Page 12 of Property of The Grump

Mom shakes her head and stares at the old photo. We used it as part of Bree’s memory board after she passed. I’m not sure what it was about this picture I loved so much, but I needed a copy on my phone. We took it back when selfies were a shot in the dark, and our faces are the only things in frame, but still, the brightness in our eyes and the giddy grins tell a story. A story I still feel every time I look at this picture. “You two made your dad and I so angry that night. Anything could’ve happened to you. That bike was a death trap.”

She’s not wrong. I found out later that the brake line was leaking, though it didn’t cause a single problem while we were out for our little joyride.

“Yeah, but we made it back safe, and Bree retold that story at every family event from then on out.”

“She always was a rebel.” Mom smiles reflectively, still staring at the picture of my sister and I acting like the teenagers we were at the time. “You remember your dad that night?”

“You mean the way he ripped the keys out of my hand and grounded me for life? Yeah,” I laugh, “I remember.”

“Well, when we went up to bed, he had this smirk on his face, and I knew it was because you both reminded him of himself.”

“Well,” I scrub my hand down over my face, “I don’t think he would’ve ever admitted to that.”

“Probably not, but he loved you, and he’d be so proud of the work you’re doing here.”

“You really think so? I don’t think he was the holiest of men when he passed. In fact, he seemed offended that I’d decided to join the priesthood.”

My mother pauses for a long moment before she speaks again. “He lost God when Bree died. He couldn’t understand why she’d be taken from us. It kept him up at night trying to understand how a God he’d worshipped and loved could take his daughter so young.”

I nod my head and hold my mother a little tighter. “It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years.”

“Twenty years,” my mother repeats before glancing toward me. “You know why I didn’t lose faith in God?”

I shake my head and glance down at my hands as she talks. “No, why?”

“Because I know we’ll all be together again someday. That’s what keeps me going,” a slow smile lifts her paper-thin cheeks, “and I love coming to this little church every Sunday to watch my little honeybun preach. It’s a reminder that the family has a place in heaven.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I kiss the top of her head as the church door creaks open slowly. That’s another thing I need to fix. The hinges on the door. I’ve tried to lubricate them, and I’ve tried taking them off for a good clean, but I think it’s time they’re replaced.

I glance back at the door to see who’s stepped in and see a tall, curved woman with long, dark hair wearing a modest knee-length dress with small red flowers peppered all over the fabric. She stands in the thin golden strips of light that cast warmth across the pine wood floors, and she’s holding a large silver tray.

I’ve been the priest at this parish for nearly twenty years, and though I don’t know everyone by their silhouettes, I know I haven’t seen this woman before.

Immediately, my thoughts go to the confessional from yesterday and the conversation I had with the woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. The conversation I prayed about. The conversation where I was left with more questions than answers.

I squeeze my mother’s hand gently and stand from the pew, making my way back toward the woman still standing in the fractured light shining in from the large windows that used to tell stories, as my mother would say.

“Father Anderson,” the woman says, reaching her tiny hand out for mine as she balances the silver tray of cupcakes in the other, “I’m Wren. Wren Harlow. I was here yesterday. The girl in confession with no confession.” She smiles and my heart stalls.

Lord God in heaven, she’s gorgeous.

Not pretty, plenty of people are pretty. No, this woman is otherworldly, like no one I’ve ever seen before, like a painting come to life. The sharp lines in her facial structure. Her hair laying shiny and soft on her shoulders. The way her curves dip and bend. She’s stunning and hard to look away from.

I remind myself that I’m a man of God.

Not a man…a man of God.

A man of God that’s been very good at avoiding temptation for a very long time.

“Yes, Wren.” I hold her soft little hand in mine far too long before I finally let her go. “I’m so glad you came back.”

She nods toward the tray of cupcakes, all frosted to perfect twists and decorated with gold and silver crosses. “The bake sale you’re having was a motivator. I was going to decorate with the purple penises I had left over from a bachelorette party I baked for, but I figured the crosses were more appropriate.”

I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. I really love how random this girl is. “Well, I’m sure they would’ve soldwell too. There were a few romance novels being passed around at the potluck last Sunday, and given the covers, I’m pretty sure they were the racy type.”

“These potlucks sound better and better by the moment. I’m going to have to invite myself to one.”

“You should come after mass today. We lay the spread out on a few tables behind the church and eat under the oak tree back there. We have plenty of folks that love to get to know new people. Plus, the bake sale is after church as well, and by the looks of these, they’ll go fast.”