Priestly Sins

by Hadley Finn

  We drive past Eyre Square and talk about all the flags that fly there before driving home to begin the ridiculous task of washing all of this cooking stuff.

  I suggest Clara grab her iPad and bring in Frozen with her AirPods. She does so and I go to the office and grab my laptop and place it in front of Sirona. I log in to Amazon’s UK site and make sure she sees the name and password.

  “Order what you’re missing, sweetheart. Get the right flour and the French salt and the utensils you want.”

  “You’ve already done enough. I don’t need anything more.”

  I squat down in front of her and look her in the eyes. “I didn’t say ‘need.’ I said ‘want.’ It’s important to me you’re at home here. Make this a home, okay? Bedding, stuff for Clara, beauty crap, makeup, whatever. Get what you want.”

  “But, I —”

  Lowering my voice, I add, “Get Christmas, too. Okay? I’m clueless on that and we only have three weeks.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth while her eyes bug out.

  “I forgot Christmas,” she mouths, her face showing panic.

  “Good thing you have me then.”

  I reach up and hold her cheek, strumming my thumb across her bottom lip, staring.

  “Baby?”

  She holds my eyes but nods ever so slightly.

  “You’re home. You can do whatever you need to make this feel like it’s yours. If it’s not Amazon, we’ll find another site. You know it’s a quick trip to France. You need it, we’ll get it.”

  I leave my squat and head for Clara. “Want to go watch Frozen on the big TV?”

  “Yes!” she squeals and heads for the living room, iPad clutched in her hands.

  “Oh, Sirona?”

  “Yeah?”

  “New commercial grade fridge and freezer will arrive in the next week.” I wink and follow Clara into the living room.

  Thirty

  The very next day, the smell of sugar invades the house. Thank God it’s not coming from my coffee. I love Clara’s heart, but her coffee could use some help. Cotton candy isn’t as sweet as yesterday morning’s concoction.

  When I come in from visiting Killian, I can almost taste the sugar hanging in the air.

  Clara is noticeably quiet and I rush toward the kitchen hoping everything is all right. I quickly discover that she’s quiet because she’s elbow-deep in batter. Her hands, her arms, smeared across her face, and her clothes. Everything on her is crusty.

  “Whatcha got there?”

  She peels her tongue off the roof of her mouth to answer. “Cupcake batter.”

  “I figured that out. What flavor?”

  “White.”

  “Is white a flavor or a color?”

  “Both, silly.”

  “Oh, I’m silly?” I reach with my fingers, careful to avoid the sticky bits, and tickle her. She has little defense since she’s covered in goo and holding the bowl and a spoon. I, on the other hand, stay out of kicking distance so little feet don’t meet my junk.

  We’re interrupted by a tsking from the corner.

  “Who are you tsk-tsking?”

  “Both of you!” Her responding smile is glorious. It stuns me just enough that I let down my guard and, as I do, a little shoe grazes me just below the belt. Shit!

  My recovery is slow but not so slow that Clara notices.

  “Why did you choose white cake?”

  “I love ambrosia cake. It’s my favorite. We can always add food coloring —”

  “Pink!!”

  “—as I was saying… We can always add coloring but since it’s for us, I thought not having our fingers stained would be just as good.”

  “Pink! Pleeeeasse!

  “Yeah, pink. Please,” I mock.

  Sirona groans, “You two, together, are a bad idea.” But her smile says otherwise.

  Later that evening, I text Bobby and catch up. Seems the New Orleans police are looking into the missing persons case of Enzo Calabrese. There’s no love lost there so they’re not looking too hard, but it hit Bobby’s radar and he knew my hatred for the man, so he brought it up.

  Bobby: You know they probably think ‘good riddance,’ but he’s too high profile for that.

  Me: Miserable piece of shit.

  Bobby: Tell me how you really feel.

  Me: LOL

  Bobby: The other thing?

  Me: Other thing?

  Bobby: The car.

