REBEL SAINT

by Leigh, Adriane

  A rogue smile cracked Father Bastien’s all too often reserved features. “Harrison was the one with the mean shredding skills. You’re both missing out.”

  My giggles echoed off the tiny paneled walls around us.

  “I swear ‘Imagine’ is always on the radio when all the worst moments of my life happen. By the age of thirteen, I hated that song. It would come on and my entire body would tense, and I would think, oh fuck, what’s going to happen now?”

  Bastien shook his head, one eyebrow narrowed in reproach at my swear.

  “Words are man-made, you know. It’s humans that give them power.” I brimmed with defiance.

  “I understand etymology very well, Tressa.”

  “So, swearing is…” My eyes flitted around the room as I searched for the right words. “A personal choice.”

  “A rebellious one.” His dark eyes nailed mine, chaining me with his gaze as completely as his hands could.

  “I just…historically speaking…have a hard time with rules.”

  Bastien barked a chuckle, hand landing at my wrist and grasping as he laughed.

  Dear God, he was so beautiful when he laughed.

  Like, really laughed.

  Laughed so hard the little crow’s-feet around his eyes jumped to life, the rich copper tone of his throat exposed.

  One snow-white collar flush against dark skin.

  “I sensed it was obeying rules, or a lack of thereof, that landed you in my lap.”

  My heart stuttered to a stop.

  A violent tornado of desire made me dizzy.

  I shifted on the couch, feeling everything.

  “That obvious, huh?” I deflected the wild emotion battering my throat.

  Bastien narrowed his eyes, leaning into me. His soft lips parted, he uttered his thoughts anything but chastely. “It’s the thing that draws people to you—your fire. Even when you speak, dear Tressa, it’s a passionate rebellion.”

  His eyes caged me, my fingers twitching before his gaze dropped down to my lips.

  I pressed them together, fire hurtling through every muscle in my body.

  Something about the way his eyes sliced through me, seeing to the core of every rebellious thought I’d ever had. Could he really know me so well in just a few short months?

  Every poor decision I’d ever made suddenly washed over me, guilt swirling in my veins as I thought of everything I’d had to walk away from to find myself here.

  With him.

  Huddled near Father Bastien’s fireplace, willing the fire in my blood to warm my icy toes.

  “Are you ready to talk about it?” His voice speared the silence.

  “It?” I asked, thinking over the one of a thousand “its” I could confess to.

  “I’m happy to give you more time, but at what point does more time transmute into avoidance?” Wise words from probably the most thoughtful man I’d ever known. “To confess and accept communion are the most blessed of sacraments in His eyes. I think you might find them at least somewhat beneficial, if given the chance.” I could feel his eyes on me. “Tressa?”

  My stubborn gaze finally landed on his, afraid of the raw compassion I’d find emanating off him.

  Pity, my greatest pet peeve. “I’m not very good at opening up to people.”

  One dark slash of brow shot up. “I had noticed.”

  I swallowed, my fingers itching in equal parts to kiss or maim his beautiful face.

  To say my nerves were raw was an understatement.

  The truth was, the weird routine I’d found here at St. Michael’s had been, well, a godsend.

  I wouldn’t even count myself a believer in the man upstairs, but I did believe in the goodness his message inspired. I was living proof.

  “To bear one another's burdens is to fulfill the law of Christ.” His voice always lowered an octave when he quoted scripture, and damn if I didn’t feel every word between my thighs.

  “No offense, but Jesus didn’t grow up in North Philly.”

  The joke didn’t land like I’d hoped, and the sympathy lacing his irises made my heart sink. “I’m not sure what it’s like in Cuba, but where I come from, family dinners and bedtime stories aren’t really a thing. I watched my mom’s best friend overdose on our couch. Asking my mom for a hug after the paramedics cleared out didn’t really feel like the right time.”

  “Is there ever?” His head ticked to one side, firelight highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, dark stubble more pronounced at the end of the day.

  “A right time? Isn’t timing everything? If there’s never a right time, then why are people always saying it’s all about timing?”

  “Nice deflection, but I’ll indulge you.” He leaned a little closer, the brush of his shoulder against mine sending a thrill of sparks through me. “Timing may be man-made, but the universe is always orchestrating in your highest interest. Wouldn’t you say it’s fortunate timing that a position opened up at St. Michael’s for the first time in years right after you showed up?”

  “Is it fortunate you were here and felt bad enough for the poor college dropout that you created a position for me? Yes. But that wasn’t God or timing. That was your generosity.”

  His dark eyes held mine as he worked my words over. “And I couldn’t have done it without God and timing on my side. If you’d been here six months before, I wouldn’t have been able to make the day care work. Timing.”

  “Well…” I smirked, bringing our conversation back full circle. “I just don’t think the timing is right, then.”

  Bastien’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe by Sunday, you’ll find the timing right.”

  I thought of Father Bastien ducking into the confessional as he did most Sundays, listening to the secrets of all of St. Michael’s parishioners.

  I couldn’t imagine the weight he must carry on his broad shoulders, listening wholeheartedly to every wayward sin of a community. His level of selflessness in service to his God was inspiring.

