by Claire Adams
More than anything, I marveled at the fact that he was mine. That he had been for two years and one month to the day. It was the second anniversary of the day he had first told me that he loved me, and we’d gotten my father’s blessing.
I doubted that he even remembered, but I would never forget that day. It was burned into my memory as the start of the best days of my life.
His deep, smooth voice pulled me from my wonderment. “Same terms as always. First one from the buoy and back to the other wins.”
“You’re on, Skye. Try not to get too wet back there.” I spun my jet ski with another spray of water and raced off, focusing my attention on winning that prize instead of the perfect specimen of masculinity that I would be winning it from.
James drew even with me as we approached the first buoy. I pulled back on the throttle and gunned it. The wind felt amazing in my hair. I felt freer and more relaxed than I had in a long time.
There was something about being out on the open ocean with a gassed-up watercraft and the love of my life hot on my heels that was positively exhilarating.
I shot past the second buoy first, throwing my hands up in the air in victory, an insanely wide grin spreading on my face.
I won! I can’t believe that I actually won!
James rounded the buoy not a second later, wearing a grin that made my heart race and skip a beat at the same time, if that were possible. Around him, it was. I was living proof of that fact.
“Well done, angel. Let’s get back to shore. You ready for your prize?” His eyes had taken on the turquoise hue of the water around him, shining with excitement. Whatever the surprise was, it was sure to be good.
“What? You don’t want a second chance to beat the master?” I joked, already pointing my nose in the direction of the shoreline.
I wanted that prize. I hoped that it involved the motel on the beach and then lunch at the Spanish place. That would be the perfect day off.
“Not today. Besides, we both know who the true master is.” He teased, but his heart wasn’t in it. He fidgeted with the choke chain, eyes pinned to the beach behind me.
James didn’t fidget. Ever. He didn’t get nervous, but he sure looked it as he gestured for me to take the lead and stayed close in my wake.
My heart pounded. If the prize was having that effect on him, it was bound to be downright amazing for me.
Once we reached the beach, he reached for my hand and wound his fingers through my mine as he guided me down the shore without a word. In the opposite direction of the motel.
Damn. Although it had been a while since we’d done anything sexual in a public place, maybe we were—
He stopped abruptly, interrupting my dirty train of thought. I scanned my surroundings. A familiar rock outcropping confirmed what I suspected: we were at the exact spot where we’d sat when he’d first told me about Harper.
A quick glance at his expression told me that he remembered, too. Now that I thought about it, his expression wasn’t one that I could remember having seen before. The love suddenly shining in his eyes nearly floored me.
My knees buckled. My throat went dry. My heart stammered. My body trembled.
God, I loved him. So damn much. My heart soared in my chest as I drank his gaze in, beating like it wanted straight out of me and into him. Like a magnet pulled my heart to his.
James turned to face me, gathering both of my hands in his. Those unfamiliar nerves played in his eyes for just a second before they were gone. He took a deep breath, locking his eyes with mine as he sank to one knee.
My vision blurred. My heart raced. Everything in my world narrowed to those eyes and the man that was on his knee looking up at me with pure, unadulterated love. Adoration.
What the? He couldn’t be doing what I thought he was doing. It wasn’t possible. James didn’t believe in marriage. I’d always known that.
And yet… Hope surged through me. I blinked.
“I had a speech planned.” His voice cracked with emotion. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes. “But now, looking up at you, it’s all gone. All I can think about is how much I love you. How I still can’t believe that out of the millions of men on this planet, you chose me. How I will never know how I got that lucky.”
“James,” I breathed, heart hammering in my chest. I struggled to form thoughts, let alone words.
“From the second you walked up to me in that office and kissed the shit out of me, I knew that you were one of a kind. That there was no other woman like you. You intrigued me. I couldn’t stay away from you, even if I knew that I should. I remember the exact moment that I realized that what I felt for you was so much more than intrigue. That I realized that I had fallen in love with you. I remember the exact moment that I realized that, somehow, you loved me back.”
He squeezed my hands. My breath caught in my lungs, and my heart pounded like never before. I squeezed back.
“Exactly two years and one month ago, I told you that I loved you for the first time. Today, I’m asking you to let me tell you that, to let me prove it to you every day for the rest of my life.”
James unzipped the pocket on his board shorts and pulled out a ring. My hands flew to my mouth.
“I love you, Gabrielle Ralls. Will you marry me?”
His eyes were wide. His tongue flicked over his bottom lip. He held the beautiful, intricately designed ring up. Offering it to me.
I dropped to my knees in front of him. “Yes.”
A deep breath that I hadn’t realized he’d been holding escaped. The most radiant, beautiful grin spread on his face. Absolute joy shone in his eyes. He slid the ring onto my finger.
It fit perfectly. I gaped at it. Then at James.
I pinched myself. I wasn’t dreaming.
