocket of his beige trousers, adjusting the buttons stitched into his short-sleeved baby blue button down just to give his fumbling fingertips something to do.

He trudges forward, each step a labor. The soles of his loafers slap against the cobblestone walkway. As his hand hovers above the door, it is suddenly thrust open, and there she stands in all of her golden glory. Her lips are stripped of color, as well as her nails, no longer that striking red he was so accustomed to.

            Her face is quite ashen, despite the tan she held the day prior. Her hair is still styled to perfection, her outfit a mirror of the same excellence.

They hold each other's eyes for a moment, stunned into silence. Lorna grips the door, straining her knuckles. Her lips purse, and her eyes fall to the floor. They take a gander as she murmurs, "Would you like to come in?"

            Cassidy's chin careens, head tilting—searching. He wanted her to look at him again with something other than . . . a secret not worth keeping, something to be ashamed of.

But that could have been a matter of his own madness. An assumption that she did not quite hold, but he just figured all on his own self-deprecating accord.

He pauses, the question hanging in the air between them. For a moment, he considers walking away, but the weight of his own hesitation keeps him rooted to the spot. His gaze meets hers—searching still, uncertain—and then, with a quiet exhale, he nods.

"Yes," he says, his voice steady but lacking its usual confidence. "I think I should."

The door creaks open, and he steps into the familiar space—dim light filtering through the curtains, the faint scent of perfume and old memories greeting him with a reminiscent hello. The air feels heavy, charged with the silence of what once was.

His eyes scan the room, almost unwilling to land on anything too familiar, but he just couldn't help it. It was within his nature to derive gratification from his own humiliation.

            A photograph of Lorna was still on the mantelpiece, framed with a quiet dignity. More photographs littered the space there of her and her esteemed family, all crowded together with plastic smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths.

            He forces himself to look away, shifting his gaze out toward the rest of the room, unsure if it was the same as before or if it had changed in the time since they last met here. It had been months, three or four at most. Late winter, early spring rendezvous.

            His footsteps are tentative as he crosses the threshold into the living room, each one punctuated by the soft echo of old footsteps, ones that used to be in sync with his.

            The tension between them was palpable, unspoken, and he could feel it curling in his chest. What was he doing here? Was this a dreaded mistake, to show up here and plead his case? Ask for amnesty, for mercy, for silence? And yet, there he was, waiting for her to speak, to offer some clue as to why she had agreed to let him in, to so much as speak to him.

            Then, as if in answer, the sound of her voice breaks through the silence. It is calm, but there is something in it—an edge, a tremor—that told him this visit was more than just a casual conversation.

            "Would you like to journey upstairs? No one is home, but it is more secluded in the sunroom there, lest someone arrive unexpectedly."

            A secret worth keeping, he must truly be. But it pained him terribly to be a secret at all. Alas, he agreed with a stilted nod.

            The stairs creaked under their weight as they ascended, each step like the subtle echo of an era slipping away. The cottage was quiet, its old wood walls lined with memories that felt heavy now, more like ghosts than comfort.

            He moved ahead, his posture rigid, a touch too formal, as if the space between them were a vast ocean rather than a few narrow stairs. She trailed just behind, her face a study of muted grace, her eyes betraying only a flicker of something sharp—something that still remembered the heat of their past, the way love had once burned between them before the quiet fissures had widened into this chasm of uncertainty.

            Neither of them spoke, but the air was thick with unspoken words, each one more cumbersome than the last. She reached the top first, pausing for a moment to steady herself, trying not to let her fingers tremble as they rested on the doorknob.

            It wasn't the door that made her hesitate—it was the conversation that waited beyond it. The conversation that had to happen now, before things could fracture even further.

            He closed the distance behind her, his shoes soft against the carpeted staircase, and in the silence, she could feel the weight of his presence—the way he'd once filled every inch of her world with certainty, and now seemed like a complete stranger.

            "Will you sit down?" she asked as they pushed through the threshold, her voice brittle, though she didn't quite know why. There had been so much laughter between them once, so many moments that had felt like home, and yet now everything was fragmented, refracted into something unrecognizable.

            He didn't sit upon her suggestion, it wasn't his intention to remain for long. Instead, he stood by the window, his hand resting on the back of the chair as if waiting for permission to finally speak, or maybe just waiting for the moment to pass so they could pretend none of it had ever been said.

