REBEL PRIEST

by Leigh, Adriane

  “Crazy?” I interrupted.

  “Love, I was going to say.” His voice lowered, gravelly with seriousness. “I believed from a very early age that I would do this. Many of the men in my family, untold generations, have been seminarians. I was drawing crosses and relics in my school notebook in Havana as a child. For a time, my mother thought I was the second coming of the Holy Father.” He shook his head, wry smile on his face at the memory. “That’s why she enrolled me at the Jesuit school and why she was relieved when I made it official after I graduated. Mi Mamá…” He paused, reserved irises softening with emotion. “She was raised with a belief system that’s both traditional and—” he shrugged his shoulders “—spiritual in a worldly way, I guess you could say. She told me stories of her ancestors escaping a revolution in Spain and Portugal, only to find themselves confronting another in Cuba. From the beginning, I’ve felt called to this life. I’ve pledged my soul to God’s highest good. It’s my vocation.” He turned his eyes to the sky, pondering something far beyond both of us. “This calling has always been good to me, and perhaps despite some of the sadness, it has breathed life into me. I’ve always been thankful for that. Hardship builds character, holy restraint requires deep self-reflection, and therein we unlock our true selves, free of bodily sin and suffering.”

  “So…” I leaned closer into him. “Would the Catholic church forgive us our sins?”

  Bastien’s eyes turned dark with soft rebuke. “Tressa.”

  The way his lips hissed my name sent a thrill of rebellion cutting through me.

  I liked eliciting a reaction from him. I tipped my chin in the air, smile defiant.

  “That look in your eye tells me you care.”

  His eyes softened before he turned away, amused smile returning. “Of course I care. I more than care, you know that.”

  “But if you have the capacity to love something outside of this church—”

  “I can assure you, sweet dove, I’m nothing if not untraditional.”

  His words curled through me like a dragon, breathing fire and uncontrollably hungry for more.

  I sucked on my bottom lip, a flashback of his thumb swirling under my panties playing like an illicit movie behind my eyelids.

  “There’s that look again.” His littlest finger hooked through mine. I nearly singed a human-shaped hole into the snow and earth at my feet.

  “Father Bastien! I was thinking—” Ms. Watson crunched over on fur-lined snow boots, red-lipsticked smile crossing her face and completely unaware she’d just interrupted the most intensely sensual moment of my young life “—my daughter-in-law makes these wonderful stuffed cabbage rolls for the bakery she works at. I could have her make a few batches for St. Michael’s Winter Festival, especially. What you and this lovely Tressa have been doing to freshen up the place, well…” She pressed a hand at Bastien’s forearm. “It’s just a miracle. Like breathing the Spirit back into things. This world needs more of the special kind of love the two of you have to give. Doing God’s work, you both are.” She winked, pressing something into the palm of Bastien’s hand and then tottering off down the sidewalk.

  “She’s so sweet,” I said, watching her leave.

  “With a heck of a sweet tooth. Passes me lemon drops after every Mass.”

  “She loves you.”

  “They love you too.”

  I shook my head, catching Bastien’s gaze for a moment as clouds of our breath rose around us. I wasn’t lovable. Not really. Not in the way he was. I was the villain in this tale; I couldn’t go forgetting that. “I don’t have a place here, not really. Not in your life, not in theirs. I’m so thankful for St. Michael’s. It’s been my home more than anywhere else, but it’s not my forever home.”

  “That’s where we disagree.”

  I tilted my head when we crossed into the vestibule. “Oh?”

  “I believe God is everywhere. There’s a reason you keep finding him on the steps of St. Michael’s.”

  I smiled softly, letting his words roll around in my head. “Maybe.”

  “Hey.” Bastien’s hand was brushing against mine again, our bodies hovering between innocence and intimacy. “Do you always make a habit of doubting a holy man?”

