Light and Wine
Sparrow AuSoleil
Light and Wine
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2014 Sparrow AuSoleil
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Booktango books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
Booktango
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.booktango.com
877.445.8822
ISBN: 978-1-4689-4832-5 (ebook)
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: L.J. Anderson, Mayhem Creations
Cover Photo: Karin Kempert Lawson
Interior Design: Sparrow AuSoleil
Editing: The Polished Pen
For love, whose heart I carry in my own.
With late winter and early spring winds whipping cold around me, I climb familiar front porch steps to find the doorbell to the Theodores’ home still lit from the inside.
I’ve pressed the button many times over the past ten years—in daylight and darkness, fair weather and foul—and I never fail to notice the light glowing under the curved plastic. It never goes out.
Mrs. Theodore answers the door, drying her hands with a white dish towel.
“Thank you so much for coming, Father. Please, come in, come in.”
I step inside, greeted by the scents of roasting chicken, furniture polish, and potpourri, but the hints of gardenia flowers and teenage tenderness drifting underneath domestic decorum and familial hospitality affect me deepest.
“Timothy’s so sorry he couldn’t be here with your order earlier. He got caught finishing a last minute job for a school down on the east end, but he should be here within the hour. Can I take your coat?”
“Thank you,” I say, shifting the stack of papers from hand to hand as I slip my arms out of black wool.
“Are those for Lacie?” she asks, nodding at my handful.
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile. “I thought I’d ask her other teachers for the work she missed.”
“That’s so kind of you, Father.” Julia Theodore beams. She and her only daughter have the same hazel eyes, and hers brim with sincere sweetness as she takes my coat.
“You can bring them up to her, if you don’t mind.” She turns to the kitchen and tells me over her shoulder, “Dinner will be ready soon. We’d love for you to join us.”
“Thank you. I’d be happy to.”
Worksheets in hand, I take the stairs to the second floor. Hints of gardenia scented candles deepen with notes of violets and roses the closer I get to Lacie’s room, and with each step my heart thumps with one of a kind fervor.
Turning left down the quiet hallway, I approach her open door and find my reason for coming sitting at her dressing table with her back to me. Facing the mirror, her eyes are down at her lap while she brings her braid over her shoulder.
I’m unable to help my smile as I lean against her door frame. With my presence unnoticed, delicate fingers carefully open the plait they wove in this morning. The gentle lines of her hands arch and extend like they’re playing a stringed instrument while she crosses grey socked feet under bare legs and a grey plaid skirt that matches her socks. Pink lips fit together with perfect calm, and her long lashes lift to her own lovely reflection.
Wide, strong, and innocent hazel eyes stare into themselves for a moment.
And then, a breath.
Her fingers still, and the left corner of her lips curves up. My heart skips a beat as those lips part, giving themselves fully to the expression of warmth I treasure.
She turns to me with that smile, and I want to run to her. I want her to run to me.
I’ve missed her smile so much.
“How did you like Northeastern?” I ask.
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, teeth sliding over glossy, carnation pink as she releases it. Her eyes whisper love, and shyness, but gratitude above all.
“It was really nice. Bigger than I thought. The dorm rooms were tiny, though.
I sigh, but my smile stays as I step into her room. It’s all lavender and cream colored, soft and neat, and the scent I love most is stronger here. Even the carpet feels fuller, thicker, richer under my boots than it did in the hallway, or anywhere else in the house.
I nod for Lacie to go on. Ten days have been far too many spent apart. I want to know everything, and I missed her voice.
“Stonybrook is pretty much out. Their Arts building is totally outdated. But Carnegie Mellon was better than I expected. Really spacious and friendly. I moved it up my list.”
Coming to stand behind her as she speaks, I place the stack of papers on her dressing table. She relaxes her head back as I do so, touching her crown to my hip. It’s barely contact at all, but it’s the first and only we’ve had since before she left, and it makes my head swim.
“It was nice to have time with my mom, even if we were traveling a lot,” she says, quieter, and I think maybe she can feel how deeply I’m drinking of her voice.
“It was too long, though,” she continues, settling her hands in her lap. “I missed being home, and my room, and my brother. I missed school.” She laughs. “I’ve even missed Miss Perrone’s class.”
Chuckling under my breath, I shake my head. No matter how long she’s been away, I find it difficult to believe Lacie missed Advanced Calculus.
“Now, now, love,” I tell her softly.
“I did!” she insists, grinning. “I even missed the cafeteria food!”
“Telling a lie is a sin, Lacie,” I gently remind her.
She hums, and I feel it echo against my hip. It feels so good, I can’t help catching my own smile in our shared reflection. I bring both hands up, one on each of her chair’s white-painted curlicued shoulders, and she finds my eyes in the mirror, warm russet brown on naturally magnetic hazel. Her own gleam, and my heart beats rightness and reason against my chest as her smile parts.
