by Eva Charles
“It’s not exactly a secret that protecting me isn’t your life’s dream. You’ve been an irascible motherfucker lately.”
I crack a smile. In all the times I thought about how unsatisfied I had become with the work, I didn’t once consider that anyone else might have noticed. “You’re pretty observant for a self-absorbed cocksucker.”
“Cocksucker. In your dreams.” He props an elbow on the arm of the chair. “I want to be an investor.”
I should have expected this. “You don’t need to do that. I’m not going to start big. I might not have the kind of money you do, but I have a pile of loose change hanging around.”
“What you’re describing is going to cost a pretty penny. I know what I’m talking about. Equipment, insurance, you name it, it all costs money. More than you think. You need investors.”
I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but the offer nicks my pride. “I didn’t come to you for money.”
“Didn’t think you did.” He pauses for a few seconds, bouncing a pencil eraser off the desk. “I’d like us to be in business together. I’m happy to be a mostly silent partner.” I catch the twinkle in his eyes and quietly shake my head. He might be a man of few words, but nothing about him is silent.
“You’re going to do good things,” he continues. “I’d like Wilder Holdings to be a part of it. I’d like to be a part of it.”
I look up from my empty glass. “Mostly silent?”
He nods, swirling the whiskey around the tumbler in his hand.
“I’d like that, too,” I say, after a few seconds pass. And I would. He’s smart and has much more experience running a business than I have, and most importantly, I trust him implicitly.
JD gets up and goes over to the bar, bringing back a bottle of Pappy’s and two fresh glasses. He pours us each some whiskey. “Special occasions,” he says, “call for my man, Pappy.” He touches my glass with his, before sitting his ass on the edge of the desk a few feet away from me.
“What’s going to happen with the security here?” he asks.
I’ve thought through every contingency carefully. Now to see if he’ll go for it. “I don’t want to give that up.” He visibly relaxes, but I haven’t lobbed the grenade yet. “Thought I’d put Rafe in charge of security here.”
He freezes. His expression, like his words, is dead serious. “I don’t want him off Gabrielle’s security team. Rafe and Gus look out for her and the baby like they’re their own.”
“Wouldn’t want to take them off, either. That’s never been the plan.”
JD nods, and his frown eases. “Do you plan on using any of your current team in the new venture?”
“Aside from me, Delilah is the most highly trained member of the team. She’s the only one with the kind of skills that can be useful in what I’m thinking about. But there won’t be any changes for a while. It’s going to take some time before we hammer it all out, and it’s up and running in a way that I’m comfortable bidding on contracts.”
“Delilah. I can live with that.” He lifts his glass in my direction. “Cheers.”
10
Kate
While it took less than two hours to pack my furnished room in DC, mop the floor, and wipe up the bathroom, it’s ten days before I’m back in Charleston, and two weeks before my job begins. So much has happened in the interim.
Warren King’s confirmation hearing has been delayed until after Congress returns from their summer recess. I learned this little piece of news while driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains on the way back to DC. It cemented my decision to leave the paper.
Hearings are delayed for a myriad of reasons, big and small. It happens all the time. Maybe they found something concerning in King’s background, or it could be a political calculation by the White House, or perhaps some Senator has a burr up his ass. It could be that simple. Nothing in the announcement provided any clue, and I parsed each word carefully.
It’s only unusual because it means that when the Supreme Court begins its October term, they’ll be down a justice—bad for the country, but the timing works in my favor. By October, the Boston Police Commissioner’s job will be long-filled, and I can go home again.
With the hearing delayed, there was no real urgency to get back to Charleston, except for a nagging pull that I still can’t quite explain. So I stuck around to cover the Keaton wedding. My colleagues appreciated the help, and it eased my conscience not to leave them short-handed for the event.
The wedding was as godawful as I anticipated. When the mother-of-the-bride accidentally spilled an entire glass of red wine in the lap of the father-of-the-bride’s mistress, I reminded myself that it was the last society event I would ever have to cover. It made the air kisses and the never-ending parade of lavender tulle more tolerable.
The extra time in DC also gave me an opportunity to find an affordable sublet in Charleston, and a part-time job at the library working with women who are homeless because of domestic violence, sex-trafficking, and poverty. It’s not only meaningful work, but it will give me ample time to work on the King story, and it pays enough that I shouldn’t need to dig into my savings.
I’m sure Smith Sinclair and his buddies will be thrilled that I’m back in town. I wonder what Sinclair will have up his sleeve for me? Whatever it is, I’ll be prepared this time. Maybe.
Sinclair has been a regular in my naughty fantasies since our little encounter at Wildflower. I thought about him often while I was in DC—when I got bored with all the Keaton nonsense, and also, alone in my bed in the dark, with the soft hum of the Lelo in the background. The orgasms were epic. But I’m paying the price now. Since being back in Charleston, I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if he’ll appear out of nowhere. I still can’t decide if I would enjoy bumping into him casually. I wish I could say no, but I’m not sure.
Today is my first official day of work. I’m both nervous and excited as I add the finishing touches to the bulletin board in my office, that also doubles as a classroom, tucked behind the stacks in the library. This is where I’ll be helping women put together resumes, fill out applications and forms, and provide advocacy, when necessary, along with holding ESL classes twice a week.
