by Diane Kelly
Ashamed and embarrassed, I told the priest the basic details of my transgression, leaving out the part where Matthew had lapped chocolate sauce from my belly button. I also chose to omit the fact I had enjoyed the sex—tremendously!—had been surprised, in fact, to discover what a sensuous woman I could be. The priest didn’t need to know everything in order to forgive me, right? I waited, anxious to hear my penance, desperate to unburden myself of the oppressive weight of my sin.
The priest virtually spat through the thin cloth separating his side of the confessional from mine. “You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady. Leading a young man into temptation.”
Excuse me? I hadn’t led Matthew anywhere. He was the who’d brought me the cups of punch, the one who’d suggested we leave the party, the one who’d carried me piggyback all the way across campus, tossed me onto the lumpy mattress of his bed, and proceeded to relieve me of my clothing and virginity. Of course, I could’ve said “No.” I could’ve told Matthew to stop. But I’d been swept up in the moment, too, carried away with desire and hormones and curiosity, only to be consumed later by guilt and shame and regret.
I’d gone to confession to remove the stain from my soul. I needed understanding and forgiveness, not condemnation. I didn’t wait for my penance. I’d done the first thing that had come to mind—let loose a loud, obnoxious raspberry. I stormed out of the confessional, slamming the door behind me.
When I’d finally returned to the confessional a year later, Riley came along with me. My son snoozed in his little baby carrier, looking like a little Irish cherub with his bright orange curls, full chubby cheeks, and soft pink mouth. By then, I no longer felt any need to confess my sin of lust, because I no longer felt sorry about it. It was the not-feeling-sorry-about-it I felt guilty about then. Ironic, huh?
I’d wrangled Riley’s baby carrier through the narrow door of the confessional at Saint Anthony’s, my family’s church back in Fort Worth, affectionately referred to as Saint Tony’s by the congregation. After quietly closing the door behind me, I took a seat and whispered, “Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”
“Sorry, but I’m having trouble hearing you.” The voice coming through the dark mesh screen was deep, manly, with a heavy Irish brogue, no doubt the voice of the new priest I’d heard about but had yet to meet. I’d been told he wasn’t long out of seminary, nor long off the boat from the Emerald Isle. He’d recently taken over our small parish when old Father Barrett retired.
I spoke as loud as I dared, trying not to wake Riley who, though adorable when asleep, could raise holy hell when awake. His growth rate had shocked the doctors, his weight more than doubling in his first three months of life. The insatiable baby could eat from sunup to sundown. “Forgive me father,” I tried again, whispering a bit louder. “For I have sinned.”
I continued on, telling him the details of my out-of-wedlock pregnancy, how the guilt I’d once felt had disappeared instantly when the doctor handed my precious little boy to me in the delivery room.
When I’d finished confessing, there was a moment of silence as the priest absorbed my words. “So let me get this straight,” he said finally. “The sin for which you’re asking forgiveness is that you don’t feel sorry for sinning?”
Finally, a priest who understood. “Exactly.”
“Got to admit. That’s a new one.” He paused for a moment. “Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“What? Why not?” I needed to feel my connection to God again, the connection I’d had a hard time feeling over the last year. And again it was being denied to me.
“We only serve real sinners,” he’d said, “ones that give sinning their best efforts. Not halfhearted ones.”
Huh? “But I am a real sinner.” I debated telling him how much I’d enjoyed the sex, about the chocolate sauce.
“No. You’re a lazy sinner. If all you’re bringing here is a little guilt, you haven’t really tried.”
What the . . . ? With a layer of dark mesh separating us, obscuring his face, I couldn’t see his expression. Was he putting me on? “Are you putting me on?”
A soft chuckle came through the mesh. “Guilty as charged.”
Fury welled up in me. “You had me upset, for Christ’s sake!”
“That’s the spirit! Taking the Lord’s name in vain. Now you’ve actually got something to be sorry for.”
“That’s . . .” My mind whirled, searching for the right word and finally finding it. “Entrapment!”