Relaxing her shoulders, letting thin skin stretch over her collarbones, she drops her eyes to her hands. She looks like a Renoir, pale and glowing and mysterious against the midnight-dark canvas of my clerical black.
“So I’ll go to confession.”
Devoted adoration comes out from me in a relieved exhale. I’m wholly beholden to and thankful for the way Our Father has called me. To say I’m grateful to give her this, to be her conduit to Him, is an understatement.
Lifting my right hand from her chair, I trace the elegantly wound waves of her braid all the way down to the open end of it. When I get there, I open my hand for hers.
“Have you other trespasses as well?” I ask with soft-spoken reverence and a receptive soul.
Nodding, setting playfulness aside, Lacie places her palm on mine, and I lift her to stand.
This isn’t the first time we’ve done this. God’s love needs no booth made of oak or cushioned kneeler or screen to speak through. Just our open hearts.
“Forgive me, Father,” the dearest person in the world to me begins with a voice light enough to float on. “For I have sinned.”
She follows me the few steps to her bed, and I sit on its edge. In a rare moment above my eye level, she’s reverent in her admission as I look up.
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
&
nbsp; Taking one slow blink as she inhales, Lacie holds her breath a beat deeper than necessary. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, wiggling grey-socked toes, considering. She parts her lips to speak, but glances at my lap, hesitating.
“Your mother’s invited me to stay for dinner,” I tell her in soft, low sincerity. “She asked me to bring your homework up.” I nod toward the stack of papers behind her and brush my thumb over small, soft knuckles. “Your father isn’t home from work yet. It’s alright.”
Asking her to sit, I lift my eyebrows, and she nods. The open end of her braid sways toward me as tentative fingers find my knees and the warmth of her touch entrusts my heart with a two-fold beat. She pushes with the gentlest effort, and I oblige, parting my knees wide for her.
Bottom lip back between her teeth, she bends little cotton-covered knees as she turns. Sitting on the slight edge of her bed, warm and full against my lap, she brings her braid over her shoulder. She tilts her head back toward me, and when she breathes, I feel the rise in her lungs against my chest.
Surrounded in unconditional love, I bring my humble hands up and place them with honor and graciousness around slender arms. I tilt my head too, more near to hers, and she begins again.
“It’s been two weeks … nearly two weeks since my last confession,” she says, her light voice tinged with shyness.
Better than anyone, I know it has.
“Grace and peace to you from God the Father,” I welcome, my naturally low-toned voice coming from deeper than intended, buried but hinting at nearly two weeks of sleepless nights and restless days of my own.
“I, um …” she pauses, and I can feel her blush warming her skin. “I’ve been wrathful. Marie Celeste said something nasty about me today, that’d I’d been … promiscuous while I was visiting colleges, and I said something nasty back. It was mean, and I’m sorry.”
Nodding, I take a deep breath, and wish it could fill her lungs, too.
Her spine softens the smallest bit, and I exhale over the back of her shoulder. My hands burn to climb the slopes of her arms, to slide over her collarbones and draw her completely to myself, to give into and let her feel how long longing has waited.
But I slip her braid back instead, finding the smooth end of it with my right fingers.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
Her inhale echoes in my ears, soft as capped-candle smoke rising in the dark. Goose bumps appear on her arm, and she shifts her feet against the carpet.
“I stole candy from Mother Superior’s desk this morning,” Lacie continues. “She asked to see me during English to talk about colleges, and I took them when she left to print some copies.”
Smiling to myself, I slowly slide open her plait.
“Were the candies in a little glass dish shaped like a dolphin?” I ask, and she shifts, turning her head to look at me. I slide smooth hazelnut colored strands apart with my fingertips, and when little beloved gives a timid nod, my smile grows. Gesturing for her to keep her eyes forward, I continue with her braid.
“She keeps those on her desk to share,” I inform her, resisting the want to bring her closer and wholly adore her innocent heart. “You didn’t steal them, love.”
Her shoulders relax, but her voice softens to an insistent whisper.
“But I took two.”
Stifling a laugh in good faith, I lean into her to whisper, “I have it on good authority that two candies don’t constitute gluttony.”
Heaven on Earth giggles, and I feel her laugh resonate through every part of myself.
Meticulously twisted strands come easily undone for my touch, leaving her hair in dark waves that intensify the scent of fresh flowers all around me. She tilts her head back toward me, and when I reach the top of her braid, I rub my fingertips along her scalp.
She hums, and with my right hand in her hair, I slide my left down the length of her arm. Curving my palm and fingers around her wrist, I gather her closer.
“Were they good?” I ask, letting my nose and lips brush the back of her ear.
Wrapping herself into my hold, love I’ve spent my life seeking lets the truth out with upturned lips.
“They were stolen. Of course they were good.”
