FOUR
Tressa
Two days went by before power was restored.
Lucy tried to tell us she was leaving that first morning, but we’d both adamantly refused. Bastien explained the church was set up to help those in need, and I could already see the wheels turning as he thought of more ways we could be of help.
We.
So odd. At some point, I’d started thinking of Bastien and myself as a “we.”
But we had become a we. Hunkering down through the Northeast’s worst blizzard in a decade had connected us in some small way.
Worrying over Lucy, even more so.
She’d kept mum, even when I’d gently tried to probe her with leading questions. Whatever she’d been through had been dramatic; that much was written all over her face.
When Bastien had explained the church had a small fund set up to hire for odd jobs, tears had slowly begun to stream down her cheeks. Her shoulders shuddered as I pulled her into a hug.
“No one’s ever been this…kind to me,” she’d choked out.
That statement alone had sent me crying along with her.
Now we stood shoulder to shoulder on Sunday, the pews only staggered with people as the storm had kept many home.
Bastien sat to one side, looking as calm as ever as the small choir ended on a high note. Then he stood slowly, nodding in appreciation to the loft, before we all sat and he stepped to the lectern to deliver his homily.
“Trials are nothing else but the instrument that purifies the soul of all its imperfections.” The heavenly accented words spiraled through me, rich in their tone and cadence. “Hardship, according to Saint Mary Magdalen, forges our souls in fire. Reminds us of the thrill of being alive. For how can we know happiness without great sorrow? The delicate, honeysuckle scent of spring made sweeter by the snow of December.”
I followed the way his throat contracted with his wisdom, the way his broad chest flexed and moved with such calm resourcefulness. He was made to lead people, there was no doubt about that, but what’d struck me more with every day was the deep compassion with which he approached life. He lived and breathed God’s word.
It made tasting the forbidden fruit so much sweeter.
Or so I assumed.
I wouldn’t know because it seemed like Father Bastien had avoided any alone time with me since the first night Lucy arrived.
But that hadn’t stopped me from watching him.
I couldn’t not watch him.
The way his serene presence almost floated through the nave, honoring the Stations of the Cross or blessing a parishioner. I was enamored of Father Bastien.
My mind raced with thoughts of him at night. My hands between my thighs, discovering every blissful state known to man.
It’d begun to feel like the word SIN was stamped across my forehead. My cheeks heated instantly when Bastien’s eyes slid across the room and caught me watching him.
I bit down on my bottom lip and glanced away, and the tiniest twitch of a grin lifted the delicate bow of his mouth.
“Are you okay?” Lucy asked me at my side.
I cleared my throat softly, nodding and willing my thoughts to linger on anything but the man who stood liturgizing behind a pulpit at that very moment.
“God would ask that we remember our neighbor in times like these—that no man or woman is a stranger, but another one of God’s divine souls in need. It is in these times that we call on our faith most ardently. With free will and passion and wholeheartedness, we strike down sin and cast ourselves in His noble light. His light here on earth.”
Father Bastien paused, gaze traveling over the small group of parishioners one last time before he turned, closing his Bible, and returned to the small chair provided him. He settled the golden filigreed book in his lap before heavy, hooded eyes picked across the pews, then landed on mine.
Without expression, our dark irises tangled together in some unspoken dance.