“Maybe so.” He chuckled again. “Let’s say you give the Big Guy three Our Fathers, a couple Hail Mary’s, and, what the heck, throw in the Girl Scout motto and sing something by Van Morrison for good measure.”
“Van Morrison?”
“To be sure. He’s from Belfast, you know.”
“That so? Hmm. I can only remember a line or two from ‘Moondance’ but I think I can manage most of ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”
“Perfect.”
Riley woke at that moment and, not expecting to come to in a dark confessional, let his angst be known with a gut-wrenching wail.
“Goodness!” the priest cried. “Have you opened the gates of hell?”
As if realizing he’d been insulted, Riley responded by switching from the wail to a brain-piercing shriek.
The priest chuckled through the mesh. “The wee lad’s got some mighty powerful lungs on ‘im. Mind if I push the screen aside and take a gander at the boy?”
Why not? The priest had obviously been tippling off the communion wine, but as a proud mother I never missed an opportunity to show off my perfectly adorable, perfectly sweet, perfectly perfect son. “Sure.”
I picked Riley up and he instantly stopped crying, his little pout morphing into a gooey, toothless baby grin.
The screen slid aside.
And there he was.
The new priest, Father Brendan O’Donnell. He was younger than I’d expected, only in his late twenties back then, just a few years older than me. He was handsome in a rugged way, broad-shouldered and broad-grinned. His skin bore the ruddy hue of someone who’d spent time outdoors, and one of his front teeth was chipped, giving him a slightly roguish appearance. His dark hair was cut short in the no-fuss style of a man with more important things to do than spend hours primping in front of a mirror. With his short hair and muscular build, he appeared more like a member of the military than a member of the clergy. Like a soldier in God’s army.
He was so manly. So masculine. Incredibly, undeniably masculine.
Something came over me and I almost dropped my baby.
The priest grinned at me. “Had you going, didn’t I?’
My heart twirled in my chest as I gave him an insincere glare. “Indeed. I was about to leave the church forever.”
“My apologies. But you can’t really blame me. It’s been a boring day in here. This is a very straight-laced congregation.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Guess so.” He sighed and slumped his shoulders. “But just once I’d like to take confession from a bank robber or an axe murderer. That would be a challenge, give me a chance to really shine.”
We looked at each other for a moment, then both burst out laughing. I bet the old woman who’d been waiting in line behind me at the confessional was wondering what was going on in the booth.
The new priest turned his gaze on Riley then. “So that’s the tyke. He is a cute one. I wouldn’t feel guilty either if I were you.”
On a personal level his words relieved me, but surely God would have something else to say about all this. I mean, I did succumb to lust, indulge in carnal pleasures without benefit of marriage. “What do I do, Father?”
“What do you do?” His eyes flashed dark for a moment, as if with repressed pain. “It’s simple. You love that little guy the best that you can.”
“No problem there.”
His gazed roamed my face, as if he were memorizing my features, and I found myself wishing I’d put on a little more ma
scara, maybe a spritz of lavender body spray.
“May I have your name?”
“Erin. Erin Flaherty.”
He reached through the open space and put a warm, reassuring, and strong hand on my shoulder. I fought the urge to rest my cheek against it.
“You may have sinned, Erin, but sure as we’re sitting here, this lad is a gift from God.”
“A gift? Resulting from sin?” Made no sense to me.
He looked up in thought, then turned his eyes back to me. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” A grin tugged at his lips.
Hmm. “You use that a lot, don’t you?”
He waved me closer, as if to share a secret. When I leaned in, he whispered, “It’s what priests say when they don’t want their parishioners to know just how daft they are.”
The two of us shared another laugh.
I suppose I should have felt let down. After all, the man before me was a man of God, had spent years in seminary studying theology. Wasn’t he supposed to have all the answers? But instead I found it refreshing he acknowledged being as confounded as the rest of us when it came to matters of faith. I knew right then our church had not only found a wonderful new priest, I knew he’d been sent from heaven.
Brendan’s brown eyes locked on me then, eyes full of hard-earned wisdom. “One thing I do know, Erin, without a doubt, is that there’s no sin so bad that it would make God stop loving you.”
