We Will Always Have the Closet

by Natalina Reis

  Today was no different. Standing by the large trestle table set up in the Big Hall—only called that because it was the biggest in the church, not because of its actual size—she shivered a little as she sank her hands into the orange mush of the pumpkin innards. Her arms were stained orange all the way to her elbows as she scooped out all the guts and seeds of the giant pumpkin she had picked a while ago. Every year, the church sponsored a Halloween jack o’ lantern competition to raise money for the homeless shelter and the children’s fund. Petra chuckled softly under her breath. What a contradictory thing this was; a Christian church supporting—nay, encouraging an honest-to-God pagan tradition. Another reason why she loved St. Vincent so much. The Franciscan friars who ran it were humble and open to all human frailties; they were kind, tolerant, and seemed to view the world and all people through some sort of magic rose-colored glasses.

  Father Lowry was no exception. He embraced all that was diverse, even that which seemed to so bluntly challenge and contradict what his Church believed. So she was more than happy to lend some elbow grease and her creative skills to the parish for a great cause. With a big smile, she scooped the remains of pumpkin flesh and wiped her jaundiced arms and hands on a large fluffy towel.

  Now came the real fun part—the carving. She had carefully picked an intricate pattern from an online site and she was almost giddy about trying it out. Bending down, she grabbed her bag and began looking for it. Man, I really have to clean up my bag. There were more papers and books inside of it than in the church’s library…but no template. What in heaven’s name had she done with the template? Had she left it at home? No, she was pretty certain she had packed it along with her saws and scoops. Retracing her steps in her head, she realized she may have accidentally placed it in the pantry when she had gone to pick up the pumpkin and some other tools. Where was her head lately? She had found herself daydreaming more and more often these days and she didn’t like it a bit.

  Giving her hands a final wipe, Petra walked toward the pantry. Pantry was too fancy of a name for what really was just a big closet. The friars had hung some shelving and added some baskets for further storage. There, the monks stored not only their personal food supplies, but also the contents of a small food bank kept for the benefit of the down-and-out of the parish. There was only one tiny, translucent window high up on the wall, so when the door closed behind her, as it always did, she was drowned in semi-darkness.

  “Why haven’t the friars installed a light yet?” she wondered out loud, irritated that she had to look for her templates in the dim light.

  “That would spoil the fun of the hunt,” she heard a voice say directly behind her.

  Her head turned so fast she actually heard her vertebrae popping. “What the hell…?” In front of her, way too close for comfort, was Sam with that twisted smile of his and a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  “Well, I guess some people may think I am hell bound, but I like to believe I have some redeeming qualities,” he replied with infuriating charm.

  Having lost her power of speech, Petra remained rooted in place. Sam had somehow put a paralyzing spell on her. Inarticulate sounds of disbelief were all that came out of her at that moment.

  “I can tell you’re very happy to see me,” he declared with a chuckle. “Did you lose your voice?”

  I have most certainly lost my wits. She bit her lip, annoyed with herself. Then, louder than she had intended, “What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Do you make it a habit of stalking people in closets?”

  “Who is stalking who?” he retorted, looking positively shocked. “I was in this pantry first. You came after me. Same as in the first closet, if I recall it correctly…”

  A growl escaped her lips. This guy could really make her fume with very few words, and she hated him for it. Why did he have this effect on her? “I did not know you were here,” she complained. “I didn’t see you in the big hall. Where did you come from?”

  “From the sacristy,” he replied. “I had some business with Father Lowry.”

  Business? With Father? What business could that sweet humble friar possibly have with this exasperating, cocky, and altogether too handsome man? “I don’t believe you,” she said with a frown.

  “Really?” he sounded surprised again. “I guess you think you’re so freaking hot I followed you to church and decided to corral you in the pantry amongst loaves of bread and rotting tomatoes.”

