Authors: Lydia Michaels
“A little over a year. I put in for my candidacy before I left. Mail didn’t always get to us promptly in Dublin. Once I received the news I’d been accepted at Saint Peter’s I began to wrap up things in Ireland and prepare to return to the States.
“I started seminary when I was twenty-five and earned my graduate degree in social work. I came home in February for my transitional diaconate. I’m expected to take at least six months to a year to make my final decision. I decided when I was a boy so when my six months are up on August 1st I’ll be taking my orders. What’s your favorite novel? Mine’s
The Catcher and the Rye
.”
“Wow, I guess your mind really is made up. Um, I’d have to say J.M. Barrie’s
Peter Pan.”
“Really?
Peter Pan.
Well that’s one you don’t hear too often. Why?”
“Why not? It’s brilliant.”
He frowned. “Isn’t it a children’s book? I guess I assumed an English teacher would—”
“Have more sophisticated tastes?” she offered. “Well, I assumed a soon to be priest wouldn’t drink or praise a novel written about teenage lunacy and prostitution.”
“Touché.”
“Besides, I assure you,
Peter Pan
is more than a children’s novel. It’s perhaps one of the most honest depictions of human relationships I’ve ever read.”
“How so?”
“Well, take Peter. He’s an amalgam of every man I’ve ever met. He wants a mother, yet doesn’t want to answer to one. He wants a wife, but also wants her to mother him. He’s so in love with himself and his need to have fun, he sometimes loses track of years while having it. It’s a constant cognitive battle, the lure of adulthood and the freedom of youth. And then there are the women in his life, each one clawing for a piece of him, yet none of them really understanding a bit of what’s beneath the surface. And in the end, because he’s too preoccupied with irrelevant titles and meaningless achievements, he’ll let it all slip away, because he’s afraid of what matters most, letting himself truly love. If ever someone truly understood the male psyche, the part that never grows up, it was J.M. Barrie.”
Colin was floored. Samantha would obviously be a phenomenal teacher. He could easily see her taking a group of adolescents and showing them how to love literature. Rather than lie and claim a stuffy classic was her favorite, she admitted to loving a children’s novel yet found such depth in the tale where a child would most likely read an adventure without realizing the moral.
As she spoke her eyes lit up. She seemed to find a spark of passion in everything. He swallowed and asked what he knew he shouldn’t.
“Are you Wendy?”
She blinked and crinkled her brow. “Excuse me?”
“Are you Wendy? Are you in love with him? The boy who loves himself enough to let life pass by without ever truly risking his own heart. Are you willing to settle for superficial perfection just to pretend at happiness, knowing it may never have depth or be real?”
Her smile faltered. Her lashes fell over her eyes and her fingers toyed with a napkin on the bar. A puff of humorless laughter passed her lips. “You’re talking about Braydon.”
“I am.”
She turned and looked over her shoulder at the man in question. Braydon was sitting at a table with the others. Jennifer Miller was hanging on his side as they all laughed over something Finn said.
“I suppose I am Wendy in a way. My Pan’s certainly overlooked me for an evening of fun and adventure. I suppose that makes her Tinkerbelle.”
She turned and faced Colin. “The difference is, Colin, I don’t give my heart easily to anyone. I’m not a naive little girl flying off to a fantasy. I know what’s between Braydon and me, and it isn’t love. I see him for exactly who he is. He’s my friend, but little more. I won’t give my heart to a man that’ll never give his back.”
How true her words were. He could see nothing but sincerity in her eyes as she spoke. She was not emotionally invested in his brother. She wasn’t hiding the fact either. Braydon, the fool, just wasn’t looking. Perhaps she didn’t want to address the situation until her time there was done. But was she speaking only of Braydon?
He coveted this woman. He wanted to be the one to make her laugh, wanted to see her eyes light up the first time she saw the falls, watch her run a million home runs, and fall in love with his parents’ love story every time she heard it.
He wanted to give her a love story, but he couldn’t.
She was meant for a good man who was available to love her with every piece of his honor, while Colin was meant for something else entirely.
For the first time in his almost thirty-years he suffered the disturbing sense of doubt. How had it happened? This slip of a woman without a speck of makeup on her face and a faded Villanova sweatshirt made him feel things he’d never felt before.
He was coveting his brother’s girlfriend. Whether Braydon was aware his connection with Samantha lacked depth or not, it wasn’t Colin’s place to be thinking of her in that way.
He was questioning his vows. He was suddenly questioning the path he’d been on practically his entire life.
Chapter Five
The marble steps were drizzled with glossy moisture from a predawn rain. As she approached the landing one hundred pigeons took flight, their wings pounding against their soft sides like the pages of a broken-in bible being turned by an impatient thumb. Samantha looked past the silent parapet where the cavernous bell hung idle, one thousand pounds of steel capable of singing over valleys, past the mountains, bringing comfort to thousands, yet leaving her empty.
Heavy oak double doors, three times the size of any man, stood before her, an architectural feat in beauty and engineering. Enormous stone buttresses countered by delicate brass moldings accentuated the ancient hand crafted windows of martyrs perfected in cubism glass.
An angelic echo of Latin words told her it was time.
Sam’s fingers wrapped around the heavy brass knob. The heaviness of the door earned her full attention as she slipped past the fortress-worthy threshold. As her hand released its burden a grave thud sounded behind her. This was a place meant to welcome, but Sam had no right to be here.
The chorus of unseen voices rang in slow cadence, intended to beckon, but her heavy bare feet only prodded slowly over the cold ivory slab. It was as chilling as a mausoleum. The pool of holy water to her right was too shallow to bathe her sins in.
Water.
Her unutterable fears set her feet into motion.