  Me: Yeah

  Bobby: DMV records show the title in Gloria Tremaine’s name, insurance has been issued.

  Me: Glad she got it.

  Bobby: Yeah. She’s also been notified that the two college scholarships you endowed are ready for her kids when they are. She doesn’t know who her guardian angel is, but she’s very aware she has one.

  Me: Any word on Henry?

  Bobby: He’s been home more, nothing beyond that.

  Me: Thanks, brother. Hug the family for me.

  Bobby: Will do. You do the same.

  I’m too shocked to reply.

  A week or so into our new arrangement, it dawns on me I don’t have a job. It’s stupid. I have more than enough money to never work again, but I have to do something with my time. I’ve had the “wake up early, run, shower, coffee, work” routine for so long, this sleeping in, lounging thing has gone from relaxing to uncomfortable. Must say, though, Sirona’s cooking and my lack of a paved trail to run on is impacting the area near my belly button.

  I procrastinate by reorganizing in my office, trying to reassess my life. I hadn’t planned on anything after Enzo. Avenging my mother was the endgame I never thought beyond to consider a non-priestly life. Certainly never factored in a woman or a child. I had this home built as an out but never suspected for a moment I could have this life.

  I pace and think. I’m not accustomed to either without my red chair or my doubloon. I miss the chair; I do not miss that damned doubloon.

  Until dinner that night, I move throughout the room, as if I’m trying to get to know it. I only settle one issue before me—and it’s not my career—I would die to protect the people under this roof and always want them with me.

  Time to make sure they know it.

  As has become a bit of a habit, I head over to Killian’s the next morning, carrying the now-frosted cupcakes, I walk because I need the exercise. The ground is hard and ice-cold but not icy.

  The land that our homes sit on has rolling, verdant hills. We’re not far apart, although Clara could scream and he may not hear it. The property is vast and we didn’t have to build my house as close to his as we did, but, since March when I discovered I had an uncle, I’ve made an effort to get to know him. We’ve talked off and on and together decided the best placement for the house.

  He knows the cottage is his home, and I’ll never kick him out, barring anything egregious, but I can’t imagine what that would be. It’s nice to have family. For him, I suspect it’s nice to have family that isn’t Patrick.

  Over the last nine months, he’s opened up about shitty things my father did and I’ve reciprocated. He’s given me unflinching honesty. I’ve given him the same. I trust him, more than I ever did Patrick O’Shaughnessy.

  Killian oversaw the building of my house from foundation to finishing. He has since unexpectedly welcomed Sirona and Clara and never been rude or grumpy or uninviting.

  I knock and enter without awaiting his greeting. This took us both a little getting used to but he dispensed with the formalities quickly and told me he wasn’t going to wait on me hand and foot.

  I smell the coffee and head for the kitchen, pouring myself a cup after placing the cupcakes on his counter.

  “Killian?”

  “Here, lad.”

  He wanders in, mug in hand, led by the orange tabby I met my first time here. Winkles is a crotchety old man but will purr and act sweet for treats.

  “Morning.”

  “Aye.”

  “I need a dog.”

  The slow grin that spre
ads across his face is disarming.

  “What?”

  “Sirona called me and told me to stop ya from getting a dog a few days ago.”

  “What did you say? And tell me what I want to hear, because there are cupcakes in it for you.”

  “Cupcakes?” He makes the gimme gesture with his hand and I laugh and place the box on the table where we tend to sit. “What kind of dog?”

  “Don’t know. Good with kids? Easy?”

  “No such thing. But I’ll do my best. Anything more?”

  “Yeah. Keep it between us?”

  “Aye, lad. Not interested in hot water with your lady.”

  “Smart man,” I mutter.

  Thirty-One

  Christmas in Ireland is not what I expect.

  It could be because Christmases for me have been all work and no play for the last ten years. It could be because the prim formality my father demanded never allowed me to be a boy or a kid. Or because it was so long since the last time I was with my ma for the holidays. Shit, I was a boy… just a kid at that time.