            It was a rather small room, filled with sunlight that should have been warm, but felt colder now, as if the shadows of their own confusion had stretched too long. She could see the faintest outline of his jawline, the creases at the corners of his eyes, and wondered for a second if he still remembered what it had been like when their bodies fit together in the dark.

            "How did you know?" she asks suddenly, the question a jagged breath escaping from her lips before she could stop it.

            His fingers brushed against the curtain, pulling it aside, and the light flooded in, casting a golden hue across his beautiful face, a fleeting moment of intimacy that felt almost like they were alone again, as they once had been. But this wasn't the same.

            The world outside was different.

            He was different. She was different.

            "I think I always knew," he replies softly, his voice distant, careful. "But I never thought I would have to . . . admit it, not to you."

            And much lower, so much so that she could not discern it, "Not to anyone."

            Her heart twisted. Not to you. The words reverberated in the quiet, and she stared at him for a long moment, his back still to her, his shoulders tight with the burden of a secret that had become hers as much as it had become his.

            "And now?" she asks, her voice hushed, as though it was all too fragile to say out loud.

            He turns to face her, and there is a softness in his gaze, a kind of apology she hadn't anticipated. "And now, I think it's time to stop pretending." His words landed between them like the final pages of a book that had been written, and rewritten, and finally come to an end.

            Her eyes glistened. They were no longer the eyes of a woman who expected him to love her in the way she had once loved him. Instead, they were eyes that had weathered time, eyes that understood what was lost, what was inevitable, and what was still too painful to touch. The silence between them grew thick again, heavy and charged with years of untold things.

            In the quiet that followed, she reaches for the chair, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric as she lowers herself into it, gathering the last of her composure. "I never thought we'd end like this," she says softly, almost to herself.

            "Neither did I," he murmurs, but he didn't sit alongside her, didn't move closer. He was already somewhere far away, in a place that had nothing to do with the room, or her, or the love they'd been building upon for many, many years.

            She watches him, a brief, fleeting glance, and then turns away. She eyes a seagull across the patio, perched on a dock pillar. She smiles faintly, unsure as to why exactly.

            "Does anyone else know?" she inquires, not so hesitantly now.

            Cassidy draws a breath, almost indiscernible. He spins his signet ring about his finger, craving the taste of mint. He even yearns for a smoke, something he's refrained from doing since his conversation with Killina regarding his father's demise.

            "I feel my sister has her suspicions," a smile ghosts his lips. "You know Ettie, always so intuitive. And my uncle, perhaps, though I am not entirely certain."

            "And the writer, of course. Callahan."

            The man remains at the window, his gaze steady but not accusing as he turns his eyes to her. He watches her for a moment, letting the words hang in the air like a delicate mistake, something that could easily slip by unnoticed. His fingers trace a petal of a nearby flower, secured inside a very intricate-looking vase, absently as he goes to speak.

            "Actually," he begins, his voice gentle, "I think it's Killian you're thinking of, not Callahan." He doesn't rush the correction, letting it settle between them like a quiet suggestion. His eyes flicker over to her for just a second, careful not to make her feel too exposed, too caught. "It's an easy mix up."

            She blinks, a faint flush rising in her cheeks as her mind catches up with the moment. She smiles awkwardly, a little too quickly, and nods, her fingers tightening into fists as she corrects herself.

            But his words were already doing their work—delivered so lightly, with the precision of someone who had spent years knowing just how to nudge, how to guide, without pushing.

             He is so very good, which only makes all of this that much worse, she thought. And she would not lie to herself, watching the man run to someone else's defense—a lover—made her inwardly ache; her heart unraveling its final string.

            "And where does that leave you, Cassidy? All this . . . they say it isn't right. It's not natural. The Church, they say—" she falters, but then her voice steadies as she leans forward, more forceful now. "The Church says it's a sin. You know it. You can't just . . . choose this. Not without consequence."

            Cassidy's face darkens just then, a sight Lorna has never bore witness to, and there's a weariness to his voice, "I've heard it, Lorna. I've heard it all. The guilt, the shame, the hellfire . . . for God's sake, I have seen the consequences my uncle has suffered because of it. If anything's not right, it's that. His suffering. The hatred."

            Lorna grows more desperate. Her hands are tight around her knees, "You don't understand. You can't just turn your back on God. On what's right. This isn't just about you and him. It's about your soul. Y-you—you know what the Scripture says."

