Page 51 of Priestly Sins

Bobby:I offered you the friends-and-family discount.

Me:Negative. What I meant to say was thank you.

Bobby:You’re welcome. And Congratulations!

Me:Thanks!

I head to the rectory and change clothes, looking around for one last time.

I study the red chair. My planning companion, my silent comrade for years and years. It was my mother’s from her reading room. I hate to leave it, but, then again, I don’t need it anymore.

I head to the rental car I had delivered while I was with Enzo. I’ve stuffed a too big, too warm coat in my suitcase and Benadryl in my carry-on, and I drive by Petites Fleurs one last time, reading the sign I placed there a few hours ago:Off to Paris for a little vacation and to learn a new recipe or two. Happy Thanksgiving!I head to Fleur de Lis and make my way to the office.

“I’m Sean O’Ryan. I need to grab Clara Dugas for her mom, please.”

The secretary flips through paper and studies me. She’s duly suspicious. Single mothers don’t just allow men to pick up their daughters at school.

“I don’t have any authorization for that.”

“Would you ask your principal, please? I’m on the list and I believe Sirona contacted her earlier explaining the unusual circumstances.”

The secretary huffs and expresses her annoyance at my not accepting her decision as the final authority. “Mrs. Crappell, there’s a man here trying to check out a student without proper documentation.” A pause, then, “Clara Dugas.” She pauses to listen and continues, “But he… yes, O’Ryan. Okay then.” She hangs up and her countenance changes from annoyed to sinister, but she smiles and extends a hand for me to sit. “I’ll grab Clara. Please take a seat.”

I don’t sit. I have enough of that in my future, but nor do I pace. I stand still; years of discipline have perfected that trait.

After more than five minutes, she returns with Clara, who smiles hugely.

“Want to go for a ride?”

“Ahem,” a throat clears behind me. “You’ll need to sign these release papers first.”

“Sure thing, Miss…”

“Mrs. Jefferson.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Jefferson.” I lean over the desk and sign each one and reach my hand out for Clara’s. When her little cold one slides into my big warm one, I know this is the right decision.

“Come on, precious girl.”

And she does.

Twenty-Seven

Louis Armstrong International airport is a clusterfuck. Tomorrow will be the busiest travel day of the year and I give thanks that this all went down last night and not tonight. Today is a cluster; tomorrow would’ve been a disaster.

Clara and I park the rental in the west garage and make our way to the Benz on the second floor to retrieve our luggage. Sirona took a large one. I have three of hers and mine too, as well as our carry-ons. As I walk to the terminal, Clara rides the suitcase dolly as if she’s Kate Winslet inTitanic. This works for me. She’s light as a feather but four suitcases and a child require skills only a mom has. And that’s before the very impressive bruise to my ribcage and it’s correlating pain.

We drop our suitcases outside with the service and smile and wave at them as we head to security and the terminal.

The biggest hiccup is the restroom situation. I pride myself on having thought through all the little snags we could’ve run into but I failed to consider this. Luckily, the family restroom, gross though it may be, allows me not to take her with me into the men’s room or send her alone into the women’s. Snag number two, wipes. Must do better. I clean the toilet while she dances and then I turn and face the door while she does her thing. How did I not think of this?

I assume we only have another ten of those and just count down—one down, nine to go.

Hands washed and dried, backpack back in place, we head out toward security.

“Got anything in that bag we need to throw away?” I tilt my head at herFrozenbackpack.

“Like what, Poppa?”