Bound (The Devil's Due Book 3)

by Eva Charles

  “We all deserve a treat now and then,” he says as we reach the second-floor landing. There’s a substantial door at the top, not a heavy-duty outside door, but more like something that would close off a bedroom from the rest of the house. It’s unlocked.

  “Here we are,” he says, pushing the door open. “I suppose I could make this place a whole lot homier, but it suits my simple needs.”

  The apartment is cozy and neat as a pin. A simple wooden cross hangs on the wall above a console table in the entranceway, but the walls and surfaces are not otherwise cluttered with religious symbols. Nana had more crosses and virgins on display than Father Jesse.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen,” he says. “I didn’t want to put the oven on until I checked to see if you would be comfortable up here. But it shouldn’t be too long. Are you hungry?”

  “I am, but not so hungry that I can’t wait a bit.”

  The eat-in kitchen is painted a cheery yellow, with a nautical themed valance dressing the window above the sink and matching cushions on the chairs.

  “Can I get you a glass of wine?” he asks, turning on the stove.

  Wine? I must hesitate for a second too long before answering. “Priests have an ancient, celebrated relationship with wine,” Father Jesse quips. “We partake regularly, and not simply for ritual. It’s allowed,” he whispers in my direction, and I laugh.

  When I was young, I sometimes had dinner with Father Tierney in the rectory, and during Lent and Christmas there was often a visiting priest in residence who would join us, but there was no wine, or private upstairs apartments, and there was only one kitchen on the first floor that everyone used.

  Father Jesse pours us each a glass of ruby-tinted wine, and carefully removes a towel draped over the cheeseboard. My mouth waters at the wedge of cheddar and the delicate crackers sprinkled with poppy seeds accompanying it. A bunch of plump red grapes sits in the center of the small wooden board rounding out the selection.

  “I know that I should preheat the oven, but I don’t always follow the directions to the letter. Don’t tell anyone or they might stop leaving me food.” He wags his finger, giving me a lopsided grin.

  “A rebel,” I tease back.

  He chuckles, placing a shallow casserole tented with foil into the oven. “I hope you like chicken pot pie.”

  “That wouldn’t be the chicken pot pie that Bertha Clemmons made, would it?”

  “The very same. I overheard you telling her how much you loved it. I was hoping you weren’t just being polite.”

  “It was delicious. I had a second helping, larger than my first.”

  “Good. I put the extra one she brought aside, before Virginia could freeze it. Supper will be ready in about half an hour. Why don’t we sit in the sunroom, have a little snack, and discuss the bulletin? Then, with that out of the way, we can enjoy a pleasant meal.” He hands me a few paper napkins, and we take our wine and cheese into a lovely glass-enclosed solarium overlooking the distant ocean.

  “Quite a view, isn’t it?” he asks, placing the tray on a small table between us.

  “It is.” The outlying view is spectacular, but the area closer to the back of the rectory is overgrown and a bit eerie. From here, it looks almost as though the turret juts out over the swampland, but it’s unlikely that it was actually constructed so close to the water. I read, somewhere, that storms have caused land erosion on all the sea islands, in some cases, putting structures at risk. That’s probably what happened here. “Is the swamp deep?”

  “Yes. But how deep depends on the tide and how much rain we’ve had.”

  Father Jesse slices a generous portion of cheese and lays it on a thin cracker before offering it to me. I take a quick bite, catching the crumbs in a napkin, and pull out my notebook.

  “I’m at somewhat of a disadvantage because I’m new to the congregation. Tell me what you’re thinking about for the bulletin. What kind of tone would you like it to convey?”

  He separates a small cluster of grapes from the larger bunch and places them on a napkin. “I’m not exactly sure,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Something that offers hope. I want people to know about the kind of help we can offer them, but I don’t like the idea of bragging, or calling too much attention to ourselves. I like that we’re humble—that we perform good deeds quietly without seeking praise.”