  Even if I wasn’t a believer, I’d never committed to anything as fully as Bastien committed to his faith.

  “I almost went last Sunday. Truly.” I didn’t know why it was so important that he understand it wasn’t for lack of wanting to go in. “My body just slides into shutdown mode when I think about reliving…”

  “Confession is not a means to relive. Confession is absolution. A washing away of the lingering subconscious swords left behind.”

  “Swords, huh?” I held his gaze, taking my turn to roll his words over in my mind.

  “When we can’t express our deepest fears, they lodge like invisible daggers in our spine.”

  “Poetic,” I breathed, desperate to veer away from this topic of conversation.

  I guess the thing about accepting the job at St. Michael’s was that it came with strings attached. Spiritual ones. Father Bastien might be young as far as holy men went, but he still insisted on holding your hand to the fire.

  I’d been dodging Bastien’s gentle probing into my past for weeks, but something in the way he exuded empathy and understanding left me softening.

  It also left me thinking.

  A lot.

  Entirely too much for my liking.

  I’d been running in fast-forward for so many years, chasing a dream, fleeing from reality, I’d never really stopped to think about what truly motivated me. Why I made a habit of surrounding myself with the misfits and broken toys.

  Was Bastien right? Was I choosing to be broken?

  “Is there something you can hold on to? A memento from the past or…?”

  “There’s nothing from my past worth holding on to. Not a single thing.”

  “What calms you, then? What brings you peace?”

  I swallowed. “I guess candlelight, soft music, a bath…”

  “That sounds like a first date more than a spiritual practice.”

  “I’m not sure when the last time was you had a first date, Father, but baths aren’t really a custom.”

  His gentle
chuckle filled the room and hollowed out my insides. “My point is,” he said finally, “you might find unloading some of those things to be beneficial.”

  “And…you’ll be there when I’m ready?”

  “I’m bound by a sense of honor to be.”

  “How godly of you.” I hushed, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth as I focused on him. The soft glow highlighting the bow of his top lip, the sooty line of eyelashes that added dark mystique to his already otherworldly aura.

  What would happen if I kissed him?

  Launch this moment from innocence to sin with just the brush of lips.

  What would he do?

  What would I?

  Would lightning strike me in retribution?

  My breathing quickened when Bastien’s eyes narrowed, the side of his mouth twitching into a scant curve.

  Inches.

  We were only inches apart.

  He could probably hear the heart rattling within my rib cage, thundering beats dancing to the rhythm of his.

  I swallowed, consumed by the imagined touch of his lips against mine.

  Tongue probing, hands cascading down my back until…

  Boom. Boom.

  The sound of the wind catching what sounded like a heavy door shook me from my fantasy.

  Bastien’s hand settled over my palm, eyes darting across the span of my face before he pressed up on thick thighs and rose from the floor. “That sounded like the door into the nave.”

  I felt my eyes close, reality settling itself into my bones.

  “Stay here, keep yourself warm, and think about what I said.”

  I narrowed my eyes, giving my head a quick shake to let him know I would not be doing that last part, before he paused, regarding me for another long moment.

  I must have been a sight, curled up on the tiny couch, two quilts to hold in the body heat, my eyes faraway, in a land where girls didn’t dream of kissing the priests who saved them.

  THREE

  Tressa

  By the time Bastien was back fifteen minutes later, he wasn’t alone.

  A teenager bundled in a dirty ski jacket, oversized flannel, with beat-up combat boots on her feet hung in Bastien’s shadow.

  “Tressa, this is Lucy. The shelter has been at capacity all week with the storm. I told her we’ve got plenty enough heat to keep her warm.” His eyes cut to her with a small and encouraging nod at the fire, and she darted across the room, thrusting her hands toward the warm flames.

  “Are you hungry? We have leftovers. A sandwich”

  “Just the fire for now, thanks.” Lucy’s eyes focused on her own cool blue fingertips.

  She couldn’t be more than eighteen, her eyes carrying shame and guilt far too heavy for her years.

  Father Bastien rested a platonic hand on my shoulder and murmured that he was going to grab another few blankets from upstairs. In his absence, I watched her from across the room, the way all that clothing engulfed her frail body. She set to work untying her boots, worn and nearly frozen stiff. Her fingers stumbled with the laces, and before she could ask, I was across the room and bent, untying the laces for her.

  “You don’t have to. Please, I feel so bad taking advantage already.” Tears began to form in her eyes.

  “Taking advantage of heat in a blizzard?” I shook my head, eyes focusing on hers for long seconds.

  She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, embarrassment radiating from her when I pulled off her final boot and found frostbite had already started to kiss her toes. “I tried to sleep under a bench at the park last night, but I didn’t last more than a few hours before the cold forced me to keep walking.”

  “Oh, honey,” I whispered, wrapping her still chilled hands in my own and giving her a squeeze. “I wish you’d come here last night.”

  Bastien returned just then, a mound of wool blankets in his arms. “Is there anyone we can contact for you? You’re welcome to use my mobile.”

  She shook her head swiftly, grateful when Bastien laid both blankets across her legs, tucking them under herself to prevent any heat from escaping. A minute later, she was curled up at the base of the fire, eyes falling closed and breaths deepening.

