Page 42 of Priestly Sins

“And?”

“And what?” Turning to Sirona, I ask, “Where’s Clara? Hoping she’d split a cupcake with me.” I pat my abs.

“Gwen picked her up after school so she and Sarah could have a playdate. She’ll be back quickly. Won’t be but a couple of minutes."

I can read that loud and clear.

“You don’t mind if I wait here, do you? Not a fan of the tone Mr. Calabrese was using with you when I walked in.” I turn to him and stare defiantly, waiting for him to school his features or show his colors. It could go either way.

When he raises his hand, I brace, but stand firm, defiantly maintaining eye contact. The clap of his fat, damp palm on my cheek is worse. It’s the arrogance of a man who thinks he can touch me while demeaning me with a self-aggrandizing move. “No need to be concerned, Father. I was just leaving.”

When his meaty palm pats my cheek the second time with a firmer grip, I rip my face away. “Glad to hear it.”

As his swagger leads him to the rear door, he throws over his shoulder, “We’ll continue this tomorrow, Sirona.”

I never take my eyes off of him until he is through the door and gone. I wait, finger over my lips, not allowing my gaze to lose focus until I hear the sound of the car start and drive away.

“Do you have a deadbolt?”

She doesn’t answer but she rushes past me to the rear door and throws the metal plate over a loop and drops a padlock through the hole, fumbling and clanking while she does it.

“That was his white Escalade?”

She nods.

“What time is Clara supposed to be back? Honestly this time.”

“Gwen is dropping her off at the apartment after closing.”

“Lock up the front and kill the lights. I’ll stay until you’re finished doing what you need to do.”

“What I need to do?” She seems confused by my comment.

“Store stuff. End of day. Books. I don’t know, but I’m guessing you don’t just walk out at night without some routine.”

She shakes her head, not to negate what I’m saying, but almost to clear her thoughts.

“Yeah. Several things. You mind waiting?” Her voice is stronger now, the cracking from the tears less evident.

“Nope.” I walk away. I hit the restroom, wash my hands, check my reflection in the mirror. I pace the store, walk behind the counter.

I make my way down the hall to the cooler full of butter and eggs and metal shelves full of white cardboard boxes. Toward the corner, there’s a metal meat hook. Weird, but I assume it came with the place. I open the freezer and see more supplies.

Farther down the same hall is a pantry with dry goods, including flours, sugars, and food coloring. The shelves hold big metal bowls and piping bags, and other detritus of a high-end bakery.

Sirona is at a desk, eyes fixed on the computer, when I return to her office. There’s an awful lot of paper for a business that is mostly conducted in a kitchen and with online supply ordering, it feels old-school.

“Lots of paper.” If I were flirting, I’d facepalm that line. What am I doing?

“Yeah. Printouts. I like having a backup. It’s not environmentally-friendly, but I try to reconcile the day on the computer and take some proof home of what I’ve accomplished. Lots of those binders are ideas. Wedding cakes, design ideas, things like that.” She throws a hand over her shoulder and waves in the general direction of the shelves brimming full of binders, with colored sticky notes sticking out, while still focusing on her computer.

“Think Enzo will ever leave you alone?”

Her fingers still over the keyboard as her eyes lift to mine, and she slowly shakes her head once.

“Ever?”

One more silent shake.