Stay With Me

by Astfalk, Carolyn

  “Chris, do you remember after Alan and Jamie’s wedding, when you asked about my first kiss?”

  His brow knit together and his eyes narrowed as he struggled to understand why she would bring that up at this moment. “Yeah. You said I was eight years too late.”

  “Yes. Well, my first kiss . . .” She inhaled deeply and let the rest out in a rush. “I kissed Father John.”

  8

  Dreams of Our Fathers

  The torrential rain required Chris’s full concentration on the road, forestalling any conversation on the ride from the church to Rebecca’s apartment.

  The drum of rain on the rooftop created a relentless rhythm. Rebecca’s thoughts drifted back to the church as she struggled to see through rain splattering and rolling down the windshield. The scene after Mass turned out not to be a scene at all. She had caught Chris off guard, but being a good-natured guy, she didn’t detect even a trace of discomfort in his introduction.

  Father John had taken her hand and begun shaking it, saying how pleased he was to meet her when his arm stilled with recognition.

  “Rebecca Rhodes? It can’t be.”

  “It is. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long,” he said before he released her hand. “Chris didn’t mention your last name.”

  “He didn’t mention yours to me either. I didn’t realize until I saw you up front.”

  “Your first Catholic Mass?”

  She nodded. It may have been her last, too.

  That’s when he caught sight of Chris’s bruised face. “What happened to you?”

  Chris bit the right side of his bottom lip, the uninjured side, and shrugged. “Ran into a fist.”

  “Yeah. I bet there’s more to the story than that.”

  Father John had a great smile, which he bestowed on them then as he looked back and forth between her and Chris a couple of times and then at their hands interlocked between them. He shook his head. “I never would have guessed . . . but God never ceases to amaze me.”

  Chris glanced back at the long line of parishioners waiting to greet Father John and inched them forward while clapping Father John on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later this week,” Chris said as they moved toward the exit.

  ***

  Rebecca ran up the three steps to her door, yanked her key off of her wrist and jammed it into the lock. She felt Chris on her heels, the bag he carried for her bumping into her calves. The rain came in blowing sheets now, and when she had managed at last to get it open, the storm door blew out and allowed them quick entry.

  She stripped off her sopping hoodie and dropped it on the hook in her entryway. Chris set her bag down on the laminate floor, careful to keep himself dripping on her mat.

  “Do you want a towel to dry off?”

  “Nah, I’m fine. I’d better get going.”

  He didn’t move to leave then, and her gaze locked on his. She watched as a tiny rivulet ran from his hair down his temple and along his cheekbone, tracing the now-swollen and purple bruise along his jaw. She raised her hand to caress it, but drew it back not so much afraid to hurt him as she was nervous about what seemed like an intimate touch. Before she could pull her hand back to her side, he took hold of it and laid it on his face.

  “I’m sorry about this.” She brushed the tender skin with her fingertips.

  “You have no reason to be sorry. We should have slept in separate tents. I should’ve thought what it might look like.” His blue eyes, lashes still wet with rainwater, focused on her.

  “You offered, but if you remember, I was so chicken I could barely sleep with you inside the tent.”

  He smiled until the movement must have caused his cheek some discomfort, and he winced. “Thank you for coming with me. It was like seeing the park for the first time again through your eyes.”

  She let her hand slide the length of his arm, cool and wet. “It’s beautiful. I can see why you love it so much.”

  He rested his hands on her waist, inching closer to her, and the smell of campfire and bug spray lingered on him as he leaned in to kiss her. She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He’d given her no more than a couple of pecks on the lips all weekend, but apparently now all bets were off. The feel of his lips sent a chill through her already cool body, but she warmed quickly—from the inside out—as his lips fused to hers, coaxing her to surrender a little of the feeling simmering in her chest. She felt a deep affection for Chris, even more so after the weekend they’d shared, so why was this so difficult? His kiss was persistent, and eventually her heart capitulated, her fervor overriding her reluctance. She knew the instant he felt the response he sought because his hands tightened on her waist, and he murmured, “I knew you were in there somewhere.” He pulled away from her ever so slightly and pressed a final kiss to her lips. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Chris.”

