Page 61 of Priestly Sins
“Baby—”
“You love Clara?”
“Yes. And you. Never doubt it.”
I leave the mute, happily sated woman in my bed and head to the bathroom. Clara effectively killed my hard-on. I’ll get dressed, then I’ll play in the snow with my little girl.
Thirty-Two
Clara loves snow. I know this because she has told me, on repeat, for hours. Boston kids don’t love snow. No kid who grew up in New England loves snow. Snow is okay if you live in Colorado or Utah, but Massachusetts is a whole other animal. Shoveling gets old quick. Snow blowing isn’t much better and the persistent gray winter could do a person in.
Ireland could be much the same, but today, not needing to shovel or snow blow or worry about what this weather means for school or work, I remember why kids love it.
The acreage Killian’s cottage, and subsequently, our house is on, is substantial. The road in and out, normally maintained by the village up to our driveway, won’t be cleared today because of the holiday. Same for tomorrow with Boxing Day.
Clara and I build a snowman. She sings the song from her favorite movie the whole time. I take video with my phone and snap pictures. We struggle to find things to make a face for the man, and she eventually runs back to the house and returns with two potato slices—how Irish—and a carrot, along with a pocketful of red hots. I hope we remember to shake out those pockets before we go inside.
I take pictures of her with “Olaf” and she takes pictures of me with him too.
She makes snow angels. Lots and lots of snow angels.
“Poppa, now you make one.”
“Oh, precious girl, it’s too cold.”
“You told me it was likeFrozen, and we were tough like Anna and Elsa.” She’s quoting me to me. Damn! Foiled by my own words.
I drop down and make a snow angel as fast as I can. Snow gets in my collar and around my ears. It sneaks up my sleeves and rests around my wrists.
I hop up and shake off everything. “You know, girls are tougher than boys in lots of things. Snow angels are one of those.”
She giggles and flexes her biceps inside her too big coat. When she grits her teeth to growl, I quickly snap a pic and make it my phone wallpaper.
“Come on, fighter girl, I’m cold.”
“Race you home,” she squeals as she flies over the snow.
I let her win. Her giggle is worth losing for.
Later that night, Killian comes over for dinner. Clara has taken to calling him Poppa too. I’m man enough to admit, I’m jealous. There’s a difference if you listen close enough that one is Papa and one is PawPaw, but still…
Sirona spent much of the afternoon checking on us in the snow and making dinner. She surprises me with shrimp étouffée, a salad, fresh baguettes, and a doberge cake for dessert. It’s a regular Louisiana feast, made all the merrier with Clara trying to convince Killian that they were “shwimps” and not “prawns.” This continues until Killian gives up, because even stubborn old Irish blokes know when they’ve met their match. Know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em and all that.
We exchange gifts. Well, we give Killian gifts. He’s taken aback, but not much I can do when Sirona and Clara set their minds to something.
I pour him Kilbeggan, but skip it myself. It hasn’t gone down as smooth as it used to.
After he leaves,I tell Sirona I have the dishes and to go grab a bath and enjoy some R&R. I promise Clara will help me with the dishes. I get groans from both of them on that note. I can be stubborn too, so Clara sits on the counter while I do dishes and cleans the plate that may or may not have gotten an extra sliver of doberge cake while I put away what few leftovers we have and load the dishwasher.
“Go brush your teeth and put on your pajamas, yeah?”
“Will you read to me, Poppa?”
“Of course, love. Pick out a book and climb under your covers.”
She runs away and I pause considering my life. Six weeks ago, I was cloistered, completely alone. Now I’m reading bedtime stories. I hope this is never taken from me. I can’t imagine going back.
I close up the house, locking up, always checking for vulnerabilities. Old habits and I go way back. I make my way down the hall and listen as Clara explains to her new dolls the nighttime routine. She drives a hard bargain, but the dolls don’t back talk her.