When I turn to grab a stapler from the table, there’s a man in the doorway, preparing to knock on the open door. A priest. The white collar is a dead giveaway. His quiet presence startles me. It’s not that I’m a stranger to priests—my childhood home abuts St. Claire’s Church, and I spent a lot of time there soaking up Father Tierney’s friendship. It’s just—I must have been deep in my own little world because I didn’t hear him approach.
“Hel—hello,” I stammer. He smiles kindly. Even with a shock of dark hair, he has the look of an Irishman. A handsome, strapping Irishman is how Nana would have described him. I can almost hear the lilt in her voice, Could have had any woman, but he chose Christ.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He steps inside and holds out his hand. “I’m Father Creighton. But most everyone calls me Father Jesse. You must be Kate.”
How does he know my name? “Kate, yes. I’m Kate.” I take his hand. It’s large and warm, with a firm handshake. “Mary Katherine McKenna. But most everyone calls me Kate.” I sound ridiculous, almost sheepish, as though he overheard me daydreaming about my Lelo and the mind-blowing orgasms.
“Mary Katherine. Lovely name for a lovely woman.” He looks at me with nothing but kindness, but still, I feel a small blush from his careful scrutiny which seems to go on a tad too long.
“When I was in last week, Lucinda at the front desk told me you’d be taking over for Stacey while she’s on maternity leave, and I wanted to drop these off, and to meet you.”
He hands me a stack of cards—they look like business cards with the photo of a stately church printed on the front. “At Saint Mary Magdalene’s, St. Maggie’s—that’s what most everyone calls her—” his bright blue eyes twinkle in a boyish manner, “we welcome everyone, but we
have a special mission to serve women who are struggling, spiritually or worldly.”
I glance at the cards. St. Maggie’s is a gothic style structure, while St. Claire’s in Boston is a Romanesque Revival. They’re both grand, and quite beautiful from the outside, boasting tall tapering spires topped with Latin crosses.
“We have clothing and non-perishable food items—and God, of course.” I look up from the cards, to the corner of his mouth curled at the corny joke. I smile, too. Father Tierney is also fond of dad jokes, but he’s significantly older than Father Jesse, so the jokes don’t seem quite so lame coming from him.
“I guess you could say we supplement the work you’re doing here,” he adds. “We also have connections that can assist women with things like an apartment or household items.”
“That sounds fabulous. I’m new in town and have no connections.”
“You have me now, and I have connections with the very best.” It’s an odd thing for a priest to say, and when I don’t respond, he points toward the heavens and grins. I laugh softly when I finally get the joke.
Lame jokes aside, I like him. He’s the most down-to-earth, approachable person I’ve met in Charleston. Maybe he wouldn’t mind giving me some guidance. I’m totally confident about putting together resumes and filling out forms, but I’ve never worked with women at risk—with anyone at risk, and I’ve been a little worried about saying—or doing—something that might be insensitive or retraumatizing.
“I volunteered at a neighborhood soup kitchen in Boston and helped with clothing drives at our church, but I was never the one in charge. I know the women who come here for assistance are quite vulnerable. Is there anything you think I should know that might help me with my work here?”
He thinks for a minute, not breaking eye contact. “It can be trying, on many levels. Just remember that you are doing God’s work, and you’ll be fine. After spending only a few minutes with you—I can see you have a kind way about you and great empathy in your heart. You’re perfect.”
I’m not accustomed to such effusive praise and I’m a bit embarrassed. I glance to the side in an effort to deflect the glare of the spotlight. Father Jesse doesn’t say anything more, but he studies me, again, this time with a faraway look, as though his mind is elsewhere. When the spaciness goes on for too long, it becomes a bit disconcerting, and I begin to wonder if he’s having a seizure. It sounds silly, but a little girl who I babysat one summer suffered from a seizure disorder. She’d just stare into space—she was there, but not really. It felt just like this.
“Is everything okay?” I prod gently, so as not to alarm him.
He shakes his head with small movements, as though he’s gently clearing the cobwebs. “Yes. Yes. I apologize for staring.” He sighs. “It’s that you remind of someone. But I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s maddening.” His brow is crinkled, and his expression seems—I don’t know—agitated. Not angry—but as though there is upheaval happening inside him.
“Perhaps it’s my hair?” I offer, hoping to lighten the mood. “There are so few redheads that people are always sure they’ve met me before.”
“Yes. But that’s not it.” After another few awkward moments of chit chat, with him trying not to stare, his expression softens, and I see the glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “Your face has the serenity of a young Magdalene.” His tone is hushed, almost reverent. “You resemble the images we have of her. It’s uncanny, really. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it when I first came in.” He wets his lips. “Perhaps I did,” he adds, mostly to himself.
“Oh.” That’s a little strange. But I brush it off. I’ve had enough experience with priests to know they don’t always think on the same level as the rest of us whose lives aren’t steeped in philosophy, theology, and mysticism.