  “As much as possible.” I laughed. “Oh, I almost forgot, Lucy can’t find her copy of the key for the cottage—I told her it’s probably pregnancy brain and it’ll turn up, but maybe we should get another made just in case?”

  “She lost her key?” His shoulders tensed, eyes turning dark. “When?”

  “She didn’t say, why?”

  He shook his head. “I thought I saw someone in your yard the other night—the night it rained—”

  “Really?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It’s not unusual to find people taking shortcuts through the churchyard at night, but it rattled me.”

  I frowned, trying to recall if I’d seen anything unusual that night. I’d been so emotional, in truth, I hadn’t really noticed much of anything through my tears. “I didn’t see anything that night.”

  A small group of elderly parishioners paused to hug Bastien then before turning to me, each of the women gushing on the success of the festival and how much life we were adding to the community.

  As they spoke, heartache settled over my shoulders like storm clouds. If they realized we weren’t their saviors, but sinners of the flesh… I smiled softly, doing my best to push down the guilt as they shuffled away.

  “This place is so special,” I murmured.

  “I know you feel you don’t belong here, but God is in your heart, Tressa, why you keep finding him on the steps of St. Michael’s is the better question.” His eyes burned hot on mine. “I think this is your home, you’re only afraid to admit it.”

  The pain of his words clawed at my throat.

  I had to find a job and get some cash flowing into my bank account. I couldn’t be here when this all fell apart.

  And it would.

  Bastien and I were two fast-moving trains in the night, too far gone to turn around, moving too rapidly to hit the brakes in time. We would crash and burn, and it would be a public affair. Bastien was too sweet; I couldn’t let his entire life’s mission crumble to ash. I wasn’t the one with a reputation and sacred vow to protect. And while he obviously could survive a life without me in it, I was certain he couldn’t survive without his holy flock.

  Blood was thicker than water, and Bastien had pledged his to God.

  What we were was heartbreakingly shallow in comparison. Correction. I was shallow.

  Bastien was holy.

  FOURTEEN

  Bastien

  Later that night, after I’d driven Cruz back to the train station and promised to come to the city just as soon as I had a single day off, I’d spent the ride back to the parish with my thoughts lingering on Tressa.

  As if they spent time anywhere else these days.

  I’d chastised myself a thousand different ways from Sunday for letting my thoughts tangle with her, but the fact was, I wanted only what was best, and it was my desire to help and guide people to love that’d brought me to this vocation in the first place.

  I just hadn’t expected to tangle with any actual love myself. I’d never felt the emotion before—I’d never felt anything for anyone beyond general wellbeing and a desire to be of service—but when I’d found myself putting thoughts of Tressa before myself—her wellbeing ahead of my own—the desire to die rather than see her heart break another moment—well that blurred the boundaries I was expected to uphold by a thousand miles.

  But at least this day I finally might have a solution for her, so when I pulled into my church parking space and parked the dark sedan, I was surprised to find her sitting on the front stoop, arms curved around her small form and clouds of her breath enveloping the cold air around her.

  She looked freezing and my only instinct was to wrap her in my arms. “Why is it I keep finding you outside looking like someone just kicked your puppy?”


  Her eyes curled up with a soft smile when they reached mine. She only shrugged, scooting over on the step and warming her palms with her breath. I caught her hands in mine, breathing my own warm heat into them before I chuckled softly. “Remind me to get you gloves for your birthday.”

  She cracked another smile. “You don’t even know when my birthday is.”

  “You’ve got brazen fortitude coming out of your ears, so…if I had to guess…Capricorn. Were you born in January, Tressa?”

  “How is it that a holy man follows astrology too?” She quirked her head to the side.

  I only shrugged. “Jesuits study science and magic in all it’s forms, it’s all related.”

  She narrowed her gaze, mouth popping open sweetly. “I was born the day after Christmas.”

  “Ah, Christmas brings the gift of forgiveness, peace, and love—you’re all of those things sweet dove.” I swept the pad of my thumb down her temple. “It’s like I knew you before we even met.”

