"Beats me," whispered Hugh.

"The man I'm looking for is married and has kids. Jack Kettyle can't be Father Jack. What if it's all been a lie?"

"Then we'll start over."

"How? This is the only name I have, and I've looked everywhere."

"h.e.l.lo," came a voice from the door.

Dana turned. Recognition was instant. The face was more mature, the hair more silver than blond, and the black pants, black short-sleeved shirt, and white clerical collar a far cry from madras and jeans. But this was definitely the man in her picture.

His smile lingered, though he seemed puzzled. "Mary was right," he said in a kind enough voice. "You look exactly like someone I know, only she's in San Francisco. I talked with her just this morning."

Dana forced herself to speak. "I'm Dana Clarke, and I was looking for Jack Kettyle, only I don't think he's a priest."

"He is," the priest confirmed, still kindly.

"You're Jack Jones Kettyle?"

"Whoo. Someone's done research. That's right."

"A priest? But I was told you were married and had children."

"I do. Six of them. But my wife died ten years ago, and our children are all grown, so I decided to do something different with my life."

Hugh joined the conversation. "I didn't think married men could be priests."

"I'm a widower. Given the shortage of clergymen, I was accepted. Men like me have experience in marriage and parenting. That makes us an a.s.set to a parish."

"Don't priests need a degree in theology?" Hugh asked.

"Yes. I spent four years in the seminary. Then I spent a year as a deacon, helping out on weekends. At the end of that year, I was ordained. I was fortunate," he said, smiling again. "Not all priests get their own parish right away, but my home parish was losing its priest, and since I already knew so many of the parishioners, it was a logical appointment."

His explanation did nothing to reconcile the priest with the playboy. Dana wasn't convinced she had found the right man. "Where did you go to college?" she asked.

The priest folded his arms and leaned against a high-back chair. "Undergraduate? University of Wisconsin."

"Did you know a woman named Elizabeth Joseph?"

"I sure did. She stole my heart, then up and left school."

"Why did she leave?"

"She missed home and figured she could finish up there."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

More serious now, he said, "She drowned. It was a long time ago."

"How do you know that she died?"

"I b.u.mped into a mutual friend who had heard about it." He seemed to realize that the questions weren't idle ones.

"Did you ever try to contact her family?"

"No. Like I said, she stole my heart. But she didn't love me, so I married someone else. I realized that thinking about Liz wasn't fair to my wife. So I stopped. The choice was between pining forever over a relationship that wasn't to be, or moving on. Putting Liz behind me was the only way I could survive." Quietly, he said, "You knew her."

Dana nodded. "She was my mother."

His face brightened for a second. In the next instant, his color drained away.

Dana had had time to prepare. She wasn't shocked to be facing her father, only startled to find that he was a priest.

"How old are you?" the man asked.

"Thirty-four. I was born seven months after my mother left Wisconsin."

As he stared at her, his eyes filled.

"You really didn't know?" she asked.

He shook his head. Then he pulled himself together and turned to the baby. "She's yours?"

"Yes, and she's the reason I'm here," Dana said. "I don't want anything from you, don't need anything from you, so if you're thinking I've come asking for money or something, you're wrong. I'm only here because my husband and I-"

"Hugh Clarke," Hugh said, offering his hand, "and this is our daughter, Elizabeth."

The priest took his eyes off the child long enough to shake hands with Hugh. Then he looked at the baby again. "Elizabeth. I'm glad."

"Lizzie," Dana specified, "and since she has some obvious African-American traits, we wanted to learn where they came from."

The priest drew back. "She isn't adopted?"

"No, nor was there a mix-up in the lab or an affair with a friend," Dana said to rule out further speculation. "My husband knows everything about his family, but I know little about mine. Are you African American?"

The priest blew out a puff of air and, smiling sheepishly, scratched the back of his head. "Whoo. This will take some getting used to. I didn't ever suspect that Liz had a child."

Dana was impatient. "She did, and I'd like you to answer my question."

"No. I'm not African American."

"You seem sure."

"My sister needed a bone-marrow transplant a few years back. We scoured the family for a compatible donor and finally found one in a second cousin, but in the process, we mapped out the family tree in great detail."

"Why did she need the transplant?" Dana asked, curious in spite of herself.

"Leukemia. She's fine now, a miracle of modern medicine."