His words hit home with the force of his conviction and the power of absolute truth. Just like that, the weight of my sin was lifted from me and whisked away, chocolate sauce and all.
Over the years since, Brendan proved not only to be a great friend to me, but also a wonderful surrogate father to Riley, his biological father now living with his wife and three girls in Iowa after a short-lived, lackluster career with the Boston Celtics. Matthew couldn’t exactly be a hands-on father from nine hundred miles away. But he did his best to be a good father to Riley when his son visited him for a month each summer and I couldn’t ask for a better stepmother for my son. Matthew’s wife was a sweet farm girl who treated Riley as her own, and their three daughters adored their older half-brother.
Still, I don’t know what I would’ve done without Brendan here for me on a daily basis. It was Brendan who’d taught Riley how to ride a bike, running along next to him, getting his toes run over a few times but not once complaining. It was Brendan who’d built Riley’s tree house in the backyard, spending an entire weekend with Riley painting the structure. It was Brendan who’d played untold games of H-O-R-S-E and one-on-one with Riley in the driveway. And it was Brendan who helped Riley when he got stuck on his eighth grade Algebra homework. Thank goodness. I could add and subtract, sure, but throw an X into an equation and I’d be thrown for a loop. In my opinion, numbers and letters were meant for entirely different forms of expression and were not supposed to mix. It was pure sacrilege.
When Riley showed an interest in dance, Brendan didn’t try to steer him into something more manly. He’d not only encouraged Riley to dance to the beat of his own drum, but he’d begun taking my Irish Step Dance class, too, surprising me with his agility and natural sense of rhythm. I had to admit, I’d wondered on more than one occasion if that agility and rhythm would translate to the bedroom.
Shame I’d never find out.
Neither would Brendan.
In return for Brendan’s help with Riley, I had him over for dinner a couple of times a week, assisted him with his Christmas shopping, helped him choose his clothing. If not for me, he’d said time and time again, he’d be a skinny, scruffy Scrooge in a polyester leisure suit. I had my doubts about that, but I wasn’t about to call him on it. I enjoyed eating and shopping with Brendan. Heck, I enjoyed just being with Brendan.
Tonight, however, Brendan had offered to cook for me at his place. After the lecherous guy at the bar, I was glad to have somewhere to go, someone to be with, even if it was just a friend. Who needs a man anyway? Not Erin Flaherty, that’s for sure.
I pulled into the parking lot of the small stone church, driving around to the back and turning down the cracked driveway of the converted garage that passed for a parsonage in our financially strapped parish. A lot of men would have been insulted to live in a structure that also housed a riding mower, an edger, and an assortment of other lawn tools, but Brendan didn’t mind. He wasn’t burdened with a big ego.
I parked behind Brendan’s pickup. Brendan must’ve seen my headlights or heard my engine. He pushed aside the kitchen curtain and looked out into the dark night. He waved, though I doubted he could see me. If he could, he’d see me looking back at him. Admiring his smile. That strong jaw line. Those gorgeous, deep brown eyes . . .
Whoa.
No more V.D. Blues for me. The darn drink had clearly made me feel loopy and romantic. What a waste. Pity.
CHAPTER SIX
WHAT’S FOR DESSERT?
I beeped the horn in greeting and climbed out of the car, bringing the small red gift bag containing Brendan’s presents with me. Brendan met me on the porch with a hug, as always. Was it my over-active imagination again, or did he hang onto me a bit longer than usual? Not that I was complaining, of course. It felt nice to be enveloped in those strong arms, to feel safe, cared for, feminine. Okay, maybe men are good for some things.
I followed Brendan inside, kicking off my tennis shoes at the door. The smells of tomato sauce, garlic, and melting cheese greeted me. “Dinner smells great.”
“No guarantee it’ll taste as good as it smells.”
“I’ll take my chances.” As I passed Brendan, I noticed he smelled great, too. Crisp, clean, fresh. Clearly straight from the shower judging from the tips of his hair, which were still damp. Which made me think of him in the shower. Which made me think of him naked. Which made me think I needed to stop thinking so much.
