by Selena Kitt
“Eve will be fine.” He led her to the front of the chapel, so different now in the light of day. He’d cleaned up the pillows and blankets and all the candles—and the wax drip, she imagined. There was no evidence they’d been there, right here, making love all night long. The thought made Emily blush, but it didn’t keep her knees from getting weak at the memory, and it definitely didn’t stop the ache between her legs when she glanced at him, reaching into his jacket pocket.
“She and Alexis will be rooming together before long, I’m sure,” he said, and she watched, puzzled, as he pulled something from his pocket.
“But Alexis is my roommate…” She frowned at him as he sank down to one knee before her. “What are you doing?”
He smiled. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Whatever you’re doing, don’t.” She nudged his shoulder with her knee. He was wearing jeans and a regular shirt again, and it was far easier to think naughty thoughts about him when he wasn’t in his priest’s uniform. “Get up. It looks like you’re proposing.”
Father Mark unpalmed a blue velvet box. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“What?” Now her knees felt truly weak.
“Emily, will you marry me?” He opened the box to reveal a white gold band containing a single diamond. It wasn’t big and fancy, but it was beautiful.
She tried to catch her breath. “But… but priests can’t get married.”
“I’m not a priest anymore.” His hand found hers, squeezing gently.
“You’re… not?” His words hadn’t really sunk in.
“I’m yours, Emily. If you’ll have me.”
“But you can’t not be a priest!” she protested, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “What are you going to do if you’re not a priest?”
“Besides, hopefully, marrying you?” He grinned. “Well, my grandfather was a Baptist preacher. Maybe I’ll start my own church. And you, if you say yes… you’re going to art school, like you always wanted.”
She blinked at him, trying to force the words past her ears, into her actual brain. “What?”
“We’ll be fine, Emily.” He cupped her palm against his cheek, turning to kiss it softly as he spoke. “I’ll take care of you. I promise. I’ll find my way, whatever path I need to travel. Honestly, I don’t think God will care what I’m doing as long as I’m still talking to him.”
“Speaking of talking to your father…” Emily smiled, rubbing her thumb over his cheek, at the very spot she’d painted a cross. Had that been just a week and a half ago? It felt like a lifetime.
“Stop trying to change the subject!” He laughed. “But if you must know, I already did. I’ve done a lot of talking this week. My father, Jenny’s mother, Bishop Avery. It’s been a week full of confession.”
“Did Jenny tell?” Emily asked, eyes wide. She hadn’t seen him much this week at all, had been afraid the night they’d spent together was just a dream. He’d promised he would talk to her, would meet her here today, that he had something he wanted to talk about, and she was sure this was it, that he was going to end things between them, and had steeled herself for it.
This—Father Mark on his knees in front of her with an engagement ring—was the last thing she’d expected.
He nodded in agreement. “Jenny did tell.”
“But she didn’t have any proof.” Emily smirked. Eve had managed to get her hands on Jenny’s cell phone and had deleted the offending photographs.
He shrugged. “It didn’t matter. I’d already made my decision.”
“So then why did Jenny go home?”
“If you must know, someone told her mother she was a lesbian.” He sighed. “Apparently, they emailed her parents some incriminating photographs.”
Emily thought of Eve stealing Jenny’s camera. What else had been on there? she wondered.
“So Jenny decided to go home?”
Father Mark shook his head. “No, her mother withdrew her from school. She just couldn’t accept her daughter’s sexual orientation.”
“Isn’t it a sin, according to the church?”
“I suppose,” he agreed slowly. “But why should anyone be punished because of who they love?”
She blinked away the tears coming to her eyes. “They shouldn’t.”
“It was just another reason that made my decision to leave the church easier,” he confessed. “And then there’s the matter of my being in love with you.”
“Oh, Father Mark…”
“It’s just Mark, Emily. Just Mark.” He smiled, pinning her with that green-eyed gaze of his. “I’m just a man—a man who’s completely, desperately in love with you. And if you didn’t notice, I’m still down here on my knees, asking you to marry me.”
“Oh, Mark…” she whispered.
“Will you?”
“Yes!”
She threw her arms around his neck, tumbling them both to the floor. The ring box snapped shut and went flying as she kissed him and they rolled, laughing, around on the floor in front of the saints and Jesus and his mother, Mary, and she knew it was probably a sin, but she didn’t care. And she was pretty sure God didn’t either. She couldn’t stop kissing him, she couldn’t help loving him, and repeating the answer that had always been hidden in her heart, over and over and over again, punctuated by kisses.
“Yes! Yes! Yesyesyesyesyes!”
Ivy and the Cop
Her father told Ivy a hundred times to get the oil in her 1992 Honda Civic changed, and her mother had reminded her at least that many times just that night not to forget to charge her iPhone before she headed over to the Forresters to babysit, but there she was stuck on the side of the road in the middle of the night cursing both of them for their endless stream of advice. Didn't her parents know that if they’d choose more carefully when to speak and when not to, instead of coming at her with a constant barrage of blah-blah-blah, she might actually listen to what they had to say more often?
And more importantly—why were parents always right?
