SEVEN
Tressa
Normally, I would have been irritated that the cardinal’s eyes still hadn’t found mine, but the way Bastien’s body had been crushed to mine just seconds earlier…
The way his lips had ghosted my skin, leaving my body crying out for his touch…
The fact that the cardinal was looking at every part of me except my gaze sent cold terror through my veins. When minutes before, my heart had thundered for Bastien’s touch, now it thundered for fear we’d been caught.
Was the cardinal here because someone had seen something?
Had we been reported?
The memory of the bang outside the church doors the night I’d nearly succumbed in a pool of delirium under Bastien’s gaze filled my mind. We’d dismissed it as the wind, but perhaps it was someone. Someone who’d reported our inappropriate…Inappropriate what?
Had we engaged in inappropriate behavior?
“I’m glad you stopped by, actually. I’ve been putting together a report for a proposed budget shift over the next quarter, but looking at the history of the account, there’s some suspicious activity. I’ve got a few receipts here I’d like to show you. They’re all made out to the same person, a woman by the name of—”
The cardinal swiped the small stack of yellowed receipts from Bastien’s hands, eyes cutting across the space to meet mine for an instant.
Finally.
I busted a weak smile.
His ice-blue gaze hardened.
“This sounds like a private matter.”
Bastien’s helpful smile faltered before he crossed his arms and shook his head. “Tressa’s been doing some accounting for me. I trust her.”
The cardinal’s lips creased into a thin line before he spoke. “I would encourage you to avoid any rabbit holes, Father Castaneda. Join me for a moment in the sacristy?”
The cardinal pressed a hand at Bastien’s shoulder while stuffing the small bundle of papers into the deep pockets of his red robe.
I pressed my lips together, wondering what information the papers held that’d brought that annoyed look on his face.
Bastien opened the door then, gesturing the cardinal out into the narrow hallway, following him back down the way he’d come, while I remained in the office. Old photos were spread out on the desk, the small, neat stack of official church documents still sitting at the corner.
I slid all of the photographs off the desk in one swoop, eyes lingering for extra beats on the paperwork.
Father Martinscribbled at the end of each, his angled scratch barely legible among the lines of longhand. My fingers itched to grab one of the papers and dig deeper. The soft laugh lines in Father Martin’s smile came back to me as I thought over the countless afternoons that bled into evenings here at the church. The feeling that I loved most about it…that it was bustling with pure holiness.
I knew what the opposite end of the spectrum looked like.
I’d spent far too many nights home alone, grainy cartoons flickering on the television, eyes heavy with sleep as I snuggled with an afghan my grandmother had made, a decade’s worth of cigarette smoke lingering in the colorful fibers.
I swallowed down the memory of one night waking up to a stranger leering down at me, whiskey burning up the air between us as I pulled the afghan around me tighter, the oil to power the furnace long empty.
Mom had swept in a moment later, shooing tonight’s bed companion and bundling me in her arms, carrying me off to my own bed and whispering how much she loved me.
That was the thing about Mom; I never knew which her to expect.
At St. Michael’s, the schedule remained unchanged.
My heart swelled now with the comfort of it.
This church had brought me peace in so many moments of chaos.
