Page 1 of The Priest

1

Edouard

Winter, 1938

In my family, for generations, the second son has joined the priesthood. I fought it as a youth but gave in when my mother became ill. I wouldn’t have, if I’d ever dreamed someone like Marie-Therese Durand might exist.

The temptation I’ve endured under Marie’s luminous gaze has tortured me for years. I’ve prayed over it , yet it never seems to improve:

Please God give me the strength to do the right thing.

Give me the strength to resist her.

Please stop testing me. Not like this.

But I’ve never prayed harder than I did when she was gone—that trip last fall, the one she said would take a week and ended up being months and months. It was desperation that led me to her house that day to grill her brother about her whereabouts, and when I saw how destroyed he was—whiskey bottles lining the counter, full beard, his shotgun on the table—I wanted to fall to my knees right there.

Instead I took a shot of his whiskey and walked out the door, turning my face toward the faded winter sun, ignoring the bitter wind pulsing through my jacket.

God, let her be safe and I will walk away. I will stop thinking of her the way I do.

She returned a week later and I wished, desperately, that I hadn’t made the deal I had.

2

Edouard

November, 1939

For Gerard Lapin to be any closer to Marie, he’d need to be on top of her. She’s radiant beside him, pink-cheeked and red-lipped, green eyes so luminous my eyes snag on them no matter who I’m addressing.

I stand at the altar, gritting my teeth as I watch him. His attention is always on her no matter what else is occurring, his hand constantly on her arm or back for no reason whatsoever, as if she’s an elderly woman who needs his support to kneel, sit or rise.

When the service is over, I walk back with the family for a small celebration at the farm, and even Henri is annoyed by his friend.

“He’s making a fool of himself,” he sighs, watching Gerard fall all over himself to charm Marie.

“He’ll need to work fast,” Amelie says with a small smile, “given how soon we move.”

I nearly stumble at the words. “Move? Move where?” It comes out as a demand, and I sound far too invested in her response. I sometimes worry my feelings for Marie are etched so deeply in every word I speak and every gesture I make that even a child could read them plainly. I assume that’s the case now, but Amelie shows no sign of it.

“England,” she replies. “The countryside is safer there, until the war concludes.”

Perhaps it should come as a relief that it will put five hundred miles between Marie and myself, between Marie and Gerard’s grasping, greedy hands. Instead it does the opposite. I picture my life without her, without that single spot of color, and I panic.

All afternoon, at the farm, it’s a struggle to think of anything else. I’m trying to play my part, exchange niceties with Henri and Amelie and their friend Jeannette, but my head is so clouded with thoughts I shouldn’t have and the desire to say things I’m not allowed to say that I can barely function.

My eyes drift, constantly, to where she sits, playing with Jeannette’s children. She has never looked more beautiful than she does today, flushed with pleasure, laughing at something the little girl says.

She will be a good mother.

The thought stabs me like a knife. Marie has always been the living symbol of what I gave up to join the priesthood, a test even I couldn’t have conceived of until I laid eyes on her.

She is the reddest, most lush rose in a sea of tepid pastels. Fragrant and blooming where all else is withered. If I could do it all over again, I’d have chosen her. I just didn’t know.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, walking up beside me. I’ve always loved the sweetness of her voice, but right now it causes an ache I can hardly bear. “You seem distracted.”

Gerard is occupied at last, bouncing the little boy on his knee, undoubtedly putting on a show of fatherliness for Marie, damn him. One more thing I can’t do. It’s selfish, so selfish, but I want to get her away from him while I can. Outside in the brisk air I’ll be able to gather my thoughts.