REBEL SAINT

by Leigh, Adriane

  With the mountains splitting the sun’s rays in a rainbow of light, Tressa and I found each other again, saying all the things we’d never said aloud to another soul. “You know, I went to seminary to find God. It took that experience for me to realize that God isn’t a voice so much as a feeling. So many people forget, or worse, don’t allow themselves to feel Him working in their lives already.”

  An amused tone tickled her voice when she said, “Bastien. My wise saint. With—or without—the white collar.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Bastien

  “What was your first thought when you found out you were going back to Cuba?” She cradled the delicate bloom of a bougainvillea flower, nestling her nose in the fuchsia petals. I’d always loved the colorful vines that crept around this island paradise, but seeing her enjoy a piece of my homeland for the first time was enchanting, to say the least.

  I’d grown accustomed to a life of holy consecrated solitude, but the breath of fresh air she constantly provided was more than invigorating.

  “My feelings on my home are complicated. When I was young, I couldn’t wait to escape the suffocating smallness of it, but with time away…” I plucked one of the larger flowers on the vine and tucked it behind her ear, the color shocking against her almost-black hair. “I think the timing was finally right.”

  I meant that sentiment on so many levels.

  We continued down the road that edged the tobacco field, giant leaves growing a little more every day and encroaching on the narrow, red-dirt path.

  “The true blessing has been getting to know the families who live here. Island life isn’t for everyone, but most find a way to make it work anyway. Some of the rural communities, well…the thinking may be a little more…antiquated.”

  She bumped against my shoulder playfully. “Is this a veiled warning? What exactly are we about to walk into?”

  “Well…Ms. Carmelita Martinez and family are a treat, her littlest Santiago is a riot, but the more I’ve gotten to know them, well, the more I’ve gotten to know Padre Juan.”

  “Padre Juan?”

  “He’s a retired priest from Santa Maria’s, and he’s probably the most unholy former holy man I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

  “Oh?” She arched an eyebrow with interest just as a warm breeze caught her dress, swirling the loose linen fabric around her thighs and teasing a glimpse of my promised land. “The good Padre sounds interesting.”

  “Interesting doesn’t quite cover it. Unfiltered is just the beginning.”

  “Oh, one of those stodgy old guys? Trust, I’ve gotten really good at deflecting bullshit. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  I laughed loudly. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

  “Wait, shouldn’t you be concerned about protecting my honor?”

  I caught her hand with mine, not even thinking twice because it felt so natural to be with her. “I have a feeling you’ve gotten good at protecting yourself.”

  She winked, only acting bashful.

  “I think he’s one of those guys who respects it when you can dish it out too, so feel free to aim high with that one. It’s probably worth mentioning, though.” I paused as the roofline of Carmelita’s house came into view over the rows of tobacco leaves. “Carmelita and Padre Juan are very close, and I get the sense it’s been that way for a while.” I whisked my thumb along the underside of her wrist, not sure how to explain this next part. “In fact, it would be my guess that Padre Juan is little Santiago’s father.” My revelation hung in silence. “Not just spiritually speaking, but biologically too.”

  Tressa’s eyes widened with instant realization. “Oh?”

  “I don’t think the little guy knows it, but Carmelita and Padre Juan seem very…settled. Quite homey, in fact.”

  We continued on a few steps, Tressa’s head down as she worked over the news I’d just dropped at her feet. We were walking the last twenty yards until the turn of the little driveway, and it wasn’t until we turned the corner that Tressa paused a step and replied, “So…they’re rebel hearts too.”

  I stood frozen, her perspective on this, once again, throwing me for a loop. “I…guess. It’s not uncommon through the centuries. Carmelita was the first to remind me of that fact.”

  “She actually brought it up?”

  I shrugged. “They seem…happy.”

  “Happy, huh?” Her grin tipped up mischievously. “Who knew following your heart could do that?”

