Page 2 of Sinner
We stand back, surveying our work. The storage room looks transformed—neat rows of goods labeled and organized, ready for distribution to families in need. I feel a strange mix of satisfaction and disappointment that our task is complete.
“Coffee?” Caterina suggests, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I could use something warm after being out in that rain.”
“That would be...” I hesitate, knowing I should decline, should make an excuse, and retreat to the rectory. “Nice. Thank you.”
She leads the way to the small kitchen tucked behind the parish hall. I follow, watching the gentle sway of her movements, the way she navigates the darkened church with familiar ease. The kitchen is as dimly lit as the rest of the building—just a small lamp on the counter casting everything in soft amber.
The ancient coffee maker gurgles to life under her practiced hands. She moves with graceful efficiency, measuring the grounds and filling the water reservoir. I stand awkwardly by the doorway, not trusting myself to occupy the same space.
“You can sit, Father,” she says without turning. “I don’t bite.”
The playfulness in her voice makes something twist inside me. I move to the small table but remain standing, gripping the back of a chair instead.
“Unless explicitly invited,” she adds, glancing over her shoulder with that same ghost of a smile.
Heat rises to my face. I’m grateful for the dim lighting.
The coffee maker hisses and spits, filling the silence between us. From somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint strains of music—Brother Thomas must be practicing organ in the chapel. The melody is haunting, ethereal, floating through the walls like a spirit.
Caterina leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She’s close enough that I can see the delicate pulse at her throat, count the individual lashes that frame her eyes. Close enough that if I took one step forward...
I grip the chair harder, my knuckles turning white.
“Do you ever doubt it?” she asks suddenly.
“Doubt what?”
“Your calling.” Her gaze is direct, unflinching. “Your vocation.”
The question catches me off guard. It’s too personal, too dangerous—especially now, especially with her. I should deflect, offer some platitude about faith and certainty.
“Yes,” I admit instead, the truth spilling from me before I can stop it. “Everyone does, I think. Doubt is... human.”
She watches me, waiting for more. The coffee maker gives a final gurgle.
“There are moments,” I continue, my voice lower now, “when I wonder if I misinterpreted God’s plan. If perhaps I heard what I wanted to hear, not what He was actually saying.”
“And how do you know the difference?” She turns to pour the coffee, her back to me now.
I watch the curve of her neck, the way her hair falls across her shoulders. “Faith isn’t about knowing. It’s about believing despite not knowing.”
She hands me a mug, our fingers brushing in the exchange. This time, neither of us pulls away immediately.
“That sounds lonely,” she says softly.
The coffee burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain—a small penance for the thoughts I’m having. “It can be. But there’s beauty in solitude, too.”
“Is that what you tell yourself at night, Father?” There’s no mockery in her question, only genuine curiosity tinged with something that might be sadness.
I look down into the dark liquid in my cup. “Sometimes the things we want most are the things we must sacrifice.”
“And what do you want most?” Her question hangs in the air between us, dangerous and tempting.
I meet her gaze, holding it longer than I should. “Peace,” I say finally. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the complete truth either.
She nods slowly, as if hearing what I’m not saying. “I should go. It’s getting late, and Papa will worry.”
“Of course.” I set my barely-touched coffee on the counter. “Thank you for your help tonight.”
