Page 21 of Steadfast
“Sophie,” Father Peters said into the vacuum of our silence. “Do you need me in the kitchen?”
She spoke to him without taking her eyes off me. “You, um, told me to tell you if Mrs. Walters came to take her shift. She’s here.”
“Excellent!” The priest clapped his hands. “Mrs. Walters is ninety years old, and the only one brave enough to operate our old dishwashing machine,” he explained to me. “Thank you, Sophie.”
After another pause, Sophie seemed to gather herself. She backed out of the doorway, then turned and walked quickly away.
“I should go home,” I said.
But Father Peters shook his head. “I don’t think that’s for the best.” His blue-eyed gaze pierced through me. I had a feeling that this man didn’t miss much. “My hungry parishioners will be needing their dinner no matter what once transpired between you and Miss Haines.”
Yeah. He didn’t miss a damn thing.
I was still formulating my argument when he stood up suddenly. “Follow me, young sir. I hear a sack of vegetables calling your name.”
Chapter Six
Sophie
Internal DJ tuned to: a primal scream
On my best night, managing the Community Dinner was like conducting Beethoven’s Fifth with a kazoo band. It was mayhem. But tonight? My mind was a speed-metal tune—all noise and no order.
It was shocking enough to spot Jude in Father Peters’s office. But when the priest led my ex-boyfriend to the prep table in the back corner of the kitchen, my ability to concentrate was officially shattered.
Jude was given a large stack of carrots to peel. While I stared, he took up the peeler and began shaving off their orange skins in authoritative stripes.
For the next hour, my eyes wouldn’t go where I wanted them to go. There was a ton of work to be done, yet I kept sneaking looks at Jude in the corner prepping vegetables like he was born to it. Before tonight, I’d never seen Jude touch a vegetable or even wash a dish.
It was the weirdest damned thing I ever saw. He kept his head down and plowed through a mountain of carrots and potatoes. When they were peeled, old Mrs. Perkins brought him a cutting board and a chef’s knife, and he began quartering the potatoes like a man on a mission.
“Sophie,” Denny said after he arrived and began to pitch in. “How many serving stations do you need? I count four dishes on the menu, but you only set up three stations.”
“Oh.”
“So which is it?”
“Um…” I looked around at all the work getting done in the kitchen. “Four stations,” I said slowly.
“Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I lied, my eyes flicking back over to Jude. I kept noticing strange details about him. He’d rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt up, exposing muscular forearms that I did not want to notice. But they flexed with each strike of the cleaver.
“Who is that, anyway?” Denny demanded.
I dragged my eyes back to Denny. “It’s Jude.” Even as I said the words, I knew it was a mistake, because I really couldn’t let myself talk about it now. “Did Father Peters open the doors yet?”
But Denny wasn’t going to let it go. “Whoa. That’shim?Seriously?” Denny stared at Jude in open fascination. “Why here?”
My thoughts exactly. “Denny, could you set up another serving station?”Because I’m busy having a breakdown.
He gave me a long, appraising look. “Sure.”
Things got a little better when the diners began to show up. I put myself on the serving line, where it was more difficult to stare at the bulky, uncharacteristically helpful ghost of Jude. I was still trying to resolve all the strange little inconsistencies between my memory and the man at the prep table. His piercings were gone—the barbell from his eyebrow and the studs from his upper ear. And when Father Peters passed by saying something I couldn’t quite catch, Jude answered “Yessir,” in a quiet voice that lacked the edge I was so familiar with.
I was like Dorothy in Oz, seeing the familiar transformed into something odd. But in this musical, I was clearly cast in the role of the scarecrow. If I only had a brain, I might be able to stop staring and start serving chicken.
“Denny,” I said, dragging my attention back to the matter at hand. “Would you take charge of the biscuits? Don’t let the kids take a handful.” I put him at the opposite end of the table from me, so he wouldn’t be able to ask me questions.