  It could also be because the commercialization doesn’t exist the same way here as it does in the States.

  Mostly it’s not what I expect because of the radical shift between last Christmas and now. Last Christmas I was empty, dealing with the death of my father. I was alone in New Orleans and held vengeance higher than any other motivation.

  This morning, I woke up full, at peace, and definitely not alone. And I mean that in every sense of the word. The sunrise should be at a quarter to nine, but well before that my mattress sinks then bounces and a squeal pierces my dream and, subsequently, my eardrums. “Poppppaaa!! Wake up! Waaake up!! It’s Christmas and Santa came.”

  Using my abs as a springboard, she launches off me, little feet hitting the wood floors and slapping as she runs away yelling, “Come on!”

  “Good morning,” a sweet voice whispers softly, and my smile grows as I crack my eyes open. Sirona stands beside my bed in Christmas flannel pajamas.

  “Morning, baby. Merry Christmas,” I say through sleep.

  “I brought you coffee,” she continues quietly and the smell hits me.

  “Come here,” I reach out my arm and hook her neck, drawing her mouth to mine for a good morning kiss. She allows it, still shy. “Want to climb in with me?” I offer, knowing there’s no time or privacy, but her breath catches and her eyes hold mine, as a blush creeps across her skin.

  “Yeah, you do,” I growl, but let her off the hook. “Later,” I promise.

  And it’s one I plan to keep.

  Sirona and Clara have a tradition of waffles and hot cocoa on Christmas morning. When I get to the kitchen table in my red and green flannel pajamas, Clara bounces onto my lap and launches into telling me about her morning.

  She’s found the dollhouse I spent half the night building. That was after I spent half the month watching it be tracked from the States to Dublin to Galway to Knockferry. “Santa brought me a dollhouse. You were right, Poppa. He got my letter and knew we weren’t in Louisiana and that we were in Ireland and it’s pink! And it has a bathtub that will hold water…” She continues but all I can think about—and I’ll need to get over it quickly—is water on my rustic, wood-plank floors.

  “Will you show me?” I ask and, before I can finish, she flies off my lap and takes off for the great room, doubling back to make sure I’m following, obviously not fast enough.

  I turn to Sirona as I stand and take another sip of the cocoa in front of me. “Morning, baby,” I say and rub a hand down her back, turning her into me, and giving her another real kiss. Her soft moan is enough to get me hard. I pull her into me and deepen the kiss, tilting her head with a tug on her hair. I devour her mouth and press my cock into her soft belly, but pull back when Clara yells yet again. I can’t help but smile at the soft red painting her cheeks.

  “You taste like coffee and chocolate,” she says, as if she didn’t mean to admit it aloud.

  “You taste like heaven.” I rub my hand up under her flannel top and settling it back on the warm skin of her lower back, keeping her body flush with mine. Leaning down, I whisper in her ear, “Bet you’re delicious everywhere.” I pause just for a moment before adding, “And I can’t wait to find out.”

  A shiver wracks her body and her eyes flutter closed.

  I let her go and warm up my coffee as I hear, “Poppa!” called from the living room.

  “You look great in those pajamas,” I say as I pass her on my way out of the kitchen and rub my hand over her ass, giving it a light tap, following the sound of Clara’s continuing conversation.

  By breakfast time, Clara has on the Christmas dress she wore to mass last night. By lunchtime, she’s passed out on the sofa.

  I grab Sirona’s hand and tug her down the hall and into my bedroom. I close the door behind us, but don’t lock it. A four-year-old with free rein of the house and no parental supervision spells trouble, regardless of where in the world you are.

  Sirona won’t meet my gaze, so I gently grasp her chin and use my thumb to lift it. “It’s later.”

  I slide my hand around her jaw and tug her neck toward my face. I drop my mouth but pause before I kiss her, searching her eyes. “Yeah?” I ask, needing to know she’s okay with this. She swallows and nods and lifts to her toes, meeting me as I take her mouth. She grabs my neck and comes at me like she’s as hungry as I am.