  He tugged his collar close around his neck and turned, letting himself out the door and closing it behind him. His feet thudded down the slick wooden steps, the pattering of rain a steady backdrop, and then the engine hummed as he drove away.

  Deciding she couldn’t stay transfixed in a heady, kiss-induced haze all night, she grabbed her bag and moved away from the door just as someone pounded on the opposite side. At the same time, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She slipped the phone out of her shorts and read the one-word text message from Abby. “Sorry.”

  Rebecca walked back to the door and looked through the peep hole, its bleary view already little better than a funhouse mirror further distorted by moisture. Her breath caught in her throat. She swung the door open and braced herself for a torrent worse than any summer storm.

  “Daddy.”

  “Who was that?” He gestured with his thumb in the direction Chris had headed.

  There was no “hello” or “how was your weekend?” He pulled open the storm door, stepped inside, and pushed passed her as his rain jacket dripped onto her floor.

  “A friend of mine, Chris.” The warm feeling had all but left her body, replaced by a tightening coil in the pit of her stomach and a chill that made her tremble.

  “Is that how you say goodnight to all your friends?”

  “No. . . No. Of course not. I’ve been seeing Chris for, uh, a while, and he’s very special.” She wished she could say her dad would like him, but that wouldn’t be true. Almost any other dad would be thrilled with him, but not hers.

  “Is this the friend you were camping with overnight?” He spat the last word out, a fine spray mixing with the water splattering her floor as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Abby assured me you were in, and I quote, ‘good hands’.”

  What had Abby told him? If she had intended to rile him—and knowing Abby, she had—it had worked. How could she convince her dad it was perfectly innocent?

  She took his jacket from him and hung it alongside her hoodie, then stepped into her living area. “Yes, Daddy, but it’s not what you think. He invited me—”

  “Did you share a tent?” Her father’s gaze drilled hers and without a word demanded the truth.

  “Yes, but only because I—”

  “I want his full name, Rebecca, and his address. Now.” Her father’s face reddened, and he dragged a hand over his head, a sure sign he was going to lose it. He paced in small circles, and she followed him.

  “No, Daddy. It’s not like that. We were in separate sleeping bags. He offered to pitch a tent for me, but I was too scared to sleep alone in the woods.”

  He stopped then and studied her as if he were trying to decide whether or not to believe her. “Scared? Of what? You weren’t afraid of him taking advantage of you. Or ruining you or your reputation.”

  “He’s a good man, Daddy. He’s not like that. He respects me, and I trust him.”

  “Is he a Christian?”

  “Yes.” It was true, but she knew her dad considered Catholicism little more than a cult or false religion. Having gone to church with Chris, she could s
ee how others might think it all strange. She certainly did. But she had also heard Scripture sprinkled throughout the whole service. More Scripture than she ever heard on a given Sunday.

  “If he's such a respectable Christian man, why are you hiding him from me?”

  “I'm not.”

  “Then bring him over.”

  “Okay, but he…he works weird hours, and I don't know when…” She didn't like where this was headed.

  “I want to meet him.” He stared for a moment, then in a gentler tone said, “How about Friday night? My manager Reggie’s got a bunch of fresh salmon he’s bringing back from Alaska. I’ll grill it.”

  Surprised by her father’s sudden reversal, Rebecca didn’t know if she wanted to subject Chris to her dad yet. He may decide a relationship with her wasn’t worth dealing with her father. She had met Chris’s parents though, and if she didn’t agree to the dinner invitation, her dad would be suspicious.

  “Okay. I’ll invite him.”

  Her dad nodded his approval. “I made a special trip here with that floor lamp from the attic. You acted like you wanted it, and you said you’d be home this evening. I get here, and you’re nowhere to be found.”