  “The tomatoes are not rotting, they are just…very ripe.” She had to remember to tell the friars that soon they would have a colony of moldy vegetables growing in their pantry. “And no, I don’t think you followed me here, but…” Well, had he? She didn’t know what to think.

  “Of course I didn’t follow you here.” He sounded slightly irritated right now. “I didn’t even know I would find you here. I had business with Father Lowry. He asked me to come and fetch a bottle of water while he finished signing some documents.”

  Truth be told, she had no idea what kind of business he was in. She had assumed he might be into something criminal, considering she had met him hiding in a closet in her ex-husband’s house. Then again, she had been hiding there too, and she was no criminal.

  Out of anything smart or even relevant to say, she petulantly proclaimed, loud enough to be heard all through the church building, “Whatever!” and high tailed it out of the pantry, painfully aware that she would have to go back sooner or later; she still hadn’t found her templates. She sensed, more than heard, his footsteps following her out into the Big Hall, and a pleasant shiver ran through her body in spite of herself. It was infuriating how her body betrayed her. Not quite sure what to do next, considering she couldn’t resume her carving without her templates, she headed across the hall and out a door leading into a small, well-kept rose garden in the back of the church. For an insane moment, she almost wished she was a smoker. At least then she’d have an excuse to be outside. As it turned out, the only reason she could possibly give for her exit into a very chilly outdoors was to cool off that invasive heat she always felt around him.

  Petra stayed outdoors for a good ten minutes until she was shivering. She rubbed her arms now covered with goose bumps as her teeth chattered like castanets. What am I running from? She was going to end up sick because she couldn’t bear giving the man a reason to believe she was attracted to him. What’s the problem exactly? He is handsome and obviously intelligent, witty, with a great sense of humor—all things that I’m attracted to. So why be so complicated and go out of her way to prove to him something she, herself, knew to be a lie? Didn’t make any sense, but then again, nothing about their encounters made much sense. “This is crazy. I’m going back in,” she whispered to no one in particular. Craving the heat, she almost ran inside the hall and nearly crashed into none other than annoyingly handsome Sam.

  “What are you still doing here?” she yelled, backing away from him, hoping to get as much distance between them before he noticed her obvious attraction. “Stop following me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Petra,” he said with a wicked smile. “I was just on my way out to go fetch some hot cocoa for the hard-working St. Vincent pumpkin carvers. I am assuming you don’t want any for fear I may poison it on my way back?”

  Venom dripping from her eyes, she huffed like a little girl and stomped off in the direction of her table. Mortified by her own juvenile reaction, she dropped herself into the rickety chair. Her legs were weak and wobbly, and her heart was drumming away like a crazed metal rock drummer. That man was like a fever, an infectious disease that she could not seem to get rid of. She took a few moments to compose herself. When she looked up, she noticed her templates peeking out from under the newspaper she had put down on the table before starting the carving. Putting Sam out of her mind, she felt a little better and a lot more confident before giving herself over to the delicate job of stenciling the huge pumpkin.

  ***

  Sam

  She was immersed in her work—
and she sure seemed to love the creative process of carving something out of a big gourd. She didn’t notice that Sam was back.

  From a safe distance, Sam watched her every move. He felt a little guilty. He hadn’t followed her but had planned his business with Father Lowry for that day knowing she would be there. The last time he had seen her, right after the closet incident, he had noticed she had a St. Vincent medallion around her neck. Since Father Lowry was an old acquaintance of his, Sam had made some inquiries. Yes, he may feel a bit guilty, but who could blame him for the subterfuge? As much as she could irritate the hell out of him, she was strangely enchanting even now—hands and arms the color of oranges, pumpkin goo streaks on her face and forehead, hair in disarray, and tongue sticking out just a little in concentration. He smiled. He should be slightly repelled by all the mess; instead, he was drawn to the aura of beauty that surrounded Petra. There was a simplicity and purity about her that gave rise to everything but repulsion in him. Shaking his head in an attempt to break the spell, Sam approached her table with the hot cocoa in his hands.

