The Lincoln Myth(10)

Eleven years had passed since they were last together. They’d kept in touch, seeing each other on occasion at social functions. He knew she moved to France and started constructing a castle, using only 13th-century materials and technology, which was slowly rising, stone by stone. He’d seen photographs of it and her country château.

Both were remarkable and picturesque.

Like the woman herself.

“It’s all right,” she said to him. “I’ve been enjoying the view.”

Kalundborg began as a Viking settlement on the west coast of Zealand and remained one of Denmark’s oldest towns. Its cobbled square was anchored by the unique Church of Our Lady, a 12th-century masterpiece comprising five octagonal towers. The café sat on one side of the square, its candlelit tables crowded with diners. Theirs, at his request, nestled against the front window where the brick church could be seen lit for the night.

“I’ve been looking forward to this dinner all day,” he said to her. “I so enjoy it here. I’m glad you could finally come for a visit.”

His mother had been an introverted Danish woman totally committed to her husband and their six children, himself the youngest. When church missionaries arrived in the late 19th century, her family had been one of the first in Denmark to become Latter-day Saints. His maternal grandfather helped organize Scandinavia’s first ward, and more followed. Those wards eventually were formed into stakes. The same thing happened in Spain, where his father’s family had lived. Eventually, both grandfathers headed large stakes. He’d inherited his mother’s Danish estate in Kalundborg and spent May to October here each year, escaping Spain’s summer heat.

Their waiter appeared, and he ordered a glass of mineral water. Cassiopeia made it two. Menus were produced, and they both scanned the house selections.

“Are you still leaving tomorrow?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. I have some business that requires my attention.”

“I hate that. We were just beginning to become reacquainted.”

“And you’ve been so coy, which I’ve allowed. But it’s time you tell me. Why have you returned? Why did you come here?”

She’d first made contact about five months ago with a phone call. Several more calls and emails followed. Another call last week led to an invitation here.

Which she’d accepted.

“I’ve decided I may have been wrong about things.”

Her words intrigued him. He set the menu aside.

“As I’ve become older,” she said, “I’ve realized that the beliefs of my parents may not have been so wrong.”

He knew that, like himself, she’d been schooled from an early age in the Book of Mormon, taught the Doctrine and Covenants and encouraged to read the Pearl of Great Price. Those would have taught her all of the revelations provided to the prophets who’d led the church, along with a full understanding of its history. Every Latter-day Saint was required to study the same.

But he knew she’d rebelled.

And rejected her heritage.

Which, luckily, neither of her parents had lived to see.

“I’ve waited a long time to hear you say those words,” he said. “Your negativity about the church was the source of our estrangement.”

“I remember. And look at you. Back then you were about to lead a ward. Now you’re a member of the First Quorum of Seventy, one step away from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Maybe the first man from Spain to achieve such a great honor.”

He heard the pride in her voice.

The First Presidency rested at the top of the church leadership, consisting of the prophet and two hand-chosen counselors. Below that were the Twelve Apostles, who served for life and helped establish policy. Then came the various quorums of Seventy, each member a respected elder, charged with aiding organization and administration, holding their apostolic authority as special witnesses of Christ. Many apostles came from the Seventies, and every prophet had emerged from the apostles.

“I want to rediscover what I lost,” she told him.

The waiter returned with their water.

Salazar reached across and lightly grasped her hand. The gesture seemed not to surprise her. “I would be most happy to help you rediscover your faith. To lead you back would be my honor.”

“That’s why I contacted you.”

He smiled, his hand still atop hers. Dedicated Latter-day Saints did not believe in premarital sex, so their relationship had never been physical.

But it had been real.

So much that it had survived eleven years inside him.

“I’m hungry,” he said, his eyes focused on her. “Let’s enjoy dinner. Then I’d like to show you something. Back at the estate.”