Page 20 of Steadfast
I reached forward until our cups touched. “Amen.”
Chuckling, he picked up his fork. “This is a very special apple pie, I’ll have you know.”
“I can see that.” It had cranberries, and a crumb topping. I broke off a chunk with my fork and took a bite. A veryfamiliarbite.
Across from me, the priest did the same, and then groaned in what I’d describe as a very non-priestly way. “Exquisite,” he said.
I stifled my smile. “Can I ask you a crazy question?”
“Yes. And whatever it is, I can guarantee you that this office has heard a crazier one.”
“Okay, it’s notthatcrazy. I was wondering if Ruthie Shipley made this pie.”
He looked up in astonishment. “A boy of exceptional talent! He names the piemaker in just one bite! There should be a game show for your talent.”
Now he had me laughing. “She’s the only piemaker I could identify. I just spent several months working on the Shipley farm. We had pie most nights after dinner. I probably picked these apples.”
“You are a very lucky man.” He beamed at me. “A priest would never compare his parishioner’s baking talents aloud, but I will say that whenever Ruthie Shipley or one of her daughters approaches with a box, I am careful to carry it directly to my office.”
“You’d be crazy not to.”
“What did you say your name was, son?”
For a moment, I actually considered lying. To a priest, no less. “It’s, um, Jude Nickel.”I just did three years for killing one of your former parishioners.
Either he didn’t recognize the name from the news, or he was a very even-keeled host. “Nice to meet you, Jude. You can call me Father Peters.”
“Thank you for the pie, Father Peters. I really miss Mrs. Shipley’s cooking. The canned soup I’ve been eating the past couple weeks just isn’t the same.”
He peered at me thoughtfully. “Like I said, Wednesdays are busy around here. Perhaps you should stay for dinner…”
I opened my mouth to make an excuse. This was just about the nicest five minutes I’d had all week, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.
He held up a hand, as if to preempt my argument. “Before you refuse, let me finish. We usually have about a hundred and twenty-five guests, and they come for all different reasons. Some are elderly, and just need a reason to leave the house. Many are food insecure. Not only do I think you should dine with us tonight, my friends in the kitchen could use your help.”
“You mean, like, I could volunteer?”
“That is precisely what I mean. Do you peel potatoes?”
“Sure.”
“Is there somewhere else you need to be right now?”
I pictured my empty, darkened room over the garage. The evenings I spent there were torture. “No, sir.”
He beamed again. “Finish your pie. The volunteers need you.”
The milk in my cup was sweet and cold. I drank it down, then chased the last crumbs of Mrs. Shipley’s pie around on my plate. It wasn’t like me to volunteer at a church dinner. I wasn’t a joiner. But food was an excellent motivating factor. And every hour I spent away from my old life, the better.
I was sitting there thinking unusually positive thoughts when someone knocked on the doorframe. “Father Peters?”
“Come in, my dear.”
Looking up, I received the surprise of a lifetime. There in the doorway—wearing an apron, her hair in two pigtails—stood Sophie Haines. My ex-girlfriend, and the only person who’d ever loved me.
The silence that followed was deafening. Looking down at me, Sophie’s mouth fell open. She put one hand on the doorjamb to steady herself.
I’m sorrywas my only thought. I had no idea she’d be here on a random Wednesday, working in the kitchen of the church that she’d never wanted to attend when we were together.
