Page 17 of Property of The Grump

The priest stares at me for a long moment, his big hand brushing over his beard as though he sees through every shield I’m holding.

Priests aren’t psychic, right?I should’ve paid more attention to my grandma when she was talking about her faith.

“Are you happy?” Father Anderson narrows his brows and shifts his weight in the chair. “Never mind. I’m sorry I asked that. It’s none of my business. You seemed conflicted, and it’s my job to counsel, but I overstepped. I’m sorry. You’re not here for counsel, you’re here to help. So… I’d like to work out a deal.”

There’s something about him that makes me want to tell him everything. Maybe it’s the collar. Maybe it’s that he’s the first person to see through the fake smile I wear. Maybe it’s the pain in my arm still throbbing from where Zane grabbed me last night. I don’t know what it is, but I want to spill every detail about my life and let him comfort me. For once, I want to fall safe in the arms of a man and know that it’s actually safe to be there.

That’s what priests do, right? They provide comfort? Guidance?

“A deal… yeah.” I push away the urge to trauma dump with the priest, grabbing a notepad and pen from my bag before leaning forward. “What kind of deal do you have in mind?”

“I like your idea about asking the congregation to help. We have people from all walks of life that would be useful. However, we’ll still need materials. I don’t want your money, but I would like your time. Running this little church is three full-time jobs. Maybe four. If you’d be willing, I’d love to have you step in as my volunteer coordinator.”

Silence fills the room. Well, silence and the birds that won’t stop singing outside of his window. Also, I hear Leannelaughing way too hard at someone’s joke. She has a very specific laugh, and even though I’ve only heard it a couple of times now, I could identify it in a lineup. It’s a cackling sort of overture that reeks of desperation.

“Oh,” I say, my stomach tightening as I think about spending my days here at the church. “I, ugh, yeah. I could do that, actually. I’ve been looking for a reason to get out of the house more, but he’ll want photographs.”

“That’s fine, as long as we can schedule everything in advance. I don’t want the church to become a circus, that’s all. My congregation deserves peace when they’re here.”

“Got it.” I jot the rule down, though I know I won’t forget. “I’ll make sure and schedule specific times to have them stop by.”

He stares toward me a beat too long, his broad chest rising and falling. “And if you’d like to stop by tomorrow, I can—”

“Father Anderson,” Leanne’s voice echoes in from behind. “Everyone is looking for you. There’s some photographer guy that’s here to take pictures. It’s disgusting! We’re trying to enjoy the potluck.”

“Oh no,” I groan and turn toward Leanne. “I’m so sorry. I forgot he said there were photographers following me today. My husband…” I stand from my chair and turn back toward Father Anderson. “He’s… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” Father Anderson’s deep voice cuts straight through me. “Leanne, thank you. Please let us finish our private chat.”

“Father,” Leanne presses, “there’s going to be a fight. You know the—”

“Leave us be,” he presses, voice deeper than before.

She scoffs and steps back, mumbling something under her breath. I’m sure it’s some kind of ancient curse that renders memute for eternity or something, but I figure I’ll find the cure later. Right now, I have damage control to do with the priest.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, my hand rubbing up and down my arm nervously. “I don’t know how I forgot they were coming.”

“It’s okay, really. We hadn’t made our deal yet.”

“Well, technically,” I grin, “we made our deal like twenty seconds beforehand, so I should be punished.”

His eyes darken and his shoulders roll back. “And what should the punishment be for inviting photographers to my Sunday mass without my permission?”

“Umm,” I grin, “is there some kind of holy paddle you can spank me with or something?”

He tilts his head to the side. “I couldn’t paddle you. You’re too sweet. I think the punishment would have to be in service to me.”

My brows raise as he guides me out of the rectory. “In service to you? How would I be in service to you?”

Why is my brain going to sexual favors? Clearly, that’s not what he means.

His big hand lands on the small of my back, his calluses snagging against the fabric of my dress. “I have plenty of things I need serviced.” He clears his throat. “We’ll have to discuss that after the potluck. I need to announce you as the new volunteer coordinator and get photos for the website anyhow. This is perfect timing.”

He holds his hand steady on my back as he opens the door to the back steps of the church where the small congregation is laying out the food. Why is he still touching me? Isn’t that weird? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s totally normal. Some people show their care through touch. I should notice how much he touches everyone else.

Maybe it’s not weird at all, and it feels so good to be touched with kindness and soft intent that I’m overthinking the whole thing. I’m sure that’s the one.

The scent of pine, damp leaves, and someone’s smoked barbeque hits me as the wind picks up. A few folks are already eating my cupcakes, which makes me happy to see, though the photographer my husband sent is already snapping photos of Father Anderson and I which sucks the happiness right out of me again.