  “I think it’s a fabulous tone to set. We’ll come up with something that’s newsy with plenty of practical information, but without any kind of boasting. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds like a tall order, even for a smart woman.”

  I smile shyly and help myself to a cracker and some cheese. “It’s a fine line. We’ll parse it carefully. It will mean several drafts, and honest, open communication between us. Virginia can help too.”

  “You are a ray of sunshine. I spend too much time around naysayers who are experts on why we can’t do things. Your can-do attitude is refreshing. St. Maggie’s is lucky to have you. As am I,” he adds softly.

  I feel the bloom on my cheeks and shift the subject away from me. “You mentioned a printed version when we last spoke. Do you have a subscriber list? Emailing would be much less expensive. There’s little cost involved unless you’re sending thousands of newsletters—I mean bulletins.”

  “Most of our congregants are older. Many of them don’t get their information from the web. And the people we need to reach most, like the women you work with, don’t have access to computers.”

  “Maybe we can do both. It would be easy to put the bulletin online. It can go right onto the church website, and we can print some copies to distribute to places like the library, the hospital emergency room, and leave some in the church as well.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  The timer buzzes. “I think that’s our signal that we’ve done enough work for the evening. Let me feed you.”

  Father Jesse moves around the kitchen with a graceful ease, not wasting a single step as he sets the table. “Can I help with something?” I ask.

  “Sit,” he says, pointing to a chair facing away from the stove. You’re my guest this evening. Let me serve you.”

  I try to imagine Sinclair preparing a meal—serving me—but despite my best efforts, the image is filmy with fuzzy edges, until my mind wanders to the dim alley. But I don’t allow myself to linger there. Not now.

  “I’m not much of a cook,” Father Jesse says, dishing out the pot pie. “Although I can make a few simple things.” He sets a pure white china plate on the placemat in front of me dotted with a few peas and a slice of carrot peeping out from under the well-browned crust. “My mother died when I was a toddler, and my father a few years later. My grandmother was sickly, so I often had to fend for myself at suppertime. But it was mostly cold cuts stuffed between slices of store-bought bread and boxed macaroni and cheese. You know, the kind with bright orange powder.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry. It must have been difficult growing up without either of your parents. Do you have siblings?”

  “Only child. It was a bit lonely at times, but good practice for the solitude of the priesthood. Tell me about your family.”

  My fork stills midair. “I also lost my mother when I was very young. I never knew her. But I’ve tried to piece together her life, so that I have something to hold onto.”

  “God’s plan isn’t always apparent to us, but He always has one. When we’re grieving, our hearts are often too closed off, but if we open them to Him, He will provide us ample comfort in our hour of need.”

  “I grew up hearing that she was in a better place. I hold onto that, especially when I’m missing her.”

  “One day you’ll be together again, for all of eternity.” He pats my arm gently. His fingers are warm and smooth. “Do you have siblings?”

  “Three brothers—two who are living, and one who died while serving in the Marines.”

  “Are you close to them?”

  “I was very close to Liam, who passed away,
but not as close to the other two. They’re somewhat older, and mostly think of me as an annoying little sister.”

  “I highly doubt that you’ve ever annoyed anyone.”

  I stare down at the plate, spearing a piece of tender chicken with my fork.

  “You never told me what brought you to Charleston.”

  “I originally came to learn more about Warren King. But my interests have expanded beyond him, and now I’m trying to learn more about Charleston’s societies and men’s clubs. But everyone has been rather close-mouthed.”

  “The secrecy is part of the allure—it always has been, and probably always will be. In the church, too. I understand the confirmation hearings for Judge King might not happen until the fall.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Only in passing. But I did recently hear he’s fallen ill.”

  “Oh? Perhaps that’s why the hearings have been delayed.” He doesn’t respond, and I can’t come up with another question on the spot that doesn’t sound too pushy.

