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The latest the gossip rags had on her was that she was still being treated. But that’s a lie for here she is.
In. My. Church.
And she’s watching me.
Looking at me with those eyes that struck my soul over a year ago through a TV screen.
I freeze as they drift over me. The wash of heat her path leaves behind has my hands tightening around the lectern to the point where the edges dig in, the metal sharp enough to sting.
The arc of lightning striking between us, the self-inflicted pain, has my body reacting shamefully.
I want to ignore her, want to completely cut her off, but I can’t.
I’ve sinned many times in my life, but the one vow I haven’t broken, one that means something to me, is that of rejecting the sins of the flesh.
But she represents so much more.
Arousal? Lust?
Hatred?
Fear?
Repugnance?
Curiosity?
No,fascination.
She doesn’t look like she did back on the TV. Her hair is short, and considering she had brain surgery, I guess that fits. And while it remains that beautiful shade of sandy blonde, it’s somehow darker thanks to the new cut.
A part of me wants to scrub my hand over her head, to feel the curls against my palm, but another part of me wants to avoid her like she has the plague.
A slow smile curves her lips—it’s jarring. Enough that it breaks the connection between us, even as my brain fixates on her presence.
Blurting out the final words of my sermon, I try to shove my inappropriate thoughts of her aside, but only forcing myself to leave the pulpit and wandering to the first pew, shatters the strange spell she ensnared me in.
Each step reinforces how pitiful my imagination is.
Why would Andrea Jura have a connection with me?
Lara Ricci grabs my hands as I reach for hers. Her bony knuckles squeeze my fingers. “You look brighter this afternoon, Father.”
Do I?
Why?
Because Andrea Jura is here?
“Thank you, my child.” Taking note of the bruises under her eyes and the bright yellow of her skin, I glean that today is not a good day. “And you?”
“I’m well enough to attend service.”
I tut. “You’re always well enough to attend service.”
She grins, her wizened face puckering into a semi-toothless smile that always makes me wonder why she doesn’t have false teeth. Unlike a lot of my parishioners, she’s wealthy. A chauffeur drops her off at church so she never misses a service.
Her fingers are frail in mine, and every day, they seem to grow more brittle.