Dana was glad, both for the woman and for herself. She couldn't deal with the thought of Lizzie inheriting a potentially lethal illness. "So you have no relative of African descent," she repeated. When the priest shook his head, she looked at Hugh in bewilderment. "Lizzie's bronze skin had to come from somewhere."

"Would you, uh, like to sit down?" Father Jack asked. Father Jack, Dana thought. Easier to think of him as a father to thousands.

"Yes," said Hugh, and nudged her toward a sofa.

She whispered, "We got our answer. We can't stay."

"We can," he said softly. "Let's make the trip worth it." Lizzie was starting to squirm. "Want me to hold her?"

Dana shook her head, shifted the baby to her shoulder, and jogged her gently.

Hugh sat beside Dana and addressed the priest. "Has your family had any other instances of cancer?"

"No." Father Jack took the wing-back chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Any other hereditary illnesses?" Hugh asked.

"High blood pressure, but otherwise we're a hardy bunch." He looked at Dana. "Where do you live?"

"About a mile from where I grew up."

"Did your mother ever marry?"

"She didn't live long enough."

"Then you never had siblings."

"No siblings. I was the focus of my mother's life, and after she died, the focus of my grandparents'."

"What do your children do?" Hugh asked the priest.

Father Jack smiled. "There are four boys. One's a techie, two are teachers, the last is working as a waiter in L.A. while he goes on casting calls. My older daughter-she's thirty-three-is a full-time mother. She has four kids. Her sister is studying law."

Dana shot Hugh a sharp look. She didn't want him prolonging the visit. "Lizzie's hungry. We ought to go."

Hugh shot a glance at the far end of the room. "Want to feed her there?"

Dana did not. She wasn't baring her breast in front of this man. Besides, the heat was stifling. She wanted to leave.

"Please stay a bit," the priest said. "I'd like to hear about your life."

Pressing her lips into a thin line, she shook her head. "There's no need."

"It isn't a matter of need," he said kindly-and Dana hated that. Where had he been all these years-happily raising his six children until they were happily independent, so that he could become a priest?

"It's me," she said with a definite lack of grace, but unable to help herself. "My need. I want to go home." She sent Hugh a beseeching look and rose. Mercifully, he did the same.

Lizzie quieted some with the movement as Dana walked toward the door. Hugh opened it.

"Are you sure you won't stay just for a little while?" the priest asked. "Maybe for lunch? Or we could go get a sandwich in town."

Dana turned. "And if someone came over to us and asked who we were, would you tell them?"

"Yes."

"Wouldn't it hurt your career?"

"Absolutely not. I've fathered other children."

"Illegitimate ones?" When he didn't answer, she said, "What about the legitimate ones? Will you tell them about me?"

"I'd like to, but I have to know more about you first."

"Why's that?" Dana asked sharply.

"Because they'll ask."

"Not because you yourself want to know?"

"Dana," Hugh said softly, but Father Jack held up a hand.

"She has a right to be angry," he told Hugh, then said to Dana, "and yes, I want to know more myself."

"To make sure I'm yours?"

"You're mine."

"How can you be sure?" she challenged. "How do you know my mother wasn't with another man?"

The priest smiled. "Wait here," he said, backing into the house. "For one minute more. Please." He turned and went in the direction of his office.

Dana wanted to leave pretending that the man who had irresponsibly sowed his seed back in Madison was equally irresponsible now, but she didn't move. Overwhelmed and confused, she could only pa.s.s Lizzie to Hugh and brace her back with her hands.

"This is how I know," said Father Jack, returning. He was holding out a framed photograph that showed him arm in arm with a young woman wearing a cap and gown. Both were beaming. "This was taken last year at graduation in Wisconsin. That's my daughter Jennifer."

Dana glanced at the picture, then did a double take. She took the photo from him, eyes glued to his daughter's face. It might have been her own. Apparently, every feature of Dana's that hadn't come from her mother was Jack's.

For all the years Dana had wanted a sibling, all the years she had wished her family was larger, to find she had a half-sister who looked so much like her was excruciating.

Her eyes filled, but she refused to cry. Instead, she asked, "How can this be? We had different mothers."

"Yes. Only her mother looked a lot like yours." He paused, embarra.s.sed. "Anyway, the rest of her came from my genes."

Dana stared at the picture for another minute before handing it back. "Well," she said awkwardly, "thank you. That decides it, I guess." Her throat closed up. Turning, she began walking toward the car.

"I'd like to visit," the priest called after her.

She didn't respond. She didn't have a clue as to what she wanted.