  “And what about Smith Sinclair?” he asks. “Couldn’t get him to join us for Mass?”

  “We—we—I don’t know how to describe our relationship,” I answer sheepishly. “We’re friends, I guess. It’s an unlikely friendship. Charleston is not a very welcoming place. Or maybe, not terribly welcoming to journalists.”

  “Not just journalists. Priests too, but they eventually open their arms wide. It does take time, and it doesn’t hurt to develop some thick skin while you wait for them to come around. Did you have any pets growing up?”

  Pets? His transitions are often so clumsy. But now that I’ve had a chance to know him better, they seem less like a lack of conversational skills, and more like another charming quirk.

  I shake my head. “No. I always wanted a dog, but my father didn’t need anything else to take care of.”

  “You can get one now.”

  “I’ve thought about it, but they require a lot of attention and some stability. I don’t think it’s the right time in my life for a dog.”

  “A pet turtle then, perhaps. They’re rather independent, although they’re not much fun to play with.” Father Jesse pours us each more wine and offers me a second helping of the chicken pie.

  “It’s delicious, but I’ve had enough, thank you.”

  After replacing the cork on the bottle, he sits back in his chair, swirling the wine around the balloon glass. “I’d like to ask you something, but please stop me if I’m overstepping.” I nod solemnly, wondering what he has in mind. “I noticed that on both Sundays you attended Mass, you haven’t received communion—although you’ve looked wistfully at the chalice.”

  I release a breath that I had apparently been holding. “I wasn’t sure—at St. Claire’s,” I begin inelegantly. “At my parish in Boston, congregants are welcome to receive communion so long as they are in a state of grace. I know that some parishes interpret, well, everything, more liberally than others. I wasn’t sure about St. Maggie’s, and I didn’t want to do anything improper.”

  “Ah, I see.” He clasps his hands together, elbows on the table. “Here at St. Maggie’s, we are family. I want you to feel comfortable to ask me anything. But you can also ask Virginia, if you prefer. She’s been with me for so long that she usually knows what I’m thinking, before I’m even thinking it.”

  He reaches for some bread and breaks off a crusty end. “I encourage everyone to partake in Reconciliation, because it’s freeing—good for the soul, so to speak. I don’t worry too much about parishioners being in a state of grace—I leave those decisions to God and their individual consciences. But of course, I offer spiritual guidance when asked. I highly doubt there’s anything you’ve done that would remove you from grace.” He dips the bread into a bit of creamy sauce left on the plate and pops it into his mouth.

  Friday night against the brick wall in the alley with Sinclair comes immediately to mind. Premarital sex is definitely a mortal sin, but I keep this to myself.

  “I’d be honored to hear your confession—although I prefer to think of it as reconciliation. St. Maggie’s has a lovely reconciliation room downstairs overlooking the garden. We offer the sacrament with or without a privacy screen.”

  Honored? “Yes. I’d like that.” I say it to please, but I’m not at all sure I would like it.

  “I’m glad you’re considering reconciliation because there seems to be something weighing heavily on you. Can I tempt you with dessert?” he asks, clearing my plate.

  “Thank you, but it’s getting late, and the road off the island is still new to me. I should probably go before it gets too dark.”

  “On the island, we enjoy the solace dark provides, but it takes getting used to. Before you go, I have a gift for you.”

  “A gift?” A gift?

  “It’s actually more of a regift. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

  “No of course not.” I smile. “I’ve regifted once or twice myself.”

  He leaves the kitchen and returns with a large rectangular box that appears heavy.

  “A well-meaning congregant brought this to me.” He sets what appears to be a box holding a television on the table. “I played with the thing for hours—even read the instructions twice, but I can’t make heads or tails of it.” He shrugs. “It’s a smart TV. Ever hear of it?”

  I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. For someone who isn’t even forty, he knows little about technology. “Yes. They connect to Wi-Fi and you can watch shows with subscriptions, like Netflix.”