As I let go of it, long hair falls across her back like loose silk, shades of chestnut and licorice whispering together in waves. Keeping one arm around her waist, I lean backward for the wooden paddle brush on her nightstand. Her hair is untangled, but I begin at her crown and take a long stroke downward.
She inhales, and the simple sound of her breath carries His favor.
“Have you anything else to confess?”
My love hums another helpless little hum, but it’s higher. Tilting and turning her face toward mine once more, she shows me lowered lashes, the corners of her pressed together lips, and the pink warmth spreading across her cheek. Lacie stretches her legs, uncurling her toes. She nestles closer, shifting against me, but she doesn’t answer.
“Carissima puella,” I beckon with a hushed call to attention. Beloved girl.
Moving the brush through her hair, I rub her side with my thumb. She lets her head fall back to rest on my chest. It’s undeniably welcome, but also slows my brushing. I have to let go of her middle and use both hands to bring her hair over her shoulder.
She laughs, and it goes right though me.
Like light.
Like grace.
“I thought of you,” she finally admits, bringing her thumbnail to her lips.
Before I can help it, I pull that thumb away and set it in her lap before she can ruin her unpainted but pristinely clean nail. She curls the thumb under her palm, and her effort to be still permeates all of my physical discernment.
“You thought of me when?”
She’s quiet, shifting her jaw and hands and weight, until I bring the brush down the length of her hair again, slower still, drawing a whimper from her throat.
“This morning, when I … when I was …”
She digs her head against my chest, like she’s seeking a place to hide.
“When you were what?” I encourage, bringing the brush back to her crown. “You know you’re safe here, Lacie.”
Her lips part and the sound that comes out is made of absence and insufficiency, missing and pure yearning. She wrings unsteady little fingers together before she speak
“When I was late to my first class. Because I needed to touch.”
My heartbeat thickens. I taste each one under my tongue, and my voice drops to a charcoal whisper.
“Did you heed lustful thoughts?”
She whimpers, eyes closed, trembling at the edge of reticent need.
“I … I just … yes.” Her voice is soft, wrapped. She swallows, and I can feel timidity twisting her fingers together.
I bring my hand from her waist to her neck, laying my fingers with care over skin, bones, breaths, and powder pink rosary beads that make up her gift from me for her very first reconciliation and communion. Just touching, covering and feeling, my unpretentious embrace is rewarded with another sweet hum and her pulse skipping and then soaring under my palm. She arches, and her deep inhale is accompanied by a tempting little note caught between two precious lungs.
My chest expands while my heart swells with and for her confession. My spine straightens and both of my hands bring her closer, holding and reassuring.
“Go on, Lacie.”
Downturned black lashes sip at her pale skin.
“It wasn’t only once, Father.”
She lifts a hand from her lap and bends her more delicate fingers between my own. Clasping them, she brings my hand down, until it’s resting against the pulse that keeps her sacred soul in her blessed body. She leans into me, granting so-desired warmth and pressure against my chest, and when she drops her head back, exposing her neck, the scent of roses opening, and tender skin, and home is almost overwhelming.
“More than once today. Since my last confession, more still.”
Fu
rther turning her head, God’s most cherished gift to me brings both of her hands up to cover mine, covering her heart.
“Since the last time we saw each other …”
Wide open and penitent, sunlit irises find mine. She’s waiting, her lips parted but unspeaking, and I listen to her eyes instead.
I know she’s talking about the night before she left. She’s remembering haste, and need, and shame, black lace and fading footsteps. She’s caught up in the memory of too much, and not enough.
Soundless and deep pupils pour apology into mine, imploring the mercy and pardon and love that are already wrapped around and flowing through both of us.
“It’s all right,” I murmur. “In your heart, you know it’s all right.”
She knows that we should confess and ask forgiveness for all transgressions, be they thought, word, or deed, and that to everyone else, what we have isn’t only prohibited, but profane. This is the heart of Lacie’s struggle: knowing that allowed in anyone else’s eyes or not, her longings are sanctified, the same as mine.
This, here, us—this is pure.
And I want to supplant her fear with sweetness. I want to show her that despite our seeming trespass, this love is safe harbor, not storm.
“Romans Thirteen, Lacie,” I whisper.
Her lashes flutter like little wings while she looks up at her ceiling, searching her memory.
“Love does no harm to its neighbor. Therefore” –I squeeze her fingers with my own, thankful for, proud of, and so fallen into the precious heart that pulses faster at my touch– “Love is the fulfillment of the law.”
I watch as beautiful little wings surrender, and the shy corners of her lips dare to curve up once more.
With her nod, tempered care and cogent need of my own course through my veins. I hold her as close as I can, pressing my heartbeat to hers in effort to show her that what’s between us is God’s gift, and there is no wrong in rejoicing in His giving. I want so much for the rhythm rushing through me to assure her that perfect love casts out fear and doubt, and that absolution had been granted long before she asked.
Light and Wine Page 1