  Rebecca twisted her hands, anxious to claim the lamp and bid her dad goodnight. “We got held up by the weather.”

  Her dad snapped his jacket back off the hook. He reached into the pocket, retrieved a small plastic bag, and tossed it at her. “Here’s the hardware for the shade.” He glared at her, shrugged into his dripping jacket and zipped it. “Lamp’s on the porch, in case you didn’t notice.”

  With that, he flipped up his hood, turned, and walked out into the rain.

  ***

  The invitation to have dinner with Rebecca at her dad’s house surprised Chris. She hadn’t said much about her father, but he knew that, while they were in regular contact, their relationship was rocky, at best. He also sensed getting her father’s approval would be an uphill battle, but one he wanted to win. After last weekend, Chris felt certain he wanted this thing with Rebecca to be long term. The good news he had gotten this morning would be important to their future.

  He knocked on the door, and as he waited outside the cream-colored bungalow where Rebecca had grown up, he took in the homey feel. Faded burgundy paint covered the gingerbread on the wooden porch supports and the shutters. White petunias and ivy spilled out of matching flower boxes below the two first-floor windows, and a sturdy wooden porch swing hung from rusted chains.

  He straightened his tie and pushed up the knot so that it pressed neatly into his collar. He had offered to bring a bottle of wine, but Rebecca informed him her father did not allow alcohol in the house.

  Rebecca swung the door open, and he couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face.

  “Hey, you.” He stepped inside the door and glanced about to see if they were alone.

  She blushed, and it drove him crazy. “Hey yourself.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her, then whispered in her ear. “I have some good news to share with you, and I’m about ready to burst.”

  “What is it?”

  That smile. Those eyes. This job had suddenly become more important to him than he had ever dreamed. He couldn’t rely on his motorcycle anymore. Not while he dated Rebecca. He needed a car. “I got a new—”

  Rebecca’s father bustled into the foyer. While taller than Rebecca, his eye level reached only to Chris’s chin. His narrow face, long nose, and graying hair gave him an authoritative air. Chris couldn’t find a whit of family resemblance between him and his daughter.

  “Daddy, this is Chris Reynolds. Chris, my dad.”

  Chris extended his right hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rhodes.”

  “Likewise,” came out of his mouth, but from the way her dad looked him over, he sensed he wasn’t pleased. He welcomed Chris in and excused himself to tend to dinner.

  Rebecca took hold of Chris’s hand, squeezed his fingers, and ushered him to the dining room where her dad set a bowl of boiled potatoes on the table. It looked like how he remembered his great grandmother’s dining room.

  An antique hutch filled with fancy china sat in the corner. A buffet against the wall topped with a beige doily featured several framed pictures and a tarnished silver platter. Both a fabric tablecloth and a plastic liner covered the oval dining table, which had been set for three with fancy white china plates and real silverware. A cheap print of DaVinci’s Last Supper in a dingy frame hung on the interior wall.

  Rebecca let go of his hand and headed for the kitchen, he presumed to help her dad. He glanced at his watch to make sure he hadn’t been late. No, right on time. Apparently, Rebecca’s dad didn’t waste time socializing.

  In a few minutes, the table filled with drinks, dinner rolls, and broccoli, and Rebecca told him to take a seat. Dinner smelled good but more like beef than fish. He pulled her chair out and then sat next to her. Her dad brought in the remaining platter of steaks—beef, not salmon as Rebecca had told him. Chris held his breath knowing that simple menu change could very well cinch her dad’s opinion of him.

  It was Friday, and like every Friday, Chris abstained from meat. It wasn’t Lent, so he wasn’t bound by that sacrifice, he could choose another, but no meat on Fridays had become an ingrained habit for him over the past couple of years. He didn’t have another second to dwell on it since her dad announced it was time for grace.

  Chris shifted in his seat as Rebecca released his hand under the table, and he bowed his head in prayer.

  “Dear Lord,” her dad began, “Bless this meal and those who eat it. Amen.”