Impressive scrollwork had been painstakingly chiseled into the walls climbing to heights meant to humble all men. Dappled colors of sunlight dyed by vibrant glass panes blended to a soft haze of gold and the angels continued to sing in a rhythmic hum of syllables her ears could not decipher.
Like little soldiers, wooden pews stood patiently alone in an unending line. Ivory columns decorated their shoulders like rifles at the ready. Chandeliers sparkled, catching rays of light and propelling prisms over bronze placards marking tombs spaced throughout the granite walls. An intricate scene of heaven graced the cathedral ceiling seeming so real a child would believe it a secret passage to paradise.
Two cents to pay the toll.
Her feet carried her for an eternity, all the while her mind reached for forgotten words. Prayers were like pledging the flag; sometimes they needed to be said in a tune to acquire the next line. How did the Act of Contrition start?
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry…
Beyond the altar stood soundless pipes stacked a hundred in a row, but they only played for those willing to atone. She heard nothing.
A marble table decorated in holy cloths claimed the focus of the grand and forgotten place. The golden tabernacle secured with a delicate lock hid treasures below a sculpture of the Madonna on the right. A candle that never extinguished burned to the left. And above all else, hung Jesus on the cross.
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee.
Sam should leave. She did not belong in this place. She tainted it by simply being there.
The clap of a door shutting echoed from the left followed by the click-clack of sure footsteps upon the ivory floor. Her eyes darted to the shadows in hopes of finding a place to hide. She could not be seen here.
I detest all my sins.
“Sammy?”
Sam turned to the beckoning voice. Colin stood, formally attired in a long black robe, black satin buttons ticking from collar to hem. He looked right. His perfectly combed hair and clean-shaven face a beautiful match for such a pure starched white badge upon an expanse of black.
He smiled and placed something on the altar as he approached. “How are you? You look well.”
Sam said nothing. His calm manner disarmed her. When he stood just in front of her she finally said, “You’ve made your vows.”
“I have.”
“I thought…”
He tilted his head, his soft eyes wondering at her surprise. “You thought I wouldn’t?”
“No, I mean…” her words felt clumsy. “I don’t know what I thought. I should be going.”
He placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Did you come here for the sacrament? Would you like a blessing?”
Her eyes clouded with tears. She was so stupid. “No. No, I cannot take sacrament. I’m not worthy.”
“We are all worthy.”
“I’m not,” she choked.
He hushed her sob and whispered confidentially as if the idols had ears, “Would you like to make a confession?”
“I can’t.”
“Something is obviously bothering you. Let me take away your sins.”
“You can’t.”
She stepped back, needing to put some distance between them. Slowly she raised her fingers and touched the patch of white showing on his collar. “This suits you, Colin.”
“Father McCullough,” he corrected. “Would you like to join me in saying the rosary, Sammy?”
“I don’t pray those prayers anymore.”
“But you used to.”
“Yes. A long time ago. I stopped after…”
“After what?”
“After I lost my faith in God.”
“We all misplace our faith from time to time. God is patient. He waits for us to find Him again. Come. Let’s pray and see if we can reacquaint the two of you.”
He reached for her arm, but she shied away from his touch.
“What are you afraid of, Sammy? God is forgiving to all who are repentant.”
“I’ll never be deserving of forgiveness. Even now, I’m accumulating more sins from my impure thoughts.”
“Tell me what you have done, Sammy.”
“No. I don’t talk about her.”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
“Meghan,” he offered compassionately and she blinked in confusion. How did he know?
“Yes.” Samantha could no longer stem the tears filling her eyes. They trickled hopelessly over her lashes.
“You are not to blame, Sammy.” Again, she was taken aback by his knowledge. The place she was standing began to flicker and dissolve, hazing over like a dream slipping out of her grasp. This wasn’t real and she had no business dreaming of him.
She tried to force herself to wake up, but she failed. Frustrated, she looked for an escape. The doors were too far away now, an illusion she couldn’t reach. She turned to him.
“You know nothing,” she accused. She didn’t deserve his empathy. The angelic voices suddenly silenced and Colin looked over his shoulder at the cross. When his eyes returned to hers they were set in shrewd certainty.
“You think you are the only one who struggles with sin. Do you know your Act of Contrition?”
She shook her head. “I’ve forgotten it.”
He ran a hand over her hair, his fingers holding the ends. He smiled, then let go. The severe set of his eyes was at complete odds with his gentle, longing touch.
“‘Forgive me my sins; the sins of my youth; the sins of my age’. You were a child, Sammy. Let God take away your pain. Let him end the suffering.”
“He can’t. I tried.”
“You do not believe He’s your Savior?”
“I don’t believe I’m worthy.”
“Oh, beautiful Samantha, you’re quite worthy. You are ‘the sins I have kept concealed for so long’.”
“What comes next?”
“And which are now hidden from my memory.”
“So have you forgotten me, Father McCullough?”
“I try every day.”
Sam pressed her lips together and gave a tight nod. The fact that she’d been worked out to be some sort of dirty thought stung.
“I’ll go now.”
“Don’t stay away too long, Samantha. I’m running out of time.”
“Time for what?”
“Until it all becomes real.” Father McCullough pressed his lips gently to hers and whispered, “Go now, before the temptation becomes too great.”
* * * *
Samantha woke up with a start. Her body thrummed with a sexual pulse that should’ve never stemmed from such a dream. She was in Braydon’s bed, yet she dreamt about his brother, as a priest! She was going to Hell.
She needed to put a stop to these thoughts once and for all. Her best course of action would be to avoid Colin as much as possible for the remainder of her time at the McCulloughs’.
She sighed. It was Sunday. She had nineteen days left.
Samantha stood and frowned at the door to the hall. The absence of children squeaking and galloping up and down the hall had her wondering what time it was. She found her cell phone and checked the time. Nine thirty; compared to the day before, she’d slept in.