  “I like that.”

  “I was thinking about what you said the other night—about finding him.” I pressed on.

  “Yeah?” She asked, eyes casting back to the snow dancing in the lone streetlight in front of the parish.

  “Maybe a DNA test could help you locate your father.” My words hung heavier than the blanket of snow around us.

  “I don’t think my dad would be the type to have a DNA test—but that would be perfect, wouldn’t it? Spit in a cup and six weeks later—bam—here’s your dad!” Sarcasm iced her words.

  “Well, what type do you think your dad is exactly?” I asked.

  “Hm, if mom’s previous boyfriends hold any sway, I would bet unemployed dirtbag with a side of asshole for good measure.” She laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  And suddenly I felt every one of her two and a half decades of pain and suffering—the battles she’d waged long before she should have because she battled a force greater than her: a home starved of love.

  We sat quietly, soaking up the cold night air as something slow and easy settled between us. Something I’d come to love about her affect on me, the way she eased tension out of my muscles with just a glance or an offhand remark that made me smile when I least expected it, they sustained me more than she knew.

  Life is made up of little moments, and some people remind you to appreciate each of the moments you’re given a little more. I made a vow right then and there to treasure the people that filled my heart with levity and joy, allowed me to forget the pain and suffering of the world’s people if even for a breath of time.

  “Thank you, Bastien—for looking out for me. Whenever I’ve thought of my father there’s always been a missing piece, but coming here, helping out at St. Mikes,” she turned and placed a hand over my own then, “being with you helps.” Her smile wavered softly. “I’m so thankful for the distraction while I get my life back together.”

  “You’ve been a help far greater than you know—just organizing the attic is a project and a half. And it seems like we’ve uncovered more missing pieces than answers with every new box we’ve opened. Apparently, record keeping was not Father Martin’s strong suit, I’ve found stacks and stacks of accounting and ledgers and tax exemption forms, but no matter how I put the numbers together, nothing is adding up. I can’t figure out why his parish stipend was so high, ever other placement I’ve had was a fraction of what he was getting for the last two decades of his time here.”

  “Maybe his salary was grandfathered in.” She laughed.

  “The notion that you could call anything a holy man gets a salary is a novel one—but you’re right, Father Martin surely had a system well-established here—I still regret that he was transferred so quickly before he could walk me through his process.”

  Tressa smiled before standing. I rose at her side and we turned to head back into the warmth of the church. “You wouldn’t have gotten much out of him—I don’t remember much from when I was kid, but he was as reserved and tight-lipped as they came—he was the epitome of the humble and obedient priest—but his eyes,” she grinned as she thought back on a lost memory, “they always danced with so much life, like you were the most special thing on earth to him in that moment. He was more special to me than he probably knew—I wish I could have told him that before he left.” She sighed deeply. “Just one more thing my mom’s illness stole from me—the only stable father figure I ever had.”

  I wrapped her in my arms, no more words left to be said. I couldn’t help myself, as we walked down the wall of iron cross and back to the sacristy, I placed reverent kisses on the top of her head.

  My sweet, sweet dove, I wished I could grant her the peace she so desperately craved.

  FIFTEEN

  Tressa

  “Thanks for coming with me.” I glanced at Lucy as we settled ourselves on the city bus. “I know if I get this job across town, I’ll have to get over it. But doing anything for the first time alone gives me such a serious set of butterflies, I’d probably fumble my way into reception while dropping off these applications. Bastien was on the phone with Cruz early this morning—there’s something going on with him—or more specifically Rose. They keep planning weekends to come and then it gets cancelled—and he hates to leave her for some reason. Bastien has started talking about taking a trip into the city, but he can’t get the diocese to send anyone for a few days to fill in. I’ve never seen him so concerned before.”

  Lucy’s hands subconsciously cradled the tiny swell of her stomach through the heavy puffer coat she wore. Her feet were twisted at the ankles, toes worn through on her furry winter boots. “Cruz is a good guy, but do you ever wonder if a person can be too good?”