  “I promise I didn’t poison it,” he said in a conciliatory tone. He really didn’t wish to fight with her. What he really wanted was to ask her out on a date, but she was so prickly. “I may have spat in it, though.” Oh, crap! Here I go again! What was it about her that led him to be so antagonizing?

  Her beautiful chestnut eyes lifted to his, and friendly was not a term he would have chosen to describe her look. “Will you please leave me alone?” she growled. He liked her little growling tone, he realized with a jolt. It made him shimmer inside. “I need to finish this for the auction tomorrow.”

  “Can I help?” he asked, sincerely wanting to lend a hand. “I have carved a pumpkin or two in my day.”

  “You mean, when the dinosaurs roamed the Earth?” she stabbed. He was obviously older than her, but not by that much. Why does she feel the need to fend me off? Her face was flushed into a soft rosy hue and she fidgeted nervously in her seat. As if accepting the obviously bothersome thoughts running through her head, she sighed deeply and waved him to the chair next to her. “Pumpkins are over by the wall. Some are already gutted and ready to be carved. You can use some of my tools if you want.” There, she could play nice if she really tried after all. In spite of whatever she felt for him.

  While he walked across the hall to get a pumpkin, she took the cup of cocoa he had brought her up to her lips. Sam, turning just in time to witness it, swallowed hard at the sight of Petra, eyes closed in pleasure as the warm liquid flowed down her throat. His whole body came alive, and his hands, now holding a big round pumpkin, trembled. A tidal wave of memories of her body squeezed against his in that small closet a week or so ago came flooding in and he almost groaned aloud. Lowering the pumpkin to hide his reaction, he walked quickly to the chair next to hers, hoping to be seated before she opened her eyes. He hadn’t reacted to a woman that way in a very long time.

  As the evening rolled by, pleasantly slow, they chatted the hours away while carving their jack o’ lanterns. Laughter often punctuated the conversation and somehow they managed to sit together without a fight. Like all good things, the evening came to a close far too soon. Father Lowry started shooing his parishioners out of the church and into the cold of the night. Sam and Petra walked out together. “This was nice,” she said, buttoning up her coat.

  “Yes, it sure was,” he agreed, navigating down the stone steps. “Would you care for a late supper somewhere?” he asked on impulse. Saying goodbye so soon just didn’t seem right somehow.

  ***

  Petra

  Her eyes studied him, measuring and assessing his motives for the invitation. She wanted to say no and walk away with her dignity still intact and her sanity saved. Instead, when her mouth opened she said, “That would be lovely. I am kind of hungry.”

  The smile on his face was so warm and genuine that her heart melted. You are such an idiot, woman. Falling for this charmer. I thought you knew better. Still, she was indeed hungry since she had forgotten to eat dinner, and it wasn’t like they were heading to Vegas to get married. It was just a late dinner at a small restaurant. What harm could come of that?

  The restaurant he took her to oozed charm and romance. A tiny little Greek place, sprinkled with bistro tables for two, with candles and flowers on every table, and a wandering violinist playing beautiful exotic tunes. Oh, so much harm could come of this after all. Shivering more from excitement and panic than from the cold, Petra sat down on the chair Sam gallantly pulled out for her and decided to enjoy it all. “Why Greek?” she asked.

  “I love Greek food,” he replied, sitting across from her. The table was so small his legs touched hers underneath it. There was no avoiding it. “Besides, judging from your name, you are from a Greek family, correct?”

  Smooth. “Yes, my father was Greek,” she responded. “But my mom had Italian roots. What about you?”

  His face brightened at her question, obviously pleased she was showing an interest in him. “Just your garden variety American—a mélange of every nationality and ethnic background,” he explained with a big fetching smile. “I may even have some Inuit in me.” Petra tried to imagine him covered in a puffy parka, face framed by a fur-lined hood, but all she could come up with was an image of something that held an uncanny resemblance to the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Her laughter came out unexpectedly and sincere.