"Fuck!" Ivy tried turning the key again, as if that might magically bring the car to life, but there was nothing, not even that funny clicking noise it made when she left the lights on overnight and the battery went dead and she had to bug her neighbor in the apartment upstairs to hook his jumper cables up to his giant Ford F-150 and give her a boost.
If this had happened anywhere on campus, help would have been within easy walking distance, but no, it had to be now, when she was home from college for the summer at her parents' house in the middle of rural America, where the nearest store was at least a fifteen minute drive away from anywhere and the roads were mere dirt paths peppered with farmhouses amidst acres of corn and soybeans.
"Come on." She tried it again. Nothing. Nothing, nothing and more nothing. Ivy rested her forehead on the steering wheel, trying not to cry. It was after two in the morning—the Forresters had stayed out until bar closing time—and she had no desire to spend the night on the side of the road sleeping in her car. So now what?
She tried to remember what was around her. Farmhouses. She could walk up the road and knock on doors, ask to use the phone. That thought made her cringe at this late hour. And walking alone, even out here where she was likely not to meet much except a raccoon or a deer or two, wasn’t all that appealing either.
She took her iPhone out of her purse, pressing the round “home” button on the bottom again and again, hoping, like she had with the car, that some miracle of electricity would happen, but there was nothing, just the blank, black screen of a dead cell phone. This is what she got for texting Savannah all night, both of them tuned into and giggling over Magic Mike on Netflix, with no regard to the dwindling battery.
“Guess I’m walking,” she whispered to no one, tucking her phone back in her purse, tossing her keys in too, and opening the Civic’s door. It creaked noisily in the cricket-quiet night. There were no other sounds, and no lights at all. Thankfully, there was a full moon, casting enough of a
silvery glow to walk by. She pounded the lock down and slammed the door shut for good measure, glancing down at her shoes and regretting her fashion choice. Why had she dressed up to meet Savannah for coffee before she went to the Forresters? Well at least they were low heels and not the four-inch spikes she liked to wear clubbing when she was back at school.
They didn’t make for easy travel on gravel though. Still, she slung her purse over her shoulder, put her head down, and started walking. She was sure to come across a farmhouse within the next half a mile. A mile at the most. Of course, a mile in these shoes might kill her. Ivy stopped to wiggle her already aching toes, glancing back at her car. Had she really only come that far? The length of a football field, at most! She squinted and frowned, peering down the dirt road, trying to determine if what she was seeing was what she thought she was seeing. Were those… headlights?
Oh thank god, they were headlights! They were just pinpoints, but they were growing. She started walking back toward her car, praying it was someone a) not drunk and b) responsible enough to have a charged cell phone so she could call for road service. She was already making a mental note to thank her father for insisting she pay extra for towing and breakdown coverage on her insurance.
The car got to hers before she did, and she sighed in relief as she saw it pull up behind. They were stopping to help! That had to be a good sign. Her little white Civic looked like a pale ghost car at the side of the road in the moonlight and her heart leapt when the vehicle behind it came to life. She’d never been so grateful to see flashing red and blue lights go on in her entire life. It was a cop! She was saved!
She practically ran back to her car, getting a stitch in her side by the time she reached the Honda’s hood. The officer was still sitting in his, probably running the plate, but he opened his door when he saw her approaching.
“Ma’am?” he called, walking toward her, and she saw his hand near the butt of his gun. “Are you all right?”
“Hi! Hello!” she called breathlessly, waving. “My car died. And my phone. I was—”
They both stopped at the Civic’s driver’s side door, about five feet from each other. Ivy saw the recognition pass over Patrick’s face in an instant, and he must have seen the same on hers. His hand dropped from his side, his body visibly relaxing—at least a little. Ivy’s relief was replaced with a growing dread as they closed the distance, far more slowly than they’d started out.
“Hey Patrick.”
“Hello Ivy.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, this is awkward.”
“What are you doing out here?” He sounded all business-like now that the initial shock had worn off. She could deal with that.
“I was babysitting at the Forresters.”
He raised his dark brows. “Aren’t their kids old enough to stay on their own yet?”
“Almost. Ten and eleven.” She used to babysit them back in high school, when they were just preschoolers and she’d been dating Patrick. She wondered if he was remembering how he used to come over and visit her at the Forresters after the boys were asleep.
Tonight that would have been impossible, of course—the two boys had invited a friend over to spend the night and the three of them had stayed up playing Assassin’s Creed III until the Forresters returned. The Forresters usually had a strict bedtime, but they suspended it for sleepovers, and the boys and young Brian had taken full advantage. The kids were at that in-between age, and Brian had kept coming down from their room to talk to her, a little kid with a babysitter-crush.
It was cute. She’d felt sorry for him, poor kid. He’d never seen an Xbox before, he said, and didn’t know how to play the game. Instead he wanted to spend his time with Ivy, devouring popcorn and ice cream and anything else he could find in the fridge, fascinated with her talk about her parents’ farm and horses. If she’d been younger, she would have been annoyed by his attention, eager to get them all to bed so she could invite her boyfriend—back in the day, Patrick—over, but that night it was just mildly annoying and kind of sweet.