  She looked so fragile, all the unfairness of the world settled on her young shoulders.

  Bastien settled himself on the pile of blankets where he’d been, and not knowing what else to do with myself, especially now that it’d gotten so late, I did the same.

  “Do you think she’ll be here when we wake up in the morning?”

  “I think if she knows what’s best, she will be. I think we’ve got a few more days of this left.” His eyes turned to the bundle of softly sleeping wool on his other side. “This reminds me of Cuba.”

  I shook my head, more than slightly confused. “Lots of snowstorms down there, huh?”

  His grin deepened, eyes breathing fire into me when they grazed mine. “Not quite. But it does get cold. There were a lot of nights when all we had was the fire to keep everyone warm. The entire family would curl up in scratchy blankets near the wood stove, the same one Mamá made arroz con pollo on so many nights of my life.”

  “Do you still have family there?”

  “Sure, some extended family. Cousins and the like. We grew up surrounded by miles of verdant green tobacco fields. It’s beautiful.”

  “But not beautiful enough to keep you there?”

  “Not as much as I wanted to brave wild new horizons.” His dark eyes gleamed as he spoke.

  “America has to be about the wildest new horizon.”

  He chuckled, then nodded. “That it is.” Our eyes hung suspended until, finally, he continued, “Truth is, the Jesuits…I appreciate their honoring tradition, but my idea of God is something slightly different from theirs.”

  “I thought they were about the same.”

  He shook his head quickly. “Not at all. Certainly, it’s based on the same readings, but the meaning they take is an odd mix of progressive dogmatism. I wanted to be a part of the new Catholic church, the one evolving into the twenty-first century. Carrying the weight of those who came before feels…indulgent. So many need real and tangible help right now. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in a confessional chastising everyone who came through my doors. That was a long time ago, though.”

  “And you’ve lost your original motivation?” I whispered.

  “Not lost, just evolved, I suppose.”

  “So, you came out of Jesuit school a reformer?”

  “Holy reformer.” The first cocky grin I’d ever seen of Father Bastien Castaneda tilted his lips.

  “A rebel priest. That’s pretty hot.” I regretted the words the second they were on my lips.

  “Rebel priest, huh?” His devilish eyes ate up the small space. “First time I’ve heard that.”

  I bit down on my lip, still working the foot out of my mouth.

  “How many times are you gonna take me by surprise, Tressa Torrado?”

  And with his velvety Cuban accent wrapped around the letters of my name, I buried myself deeper into the scratchy blanket at his side and quietly died.

  FOUR

  Tressa

  Two days went by before power was restored.

  Lucy tried to tell us she was leaving that first morning, but we’d both adamantly refused. Bastien explained the church was set up to help those in need, and I could already see the wheels turning as he thought of more ways we could be of help.

  We.

  So odd. At some point, I’d started thinking of Bastien and myself as a “we.”

  But we had become a we. Hunkering down through the Northeast’s worst blizzard in a decade had connected us in some small way.

  Worrying over Lucy, even more so.

  She’d kept mum, even when I’d gently tried to probe her with leading questions. Whatever she’d been through had been dramatic; that much was written all over her face.

  When Bastien had explained the church had a small fund set up to hire for odd jobs, te
ars had slowly begun to stream down her cheeks. Her shoulders shuddered as I pulled her into a hug.

  “No one’s ever been this…kind to me,” she’d choked out.

  That statement alone had sent me crying along with her.

  Now we stood shoulder to shoulder on Sunday, the pews only staggered with people as the storm had kept many home.

  Bastien sat to one side, looking as calm as ever as the small choir ended on a high note. Then he stood slowly, nodding in appreciation to the loft, before we all sat and he stepped to the lectern to deliver his homily.

  “Trials are nothing else but the instrument that purifies the soul of all its imperfections.” The heavenly accented words spiraled through me, rich in their tone and cadence. “Hardship, according to Saint Mary Magdalen, forges our souls in fire. Reminds us of the thrill of being alive. For how can we know happiness without great sorrow? The delicate, honeysuckle scent of spring made sweeter by the snow of December.”

  I followed the way his throat contracted with his wisdom, the way his broad chest flexed and moved with such calm resourcefulness. He was made to lead people, there was no doubt about that, but what’d struck me more with every day was the deep compassion with which he approached life. He lived and breathed God’s word.

  It made tasting the forbidden fruit so much sweeter.

  Or so I assumed.

  I wouldn’t know because it seemed like Father Bastien had avoided any alone time with me since the first night Lucy arrived.

  But that hadn’t stopped me from watching him.

  I couldn’t not watch him.

  The way his serene presence almost floated through the nave, honoring the Stations of the Cross or blessing a parishioner. I was enamored of Father Bastien.

  My mind raced with thoughts of him at night. My hands between my thighs, discovering every blissful state known to man.

  It’d begun to feel like the word SIN was stamped across my forehead. My cheeks heated instantly when Bastien’s eyes slid across the room and caught me watching him.

  I bit down on my bottom lip and glanced away, and the tiniest twitch of a grin lifted the delicate bow of his mouth.