We’re engaged! James really wants to marry me! My inner cheerleader zoomed around my brain so fast that I felt slightly dizzy. My heart swelled. I laughed. I had never felt that way. I hadn’t imagined it was possible to be that happy.
James tugged me to him, wrapping his arms around me. “Thank God,” he whispered against my lips, pulling me in for a kiss that made my toes curl.
At that moment, I knew that he was mine. The bad boy star athlete that I had fallen in love with, and the incredible man that he had become, was all mine. Forever.
An errant thought broke free. “Wait, you actually let me win?”
“Totally worth it.” He smirked, lowering his lips back to mine.
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PRIEST
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
Chapter One
jace
I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in my room at the church where I’d served as parish priest for the past two years. I stared at myself in my black cassock and thought about the days ahead.
It wasn’t moving to a new church that troubled me — it was moving forward with a crucial piece of my life no longer intact. I’ve been devout in my faith since I was a child. But as I gazed at my reflection…I was having doubts.
I looked at the man in the mirror and instead of seeing Father Jace, I saw the reflection of a frightened little boy. That little boy had been brought to where he was through the love and devotion of a woman — and now she was gone and I was questioning everything about my life.
My grandmother used to say, “Be humble and respectful to everyone, whether you are sure they deserve it or not.” She taught me not to judge people too harshly and that if you worked hard and did good things, you would always prosper.
When
Grandma talked about prospering, she wasn’t talking about money. She taught my brothers and me that prosperity was about your family and your friends. The people that you kept within your inner circle said more about you than anything, according to her, and I had come to believe that myself.
She also always said if you looked hard enough, no matter how far you stray, it was always possible to find a path back into God’s good graces. That one I used to believe without a doubt, but those doubts had started to work their way in.
I had strayed from my faith the moment they told me she was dead. I had spent most of my nights since railing against God, instead of praying to Him. My grandmother didn’t need my prayers for her soul. She was the purest soul that ever existed. The irony is if she were still here, she would be the first to tell me to hit my knees and pray hard for forgiveness.
I was holding out hope I’d be ready to do that soon, but for the time being, I’d have to fake it. That day, repentance was not on the agenda. I knew that when I had to stand there and helplessly watch them lower her into the ground, instead of rejoicing for her soul, I would be agonizing over the pain in mine.
I was angry, but I was not supposed to be. I was a priest, but damn it, I was also human. My grandmother was dead. She was the light that always beckoned me home, no matter how lost I’ve been. I was angry and sad and confused, and no amount of praying would give me the answers to my questions. How was I supposed to find my way any longer?
It was just after 12 o'clock. The old church bells rang out, and from my second story room, I could hear the flock of pigeons the bells sent into disarray as they cooed and flapped violently away from the bell tower of the old church.
I heard the echo of each slow chime as I made my way through the cavernous inner halls on my way to the vestry. The sounds reverberated off the stones that held the sacred building together and bounced off the stained-glass windows and polished, oak pews.
With a heavy heart and a deep ache in my soul, I draped the white stole about my neck in preparation for the mass I was about to say, as was tradition. I begged God to give me on the last day the garment of immortality that was forfeited by our sinful first parents.
I was on autopilot. I was a priest; it was what I did, what I knew to do.
The mourners filled the church, and I believed I handled the mass with as much dignity as humanly possible. I had a hard time suppressing my own grief as I watched the broken faces of my brothers in the front pew. I managed to keep it together, and even remain pious in my thoughts, until we reached the cemetery.
When I stepped out of the black car into the brilliant sunlight and looked around at the vibrant colors of spring that surrounded me, my anger returned with a vengeance. My grandmother was dead and the sun was offensively bright and cheerful.
It was as if God and the elements were conspiring to show me that the world would go on just fine without her. It shouldn't, and that’s why I was so angry. As far as I was concerned, everything should be as dark and gray as my emotions were. The weather should have been damp and cold, and the birds should not have been singing in the trees overhead.
I walked through the cemetery like a silhouette of myself. I wished I was as insubstantial as the shadows. Shadows don’t have to feel the tangle of emotions that were twisting around in my gut. I stood near the freshly dug hole and waited for the coffin to arrive.
I was no longer apologetic to my Father in Heaven. I was pissed.
******
“Touching service, Father,” a young congregate said to me as she shook my hand after the funeral. I forced a smile and nodded at her.
“My condolences for your loss, Father. Your grandmother was a great lady,” the next one told me as he shook my hand.
“We’ll all miss her, Father…”
It went on and on. My head felt like it might literally explode and shoot off my shoulders before the last member of the congregation shook my hand and headed for their car. Finally, I was alone with my grandmother and my brothers.
“How are you doing, Jace?” My brother Max was at my side. He was the oldest and the one that would be counted on to hold us together with Grandma gone.