“Car trouble?” Patrick asked, breaking her reverie.
She sighed. “Yeah. It won’t do anything. My dad kept telling me I needed to get the oil changed.”
“Did it make any noise at all when you turned the key?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
"Try it again for me,” he urged.
She unlocked the driver’s side door and got into the car, putting the key in. When she rolled down the window, he leaned on the edge, watching as she turned the key in the ignition. He was still just as good-looking as he’d always been, with all that thick, wavy dark hair, and even in just the light of the dash she could see the hazy gray heat in his eyes as he watched her turning the key over and over.
"See?” She sighed, pulling the keys out of the ignition and putting them back into her purse. “Nothing. I know I should have had the oil changed…"
"If you didn't have any oil, you'd know it.” Patrick stood, a looming figure in the darkness, the buttons on the front of his uniform shirt gleaming, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. "Sounds like the battery or the alternator. If you had no oil, your engine would seize up. It makes a horrible, grinding sound. You don't want to ever hear that sound."
"Oh." Ivy peered up at him, embarrassed by her lack of automotive knowledge, but saw that he was smiling, even amused. They exchanged knowing looks and a familiar feeling washed over her, something comfortable, like slipping into an old robe and well-worn slippers. How many times had Patrick rescued her from situations just like this one? The occasions were too numerous to count. Like her father, Patrick had often reminded her to get her oil changed, lock her doors, and always remember her pepper spray.
"Want me to take a look?” Patrick offered, already heading toward the front of the car. “If it's the battery, I could give you a jump."
"Would you?" Ivy swung her door open, hopeful. Patrick to the rescue again!
“Sure.” He patted the rocker panel of her Honda. “Pop the hood.”
She pulled the hood lever for him, and joined him at the front of the vehicle, peering into the engine where his flashlight was shining, as if she had any clue what might be wrong. Patrick, on the other hand, seemed to know just what he was looking for. She watched him checking over engine parts with his big, capable hands.
“See anything?” Ivy asked.
Patrick pulled on her oil dipstick, shining his flashlight on it. “See? Told you. It’s low, but you still have oil.”
“Men!” She grinned up at him. “You always love saying ‘I told you so.’”
“Isn’t that the woman’s prerogative?” Patrick nudged her with his hip, playful, making sure she was out of the way before he closed the hood, turning out his flashlight, and putting it back in its place on his belt. “It’s not the battery. Definitely not the oil. Pretty sure it’s the alternator, so jumping you isn’t going to help.”
“Jumping me?” She grinned again, amused at the embarrassed look that flashed over his face.
Patrick steered her by the elbow toward his cruiser. “Do you have road service?”
“Of course.” She snorted. “My father insists.”
He opened the back door of the cruiser, waving her inside. “I’ll call them for you.”
“I’ve never been in a police car before.” Ivy peered in. “I feel like I’m in trouble.”
“Maybe you are.” Patrick winked when she looked up at him, and the glint in his eyes made her stomach do a slow flip, like it used to whenever he pulled up in her driveway to pick her up for a date.
“You were the one who always got me into trouble,” she reminded him.
He blinked at her. “Who me?”
“Mr. Innocent.” She bit her lip, hesitating. “Do I really have to sit in the back? It’s like a cage.”
“You’re supposed to, but…” He shrugged, steering her by the elbow again as he swung the back door of the cruiser closed and guiding her around the car. “Y
ou can sit up front if you want. With me.”
She smiled up at him. “Thanks.”
He came around the other side of the car, getting into the driver’s seat. Ivy explored the dashboard of the vehicle, unable to keep her hands to herself, as usual. Patrick kept swatting her fingers away from buttons and knobs as he made the call into dispatch for a tow truck.
“You have a laptop in here?” She opened the computer on the dash. “Do you Facebook while you’re supposed to be working?”
“Ivy!” Patrick sighed as she started pushing more buttons.
“You never did accept my friend request,” she pouted. “What is this? A camera?”
“I thought I’d better leave well enough alone,” he said, flipping the laptop closed again. “And yes, the dash cam is supposed to be on at all times, if I’m on duty.”
“Are you on duty now?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in his direction.
“Officially? No.” He replaced the radio, turning toward her and grabbing both of her hands in his before she could touch anything else. “I was actually on my way home when I got a call about—”
“About what?” She had to admit, the way he was holding her hands in his—so familiar and yet, it had been so long—made her want to squirm in her seat. There was something about seeing him like this, in uniform, in his police cruiser, that excited her. It wasn’t something she’d expected, especially given the reason they’d broken up, but she couldn’t deny it. Her body wouldn’t let her.
Patrick turned her hands over in his, rubbing his thumbs over her palms, massaging gently. “A prisoner escape,” he murmured, like an afterthought, and she might have dismissed his words if they hadn’t sent such a jolt through her.
“A…what?”
“You know that prison they built over in Poplar Grove, in spite of all the county protests?” He let go of her hands, more focused now, and she regretted the loss of his touch. “That’s why you see those signs out on US-27 not to pick up hitchhikers.”
“Does anyone do that anymore? Hitchhike, I mean?”
He shrugged. “Apparently, prisoners do.”
