Page 2 of Priest (Priest 1)
Focus, I ordered myself.
Someone cleared their throat. A woman.
“I, uh. I’ve never done this before.” Her voice was low and beguiling, the aural rendering of moonlight.
“Ah.” I smiled. “A newbie.”
That earned me a small laugh. “Yes, I guess I am. I’ve only ever seen this in the movies. Is this where I say, ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned?’”
“Close. First, we make the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…” I could hear her echoing the words with me. “Now you tell me how long it’s been since your last confession, which was—”
“Never,” she finished for me. She sounded young, but not too young. My age, if not a little younger. And her voice carried the accent-less rush of the city, not the leisurely twang I sometimes heard out here in rural Missouri. “I, um. I saw the church while I was at the winery across the street. And I wanted to—well, I have some things that are bothering me. I’ve never been particularly religious, but I thought maybe…” She trailed off for a minute and then abruptly inhaled. “This was stupid. I should go.” I heard her stand.
“Stop,” I said and then was shocked at myself. I never gave orders like that. Well, not anymore.
Focus.
She sat, and I could hear her fidgeting with her purse.
“You aren’t stupid,” I said, my voice gentler. “This isn’t a contract. This isn’t you promising to come to Mass every week for the rest of your life. This is a moment that you can be heard. By me…by God…maybe even by yourself. You came in here because you were looking for that moment, and I can give it to you. So please. Stay.”
She let out a long breath. “I just…the things that are weighing on me, I don’t know if I should tell them to anyone. Much less to you.”
“Because I’m a man? Would you feel more comfortable talking to a female lay minister before you talked to me?”
“No, not because you’re a man.” I heard the sm
ile in her voice. “Because you’re a priest.”
I decided to guess. “Are the things weighing on you of a carnal nature?”
“Carnal.” She laughed, and it was breathy, rich music. I suddenly found myself wondering what she looked like—whether she was fair or tanned, whether she was curvy or slender, whether her lips were delicate or full.
No. I needed to focus. And not on the way her voice made me suddenly feel much more man than priest.
“Carnal,” she repeated. “That sounds like such a euphemism.”
“You can be as general as you would like to be. This is not meant to make you uncomfortable.”
“The screen helps,” she admitted. “It’s easier to not see you, with, you know, the robes and stuff while I’m talking.”
Now I laughed. “We don’t wear the robes all the time, you know.”
“Oh. Well, there goes my mental image. What are you wearing, then?”
“A long-sleeved black shirt with a white collar. You know the kind. The kind you see on TV. And jeans.”
“Jeans?”
“Is that so shocking?”
I heard her lean against the side of the booth. “A little. It’s like you’re a real person.”
“Only on weekdays, between the hours of nine and five.”
“Good. I’m glad they don’t put you in a crisper between Sundays or something.”
“They tried that. Too much condensation.” I paused. “And if it helps, I normally wear slacks.”