  “What?” he said. “You don’t believe me? One of these days I’ll show you my family tree. I have a too-many-times-removed great uncle whose origins, albeit foggy, seem to stem from Alaska back when it was still just a territory.”

  The evening went on enjoyably, the talk effortless. There were times when it felt they had always known each other, as if they had met in another life, interrupted by time and resumed in that closet. Petra found herself relaxing into the chair with the knowledge that this felt right, felt familiar and easy, even when her body’s reaction to Sam made the situation anything but comfortable. She smiled when he confided that he had a lot of trouble learning how to read as a child, but was now an avid reader who couldn’t imagine a life without books. Reading was and always had been a very important part of her life. Books were her first, and, being an introvert—which Sam obviously was not—sometimes her only friends. Her heart melted when he told her about his love for art, in spite of his own total inability to create it. Art, in many forms, played yet another important role in her life. She had an artistic soul, even though she was not in any way an artist. However, she was indeed creative and was often able to see the beauty in things no one else could. When she was surrounded by art, be it in the form of music or brilliant paintings, she felt at home—she felt whole.

  “Do you often volunteer at St. Vincent?” he asked suddenly. He had a twinkle in his bright green eyes that almost blinded her. Why did he have to be so good looking? It would be so much easier to keep herself level-headed if he was just a tad less stunning. “Or is this one of your art ventures, carving pumpkins for notoriety?”

  Chuckling softly, she replied, “I volunteer there anytime they need me and anytime I can. I am no Mother Teresa, mind you.” He laughed with her. “I grew up in the parish and this church was a big part of my childhood. They do such great things for everybody in need, and they can use all the help they can get.”

  “Father Lowry had great things to say about you,” Sam offered.

  “Oh yeah?” Her eyebrow arched skeptically. “How did you come to be talking about me? I thought you guys had some business to take care of.”

  “I was curious…” he confessed with a coy little smile. “So, I asked. After all, we started our relationship backward, didn’t we?”

  Her eyebrow shot up again. “What do you mean, backward?”

  That devilish smile of his made a new appearance, and she thought for a moment that the restaurant had suddenly become brighter. I am losing my mind. She looked away from him as he spoke. “We started very intimately—physically speaking—and
we’re now getting to know each other…not so physically.”

  Why did he have to be so maddening? It was not necessarily a bad thing, but it really riled her up, making her heart skip beats and throwing her stomach into somersaults. Her hands became very interesting all of a sudden as she tried to avoid his eyes.

  “You’re looking for words to describe your sense of happiness about our developing relationship, aren’t you?” he said.

  She knew he was being sarcastic as he always seemed to be. Not that she could blame him. She was a very sarcastic person herself, always turning everything into a joke of sorts. Being such an introvert had not been easy when she was younger. In school, kids either ignored her or bullied her. Later, in college other students thought her to be a snob, mistaking her inability to make small talk for haughtiness. Petra had soon discovered that she could indeed talk to others through jokes and biting remarks. Sarcasm was also great camouflage for emotional hurts and lack of confidence. It was a weapon she often used in her battle against awkwardness, so, she couldn’t fault him for the same sin.

  “So, what exactly is your business with Father Lowry about?” Petra asked, leaning forward a little. “Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that saintly old man has any reason to need the assistance from someone who skulks around in closets.”

  “Judgy, aren’t you?” he snapped back, a half-smile contradicting his angry tone. “Well, if you must know, Father Lowry recently lost his parents—he’s not that old. He’s been having trouble locating their will. His younger sister is disabled and he needs the funds to sustain her.”

  “How are you going to help him?” she asked pointedly, her nose wrinkled as she leaned forward a little more. “Do you have a magic wand that will make the will appear from thin air?”

  Sam chuckled. “I wish I did…even though I would look pretty silly waving a wand around.” She laughed with him. “However, I do have a friend who is a lawyer that agreed to help him for a nominal fee.”