Red
Just came back for a reread of this lovely piece. It is fascinating to appreciate new treasures in a beautifully written fic on subsequent readings.
When I first read, this, I was captured by the story, and I raced past some of the emotional richness you set the stage with immediately
She'd felt it growing, spreading, a distance, a remoteness between them. Mick smiled his sad, sweet smile and told her she was imagining things, that everything was fine, that he'd never been happier, but she heard the lie catching his words, saw the flicker as he couldn't hold her gaze. There was a quiet desperation to the way he held her when they made love, so tender, as though they might break under the weight of hopes and dreams. Unfamiliar fear kept her from confrontation; she'd always stepped forward to face trouble head on, but now, she had too much to lose. In lonely silence, she clung to the moments they shared, analysing every word, every gesture, every touch, searching for clues, waiting and hoping Mick would draw her close once more.
Something about this particular day was different, sharper, clearer and Beth sensed a point of finality, of decision. Mick had arrived home just as she was leaving for work; she saw pain, felt need in his grasping touch as he pulled her close.
"I love you," he whispered.
It felt like goodbye.
Poignant--and very plausible that Mick and Beth would both be tortured by what goes unsaid.
Then, there was this lovely, rich descriptive passage
Weathered, dulled by age, a little battered, the bronze figure endured. Mick smiled at the comparison; fifty years had taken their toll. St. Jude, haloed in flame, still extended an embrace to the lost and the hopeless, a pool of welcoming light spilling from the ever-open church, catching the simple lettering of the painted, wooden sign hung from the door, "All welcome, always."
Mick's hesitation was brief this time, confident in the sanctuary to be found within. The church was silent, the choir long since disbanded, the regular worshippers departed for hearth and home. The pews and kneelers were the same, much-repaired and patched, peeling varnish and threadbare velvet a testament to years of bowed heads and bended knees. On so many days he'd felt God's absence but here comfort seeped into his soul. Inch by soothing inch tension leached from sprung muscle; eyes closed, his breathing calmed until finally he could hear the silence.
What beautiful imagery you have put in placeto go with this lovely story!
You are, indeed, an artist. Father Matthew is so wise--a wonderful character. A wonderfully healing moment.
Thank you!
Jenna
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I started to panic in the beginning, but I knew you would make it right... 
) but they were the good kind. My favorite quotes of Father Matthew have been posted already, but I'll do this one again:
