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In her anorak, camisole, skinny jeans, and short boots, she looks like a tourist. Something about her isn’t polished like most Italian women tend to be, and my priest’s heart appreciates that.
She is without artifice.
There isn’t a scrap of makeup on her face, and her hair is mussed from having just left my bed.
I almost wish I’d been there to see her wipe my blood off her face.
She’d rolled around in it last night like it was the surf on the shore.
My little freak.
My lips twitch at the thought, and the confession, the flashbacks, all of it disappears as she asks, “Father? May I speak with you?”
Her eyes sparkle, twinkling with amusement, telling me she’s aware we’re not alone.
Corelli’s atonement is quiet, making me wonder if he’s even saying his prayers or checking the notifications on his phone, but I don’t care.
The notion is quite freeing.
There’s none of the bitterness inside me that I’m used to.
The desire to make him pay hasn’t faded, but she’s tempered it.
“Of course, my child,” I rumble. “Come with me.”
I guide her to the north transept, which gives us access to a clerical part of the building. When we’re inside, tucked away in the corridor, free from the public eye, her hand slips into mine, and I hold it tight.
After all, I’ve chosen my path.
Her.
“I felt you.”
Her words have me blinking. Then I turn to look at her as, even accepting she’s unusual, that bewilders me. “What?”
“I could feel you were upset.” She shrugs, lets out a soft hum, and her grin appears. “Go on, tell me I’m crazy.”
Without even pausing to take a breath, I reply, “You’re crazy, but in this instance, I don’t know what you mean.”
“I was sound asleep,” she explains softly, her hand trailing over the one stand in the hall. It bears a crucifix, a decorative piece that’s hundreds of years old. Her touch is both reverent and irreverent.I want to feel it. I want it on me. I—“Then I woke up and I just knew you weren’t doing okay.” She shrugs again. “I figured you’d be here. Thought I’d check on you.”
She has no reason to lie, but her certainty merely cements what I’m coming to embrace with her.
“You didn’t think I had regrets?” I question carefully.
“Nope.” Her confidence is another thing that takes me aback. “This is meant to be. I already told you?—”
“You’re the Eve to my Adam.” I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, I know.”
She lets out a short laugh. “You’ve changed your tune.”
“Someone sang to me, made me see the light,” I tell her softly as I pull her toward my office.
It’s a plain room. Nothing more than a desk, a wall of books, and a small altar. An old-fashioned heater that’s forged of cast iron and painted a muddy brown takes up a good portion ofa wall. Images of Christ on the cross and several crucifixes are fixed to the others.
When I perch on the desk, I watch as she flutters around the room, touching everything. My lips twitch at the sight of the butterfly in my office, but I ask, “What did you feel this morning?”
“I don’t know. Like you couldn’t breathe. It was strange. I haven’t felt it before.”