With the Father

by Jenni Moen

  With the Father

  JENNI MOEN

  With the Father

  Copyright © 2014 Jenni Moen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Jenni Moen

  jennimoen@yahoo.com

  Editing: Autumn Hull and Tiffany Halliday

  Cover Design: Jenni Moen

  Cover Photo: iStock Photos ®

  ISBN: 0990851907

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9908519 0-5

  For anyone who’s ever second guessed a decision

  and wondered what if …

  PROLOGUE

  Paul

  Her back was turned to me and I used the opportunity to watch her shamelessly. Moments like this one, when we were completely alone, were rare and fleeting.

  Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Though she wore it like that for convenience, it had the added benefit of showing off the gentle slope of her neck and the smooth flawlessness of her skin.

  Of course, these were things I shouldn’t be noticing.

  The ends of the ponytail brushed her upper back just above the letters of her ‘Karen’s Kitchen’ t-shirt, which she’d tucked into a pair of fitted, though not tight, jeans. The uniform, which evidenced our common purpose and the reason why I was allowed to spend so much time with her, was mandated for all volunteers other than myself. Casual and splattered with tonight’s dinner, the outfit had the same effect as if she were wearing a ball gown. She was uncomplicatedly beautiful. A fact of which she seemed to be completely unaware.

  These were also things I shouldn’t be noticing.

  I would never admit it, but I was fascinated with her. I’d convinced myself that she was simply one of those exceptional people to whom others are drawn. I fooled myself into believing that my interest in her wasn’t inappropriate and that I was content just to observe her, knowing it would never be anything more. After all, she was a married woman and my life had never been my own.

  But if either of those ever changed, I didn’t know.

  I was a priest, not a saint.

  ONE

  Grace

  “Twenty-three boxes of spaghetti,” I said, running my hand along the top of the dusty row of boxes. I peered into the back of the cabinet to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. “I think we’re done.” I turned to face Father Paul, whose eyebrows were knitted together in concentration.

  He looked up at the ceiling and his mouth moved silently as he counted. He flipped a page in his notebook and scribbled on what I guessed was a grocery list. “So we’re short potatoes, corn, red beans, and cabbage, but we should make it to the end of the month with everything else.”

  We were finishing our weekly inventory of the food pantry. Food was always scarce toward the end of the month, and donations had been more scarce than usual recently. It wasn’t that our community was poor. There were a few families who had more than they needed; however, the majority of our small town worked hard for what they had. They didn’t always have extra, and what they did have, they didn’t part with easily.

  Somehow, even though Karen’s Kitchen usually had to scrape by to get through the end of the month, it always seemed to work out. We’d never turned anyone away. The food just seemed to magically multiply when we needed it most. Loaves and fishes and all that.

  I rolled my eyes and huffed more dramatically than necessary. “For the last time, we aren’t serving red beans and cabbage. My mother would roll over in her grave if she knew we were serving that in her kitchen.”

  When he laughed, his eyes crinkled at the corners. I made a mental note of it so I could tell Arden. My closest friend spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out Father Paul. I had to admit he was worth studying. He had kind and gentle eyes, exactly like you’d expect on a priest, but, every so often, something passed beneath the surface that led me to believe they’d seen more than he was willing to share.

  What I found most intriguing was the scar. It was faint now, having lightened throughout the years. However, it was unmistakable, traveling across his cheekbone from about an inch below his eye toward his ear. It looked to me like it had a story to tell though to my knowledge he’d never offered it up. Arden, however, wasn’t studying his scar and her comments weren’t limited to such.

  I had to admit that he was undeniably attractive. Handsome, though not drop dead gorgeous. Polished, yet rugged. Thin, yet fit. His unexpected good looks, along with the fact that he wasn’t a crotchety seventy-five year old man, had started tongues wagging from the moment he’d stepped into town. The old ladies of the church adored him. The younger ladies didn’t quite know what to do with him.

  “I have big plans for the red beans and cabbage. You’d be surprised what you can do with some vegetable stock.” He looked thoughtful again. “Though maybe it’s an Irish thing. Unless we put some beef in it, it may not be accepted by the fine Texans in our community.”

  The admission stunned me a bit and I tried not to gawk. Father Paul didn’t talk about himself much. During the two years since he took over St. Mark’s Catholic Church, he’d shared very little personal information about himself.

  All we really knew was what we’d been told by the Bishop before the transfer. He’d gone to seminary in Boston. Afterwards, he had been assigned to a large inner-city parish where he’d worked under an influential and respected priest in that diocese. After fifteen years there, he’d requested the transfer that brought him half-way across the country to Merriville.

  I wasn’t surprised that he was of Irish heritage. His name, Paul Sullivan, left little doubt of it. However, he’d never spoken of it, or of any family for that matter.