  She shot me a half-cocked grin and then took off down the driveway, giant bougainvillea vines cascading over the trellis that bloomed pink between her and Carmelita’s doorstep.

  My heart, beating outside of my very chest, stared back at me, shades of joy lighting up her face.

  Just as Tressa reached the brightly painted aqua and green hues of Carmelita’s doorstep, Santiago barreled out of the sunshine-yellow front door, puppy fast on his heels and barking the entire way. Tressa turned, eyes dancing as the tiny wildlings sped by her at full speed, only stopping when Santiago’s arms were wrapped around my waist.

  I laughed, patting his head as we joined Tressa at the front door, Carmelita joining us on the doorstep, hands on her hips and wide smile plastering her full cheeks.

  “Padre Castaneda’s cousin, I assume?” Her eyes danced with devious implication.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well—” she waved me away with a hand “—aren’t they always?”

  Tressa tipped her head to the side, waves of dark chocolate falling over her shoulder before her grin grew wide. “As a matter of fact, I’m one of Bastien’s friends from Philadelphia, thank you for asking.”

  I nearly choked on my own tongue, eyes wide as I waited for Carmelita’s reply. The old woman narrowed her eyes at Tressa, gaze crawling across her face as they watched each other. I thought I might have to step in in another moment and break the tension before it consumed Santiago and me whole.

  “She’s a bold woman.” Carmelita pointed at Tressa. “So, I like her.”

  Tressa’s eyebrows shot up when Carmelita scooped her by the elbow and swept her into the house.

  It was exactly a moment later when I heard Padre Juan’s voice boom out of the house, “Philly, did you say?”

  I stood at Tressa’s side, her eyes taking in the old man, looking as if she’d been stunned. “I…yeah, born and raised.”

  Carmelita shuffled Tressa down into the nearest kitchen chair, gesturing me beside her before pouring both of us glasses of cold fruit juice. She set the pitcher between us at the table, then pulled a pocketful of seashells out of the deep pockets of her apron, letting them tinkle to life in her fleshy palms before rolling them on the table like dice. She arched an eyebrow, lips moving almost imperceptibly as she recited a string of prayers to the saints under her breath.

  “You know St. Michael’s Catholic Church?” The old man finally tipped his head to one side, eyes shifting back and forth, assessing Tressa and me as Carmelita worked away with her divining shells. She’d offered to read my caracoles on many occasions, and I’d always indulged her, the way her words whispered the prayers so reverently nothing short of mesmerizing. The way her spirits whispered sacred secrets into her ear about my life, things only I should know, uncanny solely for those unfamiliar with the mysteries of the holy spirit.

  The Lord worked in mystifying ways.

  Tressa crossed her arms, clearing her throat as she answered Padre Juan. “Grew up a few blocks away from St. Mike’s.”

  He nodded, beckoning Santiago over to take his empty juice glass to the sink. The little boy did, and Padre snuck him a few coins. Santiago’s eyes brightened, and he kissed both shiny medallions before shoving them into his pocket and speeding down the hallway and into the room he shared with one of his siblings.

  “Bastien and I met at St. Mike’s,” Tressa offered.

  Padre Juan nodded, toothpick snagged between his teeth. “Met there, huh? You spend much time there as a kid?”r />
  Tressa shuffled minutely in her chair, bare knee brushing my clothed one, sending a spark of awareness. That was just how we were, attuned to each other. We couldn’t help it, didn’t have any sort of control over it. It just was.

  “Spent a few Sundays there.” Tressa eyed him warily.

  “What’s your mama’s name, sweetheart?”

  Tressa’s hand tensed at my side. I’d never heard anyone call her sweetheart other than me, and even then, only when I was buried deep inside her. But I had a feeling she wasn’t taking too well to the endearment in this instance.

  And I didn’t blame her.

  Something about Padre Juan had shifted when Tressa entered the room. He was his typical, bold self, but this time…this time, something deeper simmered away, eating up my insides because I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “Did you ever serve at St. Michael’s, Padre Juan?” The way her words came out, staccatoed, as if she already knew the answer, took me more than a little by surprise.

