Page 4 of Priestly Sins

“I’ll take six of your petits fours, please, on the saleswoman’s suggestion.” I laugh at my own joke, despite my better judgement. “And a bananas Foster cupcake. And would you add a cup of coffee to that? To go, please.”

“Sure, Father.”

“Sean.”

“What?”

“My name is Sean.”

“Oh.” It’s her only reply as she busily drops the pastries into a turquoise and gray box. She glances furtively toward the back a few times.

“Is she—I’m sorry I didn’t catch the little girl’s name—okay back there?

“Clara. My daughter’s name is Clara. And I hope so. I mean, she should be. Three-year-olds are rarely ‘okay’ when left alone.” She keeps up her distracted babbling. “I may have no office left by the time I get there, or eggs in the cooler, but...”

She looks up abruptly and stops. Handing the box over, she smiles and reaches for the coffee station behind her, turning her back to me, her beautiful ass on full display. “How do you like it?”

Wrong question! Shit! What did she ask?

“Pardon?”

“Your coffee. How do you like it?”

“Black.” That will have to suffice. I’m rendered to one-word answers, apparently.

She hands it over, smiles cordially, and looks confused when I don’t leave. Her eyebrows rise and she shrugs before saying, “Um, okay?” The statement comes out like a question.

“How much do I owe you, Miss…?” I leave it hanging.

She looks jolted from whatever distracted her.

“Sirona.” She turns to the iPad and begins tapping the screen. “Eighteen forty-eight, please, Father.”

“Nice to meet you, Sirona,” I say as I hand her a twenty. I put a ten in the tip jar on the counter and say, “For Clara… she’s a heck of a saleswoman.”

Lifting my cup as a thank you, I leave the shop, hearing the bells clang as I walk to my car.

Three

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last—”

“It’s okay, Henry. No need for formality. What’s going on?”

“I can’t do it anymore, Father. Can’t take his shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean shit. Shit! I can’t ...fuck! Sorry for saying ‘fuck.’”

“Go on. And try to stop swearing, if you can. Makes you sound less educated, they say.” I should take my own advice. “What can’t you take anymore?”

“The yelling. The hitting… Being scared all the time.”

“He’s still doing it?”

“All the time. I’d leave if it weren’t for my mom and Edie.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Yeah. No. I’m fine. Just want to kill him sometimes. Needed a break and came here. Weird, right?”

“Watch what you’re calling weird,” I say, chuckling. “I live here and I like it.”