  Paul had a way of not sharing a lot without seeming like he was holding anything back. Rather than dwelling on the past, he preferred to talk about the future, speaking frequently and passionately about the importance of giving back to the community. His sermons often centered around his philosophy of giving people a hand up rather than a hand out. It was that attitude that brought him to Karen’s Kitchen where we served dinner three nights per week to anyone who showed up.

  Like the rest of the volunteers, he worked the line, dishing out generous portions without reservation or judgment. After dinner was served, he frequently sat with diners, listened to their problems, and counseled them on ways they could improve their situation … whatever they may be. He was a religious advisor, a crisis counselor, and a career coach, all rolled into one. I was pretty sure that he’d been sent straight from heaven, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  Morale at the church was at an all-time high, and attendance was up as well. If you asked, it had everything to do with his delivery of the “Word” and nothing to do with the way he looked while delivering it. However, there was no denying that his most faithful parishioners were of a specific demographic: thirty-something women who were all too happy to help him with his philanthropy. I’d seen an influx of volunteers at Karen’s Kitchen since he�
��d become a regular last year.

  Though my experience with Catholic priests was somewhat limited, the ones I’d been around didn’t look like Father Paul. And from what I knew about men in general, I didn’t think that those who looked like Father Paul often found themselves in the priesthood. Father Paul was an anomaly. A beautiful, kind, generous anomaly that I was lucky to have in my kitchen. Over the past year, he’d become more of a partner than a volunteer.

  “An Irish thing, eh?” I asked, still thinking about the red beans and cabbage. “Do the Irish frequently spontaneously combust?”

  He chuckled again but then suddenly turned serious. “I know what you’re planning, Grace, and you can’t subsidize us out of your pocket every month. It’s okay if we struggle a little. Someone will step up and save the day. It shouldn’t always be you. I will call some people from church and ‘wrastle’ someone up.”

  “‘Wrastle’ someone up?” I asked, laughing. Father Paul frequently used words that he considered to be indigenous to his new town.

  “Yes. Did I sound like a real Texan that time?” His words were spoken too fast, and his Boston accent was too thick to ever fool anyone.

  “Absolutely. Though maybe we should work on it a little more if you want people to think you’re a native.” Secretly, I hoped he never lost the accent. I loved listening to him talk, even if my comprehension level only hovered around seventy percent.

  “Seriously, Grace. I’ll take care of it for you.”

  “You’ve got enough on your plate. Besides, Jonathan and I knew that we’d have to chip in money when I took over.” I tried not to think about the reason why I’d taken over the kitchen.

  “Well, everyone appreciates all that you do.” Father Paul looked down at his notes again and scratched something in the margins. “Both of you,” he added more quietly.

  Arden’s head peeked around the corner. “We’re all cleaned up out here, but Mr. Wyatt’s acting up. I think we could use your manpower, Father Paul.” She eyeballed him in an entirely inappropriate manner that had me nearly laughing out loud.

  Father Paul tore the piece of paper from his notepad and handed it to me. “Looks like I’m needed elsewhere. Why don’t you go ahead and head home? I’ll lock up.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, looking at the list. He frequently closed the kitchen for me, allowing me to get home to my kids earlier. “Will you be here tomorrow morning to load the take-away bags?” I asked though the question was unnecessary. Father Paul would be here tomorrow. He was always here. We were always here.

  Working in Karen’s Kitchen allowed me to feel closer to my mother, who started the soup kitchen after she’d inherited a substantial amount of money when my grandparents died. It also allowed me to feel like I was making a tiny, miniscule difference in the world. All I really wanted was to accomplish something every day, something more meaningful than dropping off the kids at preschool and picking up the dry cleaning, not that I didn’t enjoy doing those things for my family. Because I really did.

  “Of course,” he said in his thick northeastern accent. “Oh, and Grace?”

  “Yes?” I answered.

  “Add what you want to the list and leave it in the kitchen for me, but no grocery shopping. Let someone else save the day.”

  I grinned. We both knew that I’d show up tomorrow with what we needed. I wouldn’t be able to resist. I might even surprise him and buy some red beans and cabbage.

  He shook a finger at me and winked. Arden’s hand clutched my arm in response. I could almost feel her knees go weak. Of course, it didn’t take much to make my newly single friend’s knees quake.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Right behind you, Father Paul.” She watched his retreating back and waggled her eyebrows at me. “That is such a travesty,” she hissed when he was out of earshot.

  “What is?” I asked, though I’d heard this song and dance before.

  “That man, that’s what. A great injustice has been done upon the earth. He should have been Methodist or Episcopalian. Anything but Catholic. He should be filling the world with small Pauls.” She raised a fist in the air. “This whole celibacy thing is archaic anyway.”