  “I’m afraid this television is smarter than I am.”

  I chuckle. “You can use it like a regular TV. It doesn’t have to be connected to the internet.”

  “I don’t watch much TV, and the small one I have more than meets my needs. Do you have Wi-Fi at your place?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would do me a great act of kindness by taking it off my hands.” He glances at me and bursts out laughing. “Please take this damn thing. Do with it what you will, just get it out of here. Not much in the way of an offering, is it?”

  “I would be happy to take the TV. I don’t have one. I watch movies on my laptop now. This would be a big improvement over that.”

  “Good!” he cries, so loud the lusty echo surely resonates beyond the walls. “I can’t tell you how much you’ve pleased me, Kate. Let me carry it out to your car.”

  19

  Kate

  “Kate?” a lovely dark-haired woman with warm brown eyes asks tentatively from the doorway of my library office. She’s familiar, but I can’t immediately place her. I glance at the designer purse she’s carrying and the diamond on her finger. She certainly doesn’t appear as though she’s without resources.

  “Yes.” I stand and walk around the table as she enters the room. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Gabby Duval.” Her entire face lights up when she smiles. “Actually, Gabby Duval Wilder.” That’s how I recognize her—from the media coverage of President Wilder’s funeral, and photographs splashed all over the local news. She’s a bit of a celebrity in town. But why is she here? “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to saying that,” she adds.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilder.” I extend my hand. “How can I help you?”

  “Call me Gabby, please,” she says, her perfectly manicured hand grasping mine firmly.

  “Gabby.” She’s quite beautiful up close. Not like a fashion model, but like a woman with good genes who wears sunscreen faithfully and washes her make-up off carefully every night. Fiona would appreciate her flawless skin.

  “I’m here for two reasons,” she says. “Let’s do a little business first.”

  Okay. “Would you like to sit?” I gesture toward the mismatched chairs around the table. They seem childish and unpolished compared to her. If she notices, she doesn’t let on.

  “I only have a few minutes, but I would love to sit. I’ve been running around all day, and these shoes are every bit as uncomfortab
le as they look.” I glance down at her strappy sandals, casual, but modern, like her outfit.

  As she sits, it occurs to me that I should offer her something to drink—that it would not only be polite, but expected. Sinclair’s right. My southern charm is lacking. “Would you like some water, or a cookie?” I sound more like an idiot than a gracious host, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “That depends. Is it a sugar cookie?”

  “Snickerdoodle.”

  She side-eyes the tin at the end of the table. “I better not. I’ve already had two cookies today. And an orange-glazed scone,” she adds with an impertinent grin. “But thank you.”

  We settle in across from one another, and I wait on pins and needles while she pulls a folder from a large leather satchel. I hope she’s not doing her husband’s bidding and here to chase me out of town.

  “I recently started an after-school program for girls, Georgie’s Place,” she explains, sliding a bold fuchsia folder toward me. “While all girls are welcome at the center, I’m particularly interested in creating a safe space for vulnerable girls, and an atmosphere that builds them up and helps them imagine a promising future for themselves.”

  Her words hit close to home, and for a few seconds, I wonder if she knows about my history. No, that makes no sense. She couldn’t possibly know anything about me.

  “I’m lining up speakers to come in and talk to the girls formally, and informally, about career choices,” she continues. “To introduce them to an array of possibilities and make their worlds a little bigger. I would love if you would come by the center and talk to them about journalism—about what you do. I’m sure most of those little girls have never met a journalist.”

  My fingers unfurl as I relax. “I would be happy to speak to the girls. Maybe I can bring some pens and notepads with me. Depending on how many girls there are,” I add.

  “That would be wonderful.” She smiles. “We can help with the supplies.”

  “When were you thinking you might like to have me come in?” Between my work at the library, the King investigation, and the church bulletin, I’m not even sure where I’ll find the time. But it sounds like a great program and I want to be a part of it.