“I’ve been better,” I said, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “How about you?” My other brother, Ryan, walked up as we talked.
“I’m hanging in there. I’m not sure what to do without her. She will be sorely missed.” I had no doubts Max would miss her, but he’d been independent since we were taken from the house of horrors that was our life and placed with Grandmother when he was 10. I was six at the time, and Ryan was only six months.
Ryan’s eyes and face were swollen and red. He still lived with Grandmother, and I had no doubts her death would leave the biggest void in his life. She coddled him a little too much, and at 25, he was more dependent on her than a man really had a right to be.
“Hey,” he said with a chin tilt. Even at a funeral he was still clinging to the cool-guy, motorcycle stud stereotype. I opened my arms and it all fell away. He folded into them and sought the strength of his big brother and priest. I could at least be one of those for him.
As soon as I closed my arms around him, his shoulders began to shake and he unloaded the grief that he’d been trying so hard to hold back. “I know that I’m not supposed to think like this,” he said between sobs. “But I’m so angry, Jace. We all still needed her. Why does God let things like this happen? She was nothing but good. Why does he take the good ones so soon?”
Ryan, out of all of us, had struggled with his faith the most. It was the first time I didn’t have answers for him. I’d been asking those questions myself.
“I wish I knew, Ryan. All we can do now is have faith and trust that she’s at peace and we’ll see her again someday.” Such a priest-like thing to say…but I was at a loss.
My brother seemed to accept it. He nodded against my shoulder and then pulled back and looked at my face. His green eyes were so much like mine, and his sandy-blond hair fell down across his forehead the same way mine did when it got too long.
He was a younger version of me, but even priest compared to biker, he was a more innocent version. Ryan hadn’t known our parents long enough for the scars to take hold of him. Grandmother was all he’d ever known as a caregiver, and she did a stellar job.
“I have to take off,” Max said. “I have a meeting across town at four. Maybe we can all have lunch Sunday?”
“If it’s a late lunch,” I said. “I’ll be serving my first mass at St. Luke’s on Sunday.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re moving to Lexington tomorrow, I almost forgot. At least it’s only 30 minutes away.”
“Yeah, I’ll still see you guys a lot. Let’s plan on three for lunch at Mike and Patty’s. Will that work for you, Ryan?”
My little brother looked like I’d pulled him out from under the water as he refocused his attention. “Mike and Patty’s at three. I’ll be there.”
I hugged them both again and watched them go before I made my way back to the car the church provided for me. I climbed into the backseat and the driver said, “Back to the church, Father?”
“Yes. Actually, if you don’t mind, Mitch, can we swing by Albert’s Grocery on the way?”
******
Two hours after my grandmother’s earthly body was lowered into the ground, I sat in my upstairs room at St. Anthony’s parish, still in my cassock and scarf, sipping scotch out of the bottle.
I’d gone into Albert’s Grocery under the guise of buying my specialty tea. The driver had stayed in the car, so it was easy to slip the bottle of scotch into my reusable bag and take it through the self-check-out. A priest buying a bottle of scotch might cause some talk. A priest sitting alone in his room drinking scotch was not only pathetic…he was destined to be tortured by guilt.
At that point, I was willing to deal with the consequences when they arose. Being numb had its benefits.
Chapter Two
Daphne
As I walked int
o my new apartment with my arms laden with groceries, my phone began to ring. I kicked the door closed behind me and rushed to dump the bags on the table.
I had just left work; it was my second day at a new job, in a new town. I was afraid it was my boss. I was a little overwhelmed, and I didn't doubt that I’d forgotten to sign out on the register, or something silly like that. I finally fished the phone out of my work apron and became instantly sick to my stomach.
It was my father.
I shuddered as I answered. I would have just ignored it, but this was the fourth time he’d called that day, and I hadn’t answered the other three. He was bound to keep calling until he passed out if I didn’t pick up at least once.
“Dad, you have to stop this. You’re not supposed to be calling me.”
“What do you mean I’m ‘not supposed’ to call you? I’m your father. You’re my baby girl. Daphne, come home, baby. I need you!” His words were slurred, and I could tell he’d probably been drinking all day. He makes me nauseous, especially when he’s drunk.
“I’m not coming home. I have a restraining order, remember? Stop calling me, Dad, or I’ll have to notify the authorities.”
“Notify the authorities? When did you get to be such a little snot face? I’m your father, Daffy!” I hate when he calls me that, and he knows it. “Please, baby. Daddy’s sick. I need you.”
Daddy’s sick; how many times had I heard that before? “Dad, I’m going to hang up now. When you sober up, you’ll remember why you shouldn’t be calling me. I hope you’ve been going to see your counselor.”
“I don’t need a shrink. I need my Daffy.” His voice got low then, and I could tell he was letting his mind wander as he said, “Do you remember the good times we used to have together, baby girl?”