  My hands slide down the sides of her breasts and she shivers. I cup their weight over her pajamas and run my thumbs over her budding nipples. Their hardness and attention spur me on. So do her noises.

  I break the kiss, trail my mouth down her neck to her collarbone, toward her cleavage. This height difference is cramping my style. I put my hands under her butt and lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist, putting her heat at my growing cock.

  I drop my mouth to her chest, pulling a nipple into my mouth through the flannel.

  Walking to the bed, I lay her down and follow. I rock my hips into hers. “I want you,” I say holding her eyes. She nods but still says nothing.

  I pull back enough to unbutton her top, opening it wide, and suck in a breath. “You’re beautiful, Sirona. Fucking waited so long for you, baby.” I lean over her tit and suck hard while my thumb and forefinger rub her other nipple into a harder peak. I switch to it and let my left hand drift to her waistband.

  “So fucking long, baby. Gone without longer than any man should. But you…. so fucking tempting, did me in, baby.” She doesn’t flinch, and since she won’t talk to me, I can only read her body language. When she wriggles beneath my palm, I look into her eyes as I dip my hand into her panties and feel her bare. I know she sees the flare of surprise in my eyes as I stroke her. I go lower and lower still until I feel her slit, hot and wet and wanting.

  “So worth it. You were so worth the wait.”

  She gyrates her hips and I slide one finger, followed by a second, into her tight wetness. I watch her face, see the ecstasy, hear her moans. Her rocking on my hand is fucking beautiful. It’s been so long; I’ll never make it through this without embarrassing myself.

  I hold her eyes as I kiss her chastely and trail down her neck and chest. She rises up to meet me as I run my tongue over one breast and then the other, all the while moving my fingers in and curling, letting my thumb tease that sweet, hard nub.

  I let my hands leave her, just enough to tug her flannels and panties over her hips and return my hand to tease the juncture of her thighs, that slick opening, her desperate clit. With my other, I butterfly her knee and work my way back to her center.

  I trail kisses down to her belly and the scar lower than that, Clara’s scar, if I had to guess. And then her mound.

  And, because I can’t wait any longer and I might die if I don’t taste her, I dip my head and lap at her juices. I growl when I finally taste her. “I was right. You’re delicious... everywhere.” I reach in deep with my tongue while my hands drop underneath her, lifting her to me, holdin
g her to my mouth. I make my way to her clit nub and flick it, not gently, but pull away as she writhes beneath me, moaning.

  When my fingers plunge inside her, I suck deep and she calls “Sean!” followed by something unintelligible. I suck and plunge, pulling with my fingers and lips, riding out her orgasm.

  I don’t stop. Needing more. More of her taste, more of her pants and moans, more of her pleasure. Her second orgasm barrels through her right after the first and the “O” of her mouth and her noises are enough to almost make me come.

  I climb up her body and free my throbbing cock from my pants, dipping it into her juices. Just as the wet heat hits my tip, the doorknob turns and we both freeze.

  In my greatest athletic maneuver ever, I manage to yank up my pants, throw the blankets over Sirona, and belly flop next to her on my painfully swollen cock. I feign a snore that’s really a groan, just as the door pushes open.

  “Mommy? Mommy, it’s snowing! Can we play in the snow?”

  I fake another light snore and lift my head whispering, “Clara, love, Mommy’s asleep. Go get your boots and coat and I’ll meet you at the back door. That work?”

  And it must because she flies down the hall, giggling and talking about snow.

  I rub my face in the pillow and mutter, “God, I love her, but her timing is utter shit.” I look to Sirona.

  She stares dumbfounded.

  “What, baby? And please don’t say it wasn’t good. I gave you some of my best moves and, if I’m not mistaken—and I’m not—you came twice.”

  “You love her?”

  “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.