  Short and sweet. Chris refrained from making the sign of the cross as he was apt to do.

  “Chris,” her dad said as he reached for the steak platter, “I hope you like sirloin. A friend of mine had promised me Alaskan salmon, but he wasn’t able to bring them by this week. Maybe another time.”

  Her dad stabbed the top steak with a fork. He and Rebecca had talked about whether he should tell her father he was Catholic or save that particular detail for later. They had decided that unless it came up they would avoid the topic. For now. But here they were about thirty seconds into the meal, and it had come up.

  “Thank you, sir, I do like sirloin, and those look delicious, but I’m—”

  “Fasting.” Rebecca sounded breathless as the word erupted from her lips. “Chris fasts on Fridays, Dad.”

  That caught her dad’s attention, and he stopped and studied Chris with a look almost of admiration. “Really? Well, while I find that commendable, I think you can dispense with that this evening.”

  Chris’s instinct was to say that he didn’t have the authority to do that, but he reminded himself that it wasn’t Lent, therefore it wasn’t an obligation. He could and should dispense with it tonight for the sake of harmony. He opened his mouth to say that he’d love a steak when Rebecca, looking anxious and wary blurted out, “Chris is Roman Catholic.”

  Geez, did she have to add the “Roman?” It made him sound un-American.

  Her dad had set the steak on Chris’s dish and was in the process of dropping one of the juicy cuts onto his own. It fell to his plate with a thwack, and he looked between the two of them, a steak knife in one hand and a two-tined fork in the other. He smiled, a saccharine smile that left his lower lip twitching.

  He glared at Chris. “Rebecca said you were a Christian.”

  “I am, sir. Catholic Christian.”

  Her dad let out a little “humph,” and began to cut his steak. That set the tone for the entire meal. Rebecca tried to introduce a topic of conversation, Chris tried to find common ground with her father, and her dad responded with a panoply of disgusted noises.

  After her dad gave a final swipe to his mouth with the linen napkin, he pushed his plate forward and gave them each a forced smile. Chris was almost finished as well, so he set his hands on the napkin in his lap.

  “So, Chris, what is it that you do for a living?”

 
Finally, an opportunity to salvage things. With the news he had accepted a new job this morning, Chris sat straighter in his chair. He cast a quick glance at Rebecca, glad that he could finally share his good news with her. He turned back to her dad and watched as he rattled the ice cubes in his glass before taking a long drink of his—water.

  All at once it hit him. This wasn’t going to be his saving grace; it would be more like the nail in his coffin as far as her dad was concerned. There was no avoiding it now, and he was eager to share it with Rebecca anyway. He’d just dive in.

  “Well, my degree is in chemistry, sir, but I’ve been having a hard time finding something that suited me. In the meantime, I’ve been working at Rieser’s Market, restocking and stuff.”

  Her dad looked into the bottom of his now-empty glass, not impressed.

  “I went on an interview last week though, and this morning they offered me a position, and I accepted it.” Rebecca’s dad had looked up now, anticipating the big announcement.

  Chris reached for Rebecca’s hand under the table again and holding onto it, let their hands rest on his thigh. He pushed the chair back a little bit so he could angle himself towards her. The smile on her lips and in her eyes gave him the confidence to continue.

  “They wanted a chemist. Starting in two weeks, I’ll be the yeast manager for Gateway Brewery.”

  He’d always be grateful to Rebecca for her reaction. She had to have known what her dad would think of him working at a brewery, but she didn’t temper her response. She released his hand and threw her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek.

  “Chris, it’s perfect. I mean, I don’t know the first thing about yeast management, but you’ll get to use your education, it’s close by, and it’s probably a cool place to work.”

  That was all true of course, but the fact that it provided a larger income with benefits was foremost in his mind. A man that wanted to court a woman properly and was thinking seriously for the first time that he wanted to be a husband and father someday needed stability and income. He needed something he could offer Rebecca aside from a ride on the back of his Harley.