  “You’re terrible,” I said, looking around for the bolt of lightning that was surely going to take her out. I was used to Arden and her infatuation with Father Paul. It was something that she’d become more vocal about after her husband walked out on her two years ago.

  Arden and I had a long history together. We’d met on the first day of my freshman year of high school. My parents had moved to the opposite side of town, forcing me into a new school and a new set of friends. I’d been standing by a red locker that should have been green, lamenting the fact that I was no longer a Merriville Horny Toad, when Arden careened around a corner and inadvertently pushed me headfirst into my open locker. Though we were opposites, an unlikely friendship had been born. We’d finished high school together, chased each other to college, and ended up moving back to our hometown within two years of one another. Aside from my sister, she was my closest friend.

  “Oh, whatever, you prude. I’m heading out. Are you almost finished in here?” she asked.

  “I’m close. I need to straighten up a few things first.”

  She rolled her eyes, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to leave until everything was exactly where I wanted it. “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

  I straightened the jars of peanut butter, making sure that all of the labels were facing out, grouping them by brand. Jonathan, my husband, frequently teased me about my compulsive behavior, but I’d been living with it my entire life. Only after the cans of soup and bags of rice were all standing neatly at attention did I untie the strings on my apron and toss it into the hamper near the door.

  The lights were still on, but the dining room was empty when I emerged. I looked at my watch to check the time. Inventory had taken longer than I’d thought it would, and I needed to get home.

  My dad usually watched the kids while I worked at the kitchen. He enjoyed seeing me carry on my mother’s dream. Jonathan, who rarely got home before me, had dinner plans tonight with a prospective business associate and would be even later than usual. It was unlikely that he would beat me home, but I still felt the need to rush. Jonathan didn’t like the amount of time I spent away from the family while at the kitchen. It was better for everyone involved if I were the one to send my father home rather than him.

  I walked through the quiet kitchen, retrieved my purse from inside the cabinet where I’d hidden it and let myself out the back door. Karen’s Kitchen wasn’t in a bad area of town. Frankly, there wasn’t any part of Merriville that I would consider bad. It was a small town where everyone knew everyone else. Even the homeless were familiar.

  I dug through my purse, looking for my keys as I walked around the corner of the building and into the darkest part of the parking lot. The keys were still playing hide-and-seek as I approached my car, and I wished I’d insisted on getting a car with keyless entry. Arden’s new car unlocked when she touched the handle. She didn’t even have to use her keys any more. She considered herself quite fancy.

  My hand found the keys just as I stepped up to the side of the car, and I felt guilty for my petty thoughts. There was nothing wrong with my car. It was only a few years old, and I was lucky to have so much when there were so many with so little. I was still scolding myself when a shadow shifted in my peripheral vision, causing me to jump and drop my newly found keys again. They clanged against the pavement of the parking lot – along with my heart.

  The shadow moved closer and morphed into a man. He looked vaguely familiar though I couldn’t immediately place him. I shifted uneasily on my feet and clutched my purse to my chest as he moved closer. One arm extended toward me while the other remained hidden behind his back, and I shrank backwards until my backside bumped into the car.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, my voice shaky and unrecognizable.

  Cold lifeless eyes glared down at m
e, and the realization of what was happening smacked me hard in the face.

  I’d seen him before. In fact, I’d served the man dinner tonight. It had been the first time I’d noticed him come through the line, but he’d stood out. Something had seemed off about him. I’d dismissed it, not wanting to judge a man who was probably just hungry. Like my mom, I tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. ‘People are inherently good. Even those that seem otherwise, are never too lost to be saved,’ she would say.

  However, I was questioning the soundness of my mom’s advice as the man advanced silently upon me. My kids, my husband, my life … all passed before my eyes. I shoved my purse at him. It was replaceable. Everything was replaceable. “Take it. Take whatever you want.”

  He reached for it with his left hand, but the sneer on his face made me question whether it would be enough. As I feared, he looked down at it as if it were nothing.

  “The keys to my car are down there,” I said, glancing toward my feet. I was begging now, pleading with him to take it all and just leave.

  He looked at my car and whistled under his breath. “It’s nice, lady. I bet a kept woman like you gets a new one every year. That rich husband of yours takes real good care of you, doesn’t he?” The sneer on his face grew more sinister, and his right hand emerged from behind his back. In the dim light, I could see the glint of a knife.

  My heart thumped erratically in my chest, threatening to explode as he swung the knife back and forth, teasing me with it. The faint street light gleamed off the metal as he brought it close enough to catch against my shirt. Another swipe and the cool metal against my torso was fleeting but threatening.

  I wondered if this was going to be how I would die. I’d left my kids three nights a week to sling hash in an effort to do some good in our community, only so I could die in the parking lot. Even my mother would have agreed that it wasn’t worth it.