“Of course, we’re not sure how she actually appeared. Instagram wasn’t available back then.” He cocks his head and smiles. “I made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t.” It’s just a small fib. Lying to a priest might be bad, but it would be terribly rude for me to say otherwise.
His eyes stray from my face while he bends to pick up a pushpin from the floor. “Don’t want anyone to step on this.” He places the lime green pin carefully in the center of the table, where it won’t accidentally roll off. “You’re new in town?”
The change of subject isn’t exactly seamless, but I’m glad to be talking about something besides how much I resemble a saint who lived at the time of Christ. “I arrived a few days ago, but I was here for three weeks last month too.”
“If you’re still looking for a church, I hope you’ll give us a chance. We do a Sunday potluck after Mass. I’d love to say it’s well-attended and you’ll meet lots of people your age, but fewer than a dozen parishioners show up regularly, and they are mostly old enough to be your grandparents. But I can promise you’ll be well fed.” He sticks a hand casually into his trouser pocket before continuing. “Sometimes we get one of the women from the classes here, who needs a good meal or a friend.”
I shift my weight from one foot to another, preparing to confess that I haven’t stepped foot inside a church while in Charleston.
“I haven’t found a church,” I say softly, lowering my gaze. Or even looked for one.
Father Jesse rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” he whispers, with a wink so quirky and sweet, it charms me. “We’re on Albert’s Island. The bus runs from downtown a few times a day. You can almost always catch a ride back downtown with a parishioner. Not many people actually live on the island.”
“I have a car.”
His face lights up. “Then I can count on seeing you?” Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the heart to say no.
And why not check out St. Maggie’s? I would love to be part of a spiritual community again. I miss the feeling of belonging to something bigger than me, and Father Jesse has been more welcoming than anyone else I’ve met here. “I’d love to come. Should I bring something to the lunch?”
“Not this time.”
“Mary Katherine.” I look up to find Smith Sinclair striding into the room. Even with all the time I spent looking over my shoulder waiting for him to appear out of nowhere, I’m still surprised to see him standing here. It feels out of place, somehow, all wrong. Like I’m a five-year-old who just bumped into her kindergarten teacher at Target. He doesn’t belong here.
I’m speechless, but I can’t stop gawking. He looks delicious, in a faded, cadet blue T-shirt stretched over his chest and shoulders, the soft fabric barely corralling his biceps. I hope priests are oblivious to the heady scent of pheromones that emanate from the aroused female body.
“Father.” He nods. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Smith Sinclair.”
“Father Creighton, from St. Maggie’s.”
“On Albert’s Island.”
“That’s right.” The two men size each other up. It must be a genetic thing with men. Even someone as evolved as a priest can’t help himself.
Father Jesse turns to me. “I need to get back to the island. Please give out the cards.”
“I will.”
“I look forward to seeing you on Sunday. Perhaps your friend, Mr. Sinclair, would like to join us for Mass.” Father Jesse doesn’t glance at Smith, even as he speaks about him.
Sinclair doesn’t say a word in response. Thankfully, because there is no way I’m taking him to church with me. The last thing I need is Sinclair intruding on what I hope will become my spiritual oasis.
“Thank you for stopping by, Father. I’ll see you on Sunday. But if I have any questions, or need a connection, you might hear from me sooner.” After sharing the private little joke, I smile at him, and he chuckles softly.
I hold out my hand, and he takes it in both of his in a friendly gesture. “My door is always open for you, Kate.” He lets go of me and turns to the man whose muscular ass fills out his worn blue jeans
nicely. “Mr. Sinclair, good to meet you.” Sinclair gives him a small curt nod of acknowledgment, but doesn’t return the pleasantry.
I watch Father Jesse walk out the door and disappear behind the stacks. When I turn back around, Sinclair is sitting in my seat at the small table, like he owns the place. It’s irritating, and my pheromones dry up.
“Why are you here?” I grab the to-do list he’s eyeing and turn it over, quickly scanning the table to make sure there’s nothing in his line of vision that he shouldn’t see. I’d call him a nosy bastard, but I’d do the same thing in his shoes.
“I need some help polishing my resume,” he says with a straight face. I scowl at him. “Be nice, Mary Katherine. I don’t think the good Father is even out of the building yet. What do you think makes a man want to be a Catholic priest? Give up all his worldly possessions, his sexuality, and devote his life to a God that we’re not even sure exists?”
“It’s considered a great honor.”
He raises his brow. “Really?”
“Really.” I hitch my thumb, signaling for him to get up. “You’re in my seat.”
“I’m not staying long.” He glances pointedly at each available chair around the table. “Explain why it’s such an honor to become a priest.”
“After I explain, do you promise to leave?”
He smirks. “Very shortly after. Has anyone mentioned that your southern charm is sorely lacking?”
I sigh and sit diagonally across the table from him. “Becoming a priest is a special calling, directly from God, and having a priest in the family is a special blessing from God.” I explain like I’m a catechism teacher and he’s a bored fifth grader. “There are many Irish families, Catholic families, I suppose, but I can only speak for the Irish, who dream of having a priest in the family.” Sinclair picks up the errant pushpin off the table and twirls it between his fingers while he listens. “But only the smartest, most reflective boys are sent to the seminary.”