  “Uh oh, what do you know?”

  “Nothing really,” she shrugged. “But he’s got a dark look in his eye, like he’s seen too much. You know some shit once you see it it can’t be unseen.”

  “I don’t know—Cruz? He seems so…friendly.”

  “People always try to hide darkness with a smile, Tressa.”

  I looped her arm with mine, sending her a smile. “Truer words were never said.”

  “Sisters?” And old man grinned across from us.

  “Not quite.” I shook my head. “Coworkers.”

  “Roommates,” Lucy chirped.

  His chestnut eyes brightened. “It’s good to see people loving each other. I know what you kids think about my generation, all the free love and peace stuff, but I, for one, don’t think that much love was a bad thing. Just finished this this morning.” He pulled an old, worn paperback from a giant pocket in the folds of his coat. “I usually hang on to a book for a few days after I finish it—” he leafed through the pages, callused pad of his thumb grazing the edges reverently “—sometimes to reread certain passages. I like to let the meaning of a story settle into my bones like dust on a bookshelf. This one, I never could quite get rid of. Been holding it right here since I found it in one of those tiny free-book libraries downtown. I’ve read it eight times, cover to cover. I happen to believe that some books are fated to the reader. No matter how many times you ignore them, somehow, they just keep chasing you down, begging you to crack the wisdom inside. There’s a splash of dark roast on page thirty-eight that makes me cringe every time. Still relive the moment a tourist in the park tossed a nickel and three pennies into my cup and left a permanent stain. When you get to it, I apologize on behalf of that animal.” His lips twisted into a wry smirk. “But, this book, my dear”—his gaze hung heavy on mine—“I think this one was meant for you.”

  A ball of emotion rolled over my vocal cords as I nodded, unable to break the sweet old man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” He squinted his eyes before squeaky brake pads slowed us to a halt and the exit doors of the bus swung open. “This is my stop.” He stood, winking once before walking off the bus and down the congested sidewalk, his broad shoulders and the dark knit hat on his head lost in a sea of strangers.

  “This is our
stop too, I think.” Lucy snatched the manila envelope that held my resume and completed application inside. “Yup.”

  She grabbed my arm and escorted me down the steps, bumping my shoulder when our feet hit the sidewalk.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “That guy, that was kind of intense, right?”

  Her eyes shot up, then she shrugged. “What book did he give you?”

  I flipped the soft paperback in my hands, shades of orange and licks of yellow splashing across my vision. “The Alchemist.”

  Lucy’s eyes scrunched. “Haven’t heard of it.”

  “I have.” My hands tightened on the binding. “I had a professor who had a signed copy of this.” I swallowed a shard of pain lancing my throat, eyes shuddering closed as I thought about that book, its glossy, mint-condition cover mocking me every day. The overwhelming urge to toss this one in the garbage was like a violent wave in my gut.

  “I haven’t read it.”

  I pushed the paperback deep down into my tote bag, half praying it’d fall out a mysterious hole I hadn’t yet discovered, never to be seen again.

  “I’ll read it.” Lucy beamed, unaware of the flurry of anguish that fucking book had set off inside me.

  “I’ve heard it’s good.” I snagged my manila envelope from her hand, just to have something to cover my raging heart. “303 Broad Street. I think that’s this way?”

  Lucy nodded, setting off ahead of me as the memory of that old man’s eyes still haunted my mind. “You know that I definitely, one-thousand percent, want the best for you, right, Tressa?” I’d never been so thankful for Lucy’s chatter a few steps ahead. “I’m happy that you’re moving on and whatever, and this comes from a totally selfish place, but I can’t even imagine not living with you. I’ve never really lived with anyone so…” She quirked her head over her shoulder, catching my eye with a grin. “…healthy.”

  “Healthy?” I laughed. “First time anyone has ever applied that word to me.”