            Cassidy grips the back of the chair ahead of him, white-knuckling and taut. His body leans forward slightly, his tone soft but firm. "What if I've made my peace with that? What if . . . what if it's different for me?"

            Lorna stares at him as though she can't quite fathom it, bewildered indeed. "You can't make peace with something like this, Cass. You can't." Her voice trembles as it departs from her tongue, but she presses on.

            "Do you think God will forgive you for this? Do you honestly believe that? After everything you've been taught, everything you've learned—how can you live with that, knowing what you're risking?

            Cassidy sighs deeply, almost mournfully, his eyes lowering toward his hands. He watches them loosen, feels the pounding of his heart soften. "I don't know what's waiting for me, Lorna. But I know what's here now. And right now, this—" he gestures vaguely toward the space between them, "—is real. More real than anything I've ever known. The here, the now."

            Lorna's voice is almost a whisper, as if the words pain her to say them, because they certainly do, "I don't know how you are meant to live with yourself."

            His eyes flick over to meet hers, a branch of sadness there in their depths.

           "I know you don't," he says.

            There's a long pause, the silence heavy, as both of them sit, lost in their own thoughts. The quiet hum of their shared space seeming distant now, as though they're the only two people left in the world.

            Finally, Lorna's lips part on a quiver, "I just don't know where your soul is going to end up. I wish I could believe what you believe, that it's enough to follow your heart, but—" she shakes her head slowly and lowers her eyes toward her lap, " . . . I just can't."

            Cassidy's voice is low as it leaves his lips, a melodic murmur of sorts, and is tinged with something that could be considered regretful. "Maybe it's not about belief, Lorna. Maybe it's just about living. I've been living in a cage for so long . . . I can't keep pretending it's not there."

He saunters toward the door, both of his hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers now. He stares down at her, almost longingly, and then a realization catches. He closes his eyes briefly, then reopens to find hers still remaining elsewhere, "All that I ask is that you don't—"

            "I won't tell a soul," Her eyes shoot upward in an instant, wide and stricken. Her words slip from her lips like a secret, barely audible, yet sharp with intent. "I would never do that to you, Cassidy. You must know, despite everything, never."

            A small smile touches his lips, and then he nods. Everything about it is gentle. It makes Lorna slam her teeth into her tongue, completely overcome.

            As Cassidy's fingers slip around the knob, Lorna forces her body upward so fleetingly, that it nearly dizzies her.

            "Cassidy!" she calls out to him.

He turns back to meet her eye, his hand still coiled around the golden globe.

She clears her throat, straightening her arms at her sides. "They say Jesus is quite eager to forgive."

Sadness forms divots in Cassidy's cheeks, spreading to wrinkle the skin around his eyes. A brief exhale pries his lips apart. As the air leaves his lungs, his chest aches considerably.

"But why is such a love as the one I share with Killian deemed worthy of forgiveness if we have done nothing wrong? Especially considering the amount of misery passed within marriages between people like my parents, like your parents, like so many couples of a different make that we know."

            The next breath that exits his lips is one of disbelief. "I hope you find peace, Lorna. Truly. And thank you for your discretion."

            As Cassidy looks at the woman for, what could possibly be, the last time, there's a quiet hesitation in his gaze, as if he's trying to hold onto something—perhaps a memory or a fleeting hope that this moment isn't really the end for them. That it could be salvaged by friendship, but after this . . . he didn't deem it possible.

            His eyes are heavy, tracing the contours of her face, lingering on the familiar details, yet there's an unmistakable distance in his expression.

            The intensity of his stare betrays a mixture of regret, sorrow, and a touch of doubt, as though he's trying to reconcile the person standing before him with the one he once knew.

            His lips tighten, fighting the impulse to say something else—anything else—but he remains silent. The weight of the finality hangs between them, making every second of that look feel both too short and far too long. There's a sense of resignation, but perhaps also a quiet hope that she'll somehow remember him differently. And as he turns away, a subtle sense of loss settles over him, realizing that this chapter of their story has truly closed.

            At long last, he walks away, leaving her there, staring at the empty space across from her that he once inhabited. The air feels suddenly colder, the soft echoes of waves thrashing about the shore distant, as if the world has moved on without her.

            And then she breaks out into a sob, her body slouching and collapsing onto the floral carpet below.

            She prays Cassidy is granted mercy, but not from God, for she knows that only cruelty at the hands of a mortal could come from this revelation.