  I moved closer to her as subtly as I could, but I still saw Juan’s eyes flick down to the tiny space that separated her and me. We were so close that the likelihood that my hand was on her knee under the table was high.

  If he’d had laser vision, that would have been confirmed, because at this point, Tressa’s knee was all but trembling under my palm.

  I swallowed, something deep telling me I needed to remove her from whatever situation was making her this uncomfortable, no matter the reason.

  “I was at St. Michael’s for a few seasons,” Padre Juan finally uttered, his attention diverted to the flickering TV in the living room. He grunted once, gesturing with a finger to show Carmelita that he intended to move to the couch. He stood, balance wobbly, as Carmelita helped settle him across the room on the faded couch cushions.

  She patted his knee once, whispering something softly before tucking a small hand-knit afghan around his shoulders, tiny glimmering gold cross at his neck.

  The old guy coughed for a series of minutes. The longer he went on, the louder it became. Carmelita’s eyes stayed on him before she murmured she’d be right back with some tea and honey to clear that cough.

  The thing she wasn’t saying and that even I, in my weekly visits, had been noticing—the old man was getting sicker. There was no denying that. Carmelita had mentioned many times that he’d been refusing the doctor for years, insisting that life under the Caribbean sun was enough to heal him.

  For her sake, I hoped it was true.

  From the sounds of things, I didn’t think it was.

  “Santi and his brother are making fried plantains tonight. Can I convince you two to stay for dinner?” Carmelita was back and fluttering around the small round table.

  Tressa shook her head quickly, standing swiftly until the empty glass of juice went tumbling. It rolled straight off the table, shattering into tiny pieces.

  In a rush, Tressa apologized and fell to her knees, gathering the sharp pieces, the delicate petals of bougainvillea I’d tucked behind her ear falling to the floor so quietly I was the only one who noticed.

  Carmelita dropped down beside her, small broom and pan in hand and shushed Tressa, one hand on her shoulder before she glanced up at me, eyes concerned.

  “Sí, sí, mi amor.” Carmelita ushered Tressa to standing before she turned, and although Tressa shielded her face from my vision with her palms, I could see by the way her shoulders trembled that she was crying.

  “Take her home, Padre. And thank you for everything.” She nodded to the basket of things I’d gathered for her family this week, fruit and vegetables a local farmer had dropped off at Santa Maria’s this morning, along with some pantry items and a new set of crayons and a coloring book for Santi from Tressa.

  I pulled Tressa into my arms, guiding her out of the sunshine-yellow door and down the front steps.

  “Are you all right? What can I do?”

  She only shook her head, face turning a lighter shade of white than it already was, sobs carrying her home to our tiny chapel in the mountains.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Bastien

  It was more than two hours later before Tressa confessed the thoughts running through her mind as we soaked in the small bathtub, bodies pressed damp and close. When she finally breathed the words, her eyes were as round as the communion wafers I prepared before each Mass. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  Turns out, she had.

  “What’s God’s take on unrepentant sinners…?”

  “What?” The faraway tone of her voice didn’t sit well with me.

  “Sinners who just keep sinning. What of those in His flock who flat out deny redemption?”

  “Redemption is cultivated through love.” I slipped an errant fingertip up the underside of her arm, soft tremors of arousal coursing from her to me and back again.

  “But what about the ones who—”

  “Pray or worry, but don’t do both, Tressa. My belief has taught me to see God in people and service. And the real challenge is to see God in the people who trigger me.”

  “I’m not triggered.” Her lips formed a little pout.

  “I didn’t say you were.” I moved closer. “Forgiveness is the key to wholeness. Love is like oxygen—the more you give, the more you get. Don’t suffocate yourself by choice. It’s already in God’s hands. A path to redemption exists for everyone. It’s up to each of us to search for it.”

  “But you have the patience of Job. I’m utterly average in every way.”