Brendan’s home consisted of four rooms—a basic kitchen, a living area, a small bedroom, and a tiny bath. But it was all a bachelor needed. The décor was eclectic. Though he’d bought his blue-and-gray striped couch new at a discount furniture store, the rest of his furniture pieces were garage sale bargains collected over the years. A pine dinette table with three mismatched wooden chairs. A whitewashed glass-front bookcase. A scuffed black footlocker that served as a coffee table.
Somehow the odd pieces seemed homey rather than tacky, and the place had a comfortable, welcoming feel. Framed photographs of his sisters and their families back in Ireland graced the bookshelves, along with Riley’s school pictures from each year since kindergarten. In the middle of the collection stood an eight-by-ten of me in my ornate Irish step dance costume, hands on hips, one knee cocked, a publicity photo taken several years ago by the promoters of the local Irish Festival for the cover of the program. As a joke, I’d autographed the photo as if I were a famous celebrity, writing “To my biggest fan, all my love, XO, Erin.”
I glanced at the photo, noting my fishnet tights looked sassy, spirited, sexy. The kind of hosiery that would be perfect for a wet T-shirt contest. I inwardly groaned. Surely I’d come up with some other way to pay for Blarney’s surgery. Wouldn’t I?
After ditching my tote and the gifts on the coffee table trunk, I padded to the oven in my socks, opened the door, and peeked inside. A lasagna bubbled in a rectangular Pyrex dish, the cheese on top melted to a yummy brown crust. Judging from the box of noodles in the trash, Brendan had made dinner from scratch instead of buying a frozen lasagna. He’d set the table with new cloth napkins and placemats, and even replaced the usual mushy black bananas in his wooden fruit bowl with fresh, colorful apples. The fact that he’d gone to such trouble was flattering. The work was a testament to how much he enjoyed our time together, how much he valued our friendship.
Pop!
I turned to find Brendan standing at the counter, uncorking a bottle of red wine.
He grinned mischievously. “Wonder what the Baptist preachers are drinking tonight?”
“Brendan! You are so naughty.”
He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secrets are safe with me.” I pretended to lock my mouth and throw away the key.
He cradled the bottle in his hands like a sommelier, showing me the label, then said in his most snooty voice, “Tonight’s wine selection is a superb four-dollar-and-ninety-nine cent 2009 vintage with—” He held the bottle up to read from the back sticker—”hints of rich oak and soft spice backed by notes of plum and cherry.”
“Not to mention that it’s got a cute giraffe on the label.”
Brendan shrugged. “What can I say? I’m no wine connoisseur, but show me some long legs and I’m hooked.”
I laughed. “If you like long legs, what are you doing with me?” Instantly, I realized my mistake. Heck, I was as bad as my ma and Tammy, making assumptions that could never be. Another hot blush rushed to my cheeks.
Thankfully, Brendan seemed unfazed. “For a mere sprite, you’ve got long legs yourself.” He glanced down at my legs, still clad in the gray sweats I’d owned for years.
I felt a tad embarrassed to be dressed so sloppily, but what point would there have been in my dressing up? After all, this wasn’t a date. Sure, there was wine, dinner, and gifts, and it was Valentine’s Day, but still, not a date. It couldn’t be.
Focusing on my legs got me wondering how my legs would feel wrapped around Brendan’s hips. Sheez! A lightning bolt would surely surge through the ceiling and blast me into oblivion at any second. What the heck had Tammy put in that drink? Yep, all these sexy feelings were nothing more than the effects of too much alcohol and too little nookie. I could see why my parents were so dead set against drinking and never kept liquor in the house.
Definitely time to change the subject.
“Ready to eat?” I asked. “I’m starved.”
“Me, too.”
While I dug through Brendan’s kitchen drawers for potholders, he poured us each a glass of wine. I found a pair of oven mitts, pulled the lasagna out of the oven, and stuck the loaf of buttered garlic bread inside to heat for a few minutes while the lasagna cooled off.