  The pad of my thumb dusted the space along her breastbone. “When I feel disconnected, I find someone to help, someone to connect with. Another soul to share a face-to-face conversation. Whose soul are you worried about this time, my dove?”

  Her rich brown eyes clung to mine before her lips finally parted. “I think it’s him.”

  “Who’s him?” I asked.

  “Him. Him.”

  I pushed a hand through my hair, a thousand different options running through my mind.

  “Father Martin,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen him since I was eight. He’s older, definitely way crazier, his skin is a darker shade of brown, the wrinkles and lines more prevalent, but it’s him. I’m as sure as I ever could be. I didn’t think I’d really ever find him. Honestly, I thought he was probably dead by now. But sure as shit, that’s him, Bastien.”

  “Uh.” My words hung suspended in my throat. “So…Padre Juan is Father Martin? Are you sure?” My thoughts swirled with all the ramifications of this latest confession. “I didn’t see that coming, and forgive my asking, but what’s the big deal about that anyway?”

  “Father Martin had been at St. Mike’s since before I was born. Father Martin, your Padre Juan, is the same pastor Casey would have written about in that letter. The same man who, according to you, is Santiago’s father.”

  “Okay…” The pieces took their time clicking into place.

  “I never knew his name,” she continued. “Not his first name. And I was eight by the time my mom stopped going to church. It didn’t even cross my mind until now. Not until, well, just sitting across from him, there was this weird, familiar feeling I couldn’t shake. His eyes, Bastien. The way he purses his lips and tilts his head when he’s thinking.” Tressa gnawed on her bottom lip. “The way my mom used to get so mad when he ignored her after every Mass. I didn’t get it then but, Bastien, she acted like a woman…in love.”

  I shook my head, still not understanding why she seemed so troubled. “Tressa, I’m not sure I’m following…”

  She turned, eyes laced with profound worry.

  “I think that man is my father, Bastien.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Bastien

  Within days of her arrival to my tiny homeland she’d established two things—a weekly dinner for those in the community who struggled with putting food on the table, and that Father Martin had been hiding out in Cuba, shacking up with a tiny family, living his life none the wiser for having pr
etty much upended many lives back in Philadelphia after his departure.

  I learned very early on, growing up in a poverty-stricken nation, that life wasn’t fair. I’d come to terms with it, but Tressa still struggled with injustice.

  She’d spent all of the next day texting back and forth with Lucy, at one point even video-chatting after Luce managed to dig up a box of old photos from Tressa’s mom’s attic and the letter Casey had written to Lucy that she’d long since tucked away.

  It’d only taken a few photos of the two and even the three of them together. Father Martin—or Padre Juan, as he was now called—was always dressed in his vestments, reserved hand on a shoulder or both palms clasped and crossed at his front, always the pious shepherd of God. With thirty years and thirty pounds, he was undeniably Carmelita’s Padre.

  And while I didn’t tell her this, with both of their faces wearing the mask of youth, Tressa and Juan didn’t look unlike one another. Same round eyes, full Cupid’s bow lips, and high cheekbones. Tressa’s mother’s shy smile caught my eye in some of the photos, her love and devotion burning like a flame behind her irises.

  Tressa’d thrown my Bible across the room at one point, wishing with a few choice curses that her mom were still here to answer so many of her questions.

  “The fact that my mom had this sordid affair with a priest…” She was struggling with the fact that their indiscretion didn’t look unlike our own brush with scandal. Tressa shoved a spade deep into the dirt, making room for another row of tomatoes. “Well, it creeps me out, to say the least.”

  I pierced the dirt beside her, our efforts at a community garden well underway. It was Tressa’s hope that our meals be cooked primarily from the garden one day, and that it would grow so large it could help to sustain the tiny farming community around us. Her dreams were big, always. So many people allowed fear to hold them back from their greatest potential, but never Tressa. She’d been thinking grander than even I, and that was why God had taken over in her life—and brought her to me.