by Sosie Frost
And my family settled near the altar upfront, dressed in their Sunday finest, looking perturbed.
Cassi stormed to me, her hair and nails perfect, matching a beautiful gown. Entirely too formal for a christening, and about two inches of heels too much for my little sister. She pushed her fingers into her ears as three harpists attempted a rendition of the only Beatles song that ever made me resent both Christmas and England.
“Can you believe this?” she asked. “We rented the chapel for Max’s baptism. This is our space.”
I pointed upward. “Pretty sure this is His space.”
“Cut the shit, V. Even Jesus respected the community sign-up sheet. You think he did the Sermon on the Mount without making sure the hill wasn’t reserved for racquetball?”
She wasn’t wrong—Butterpond had only two laws chiseled in stone. The first was an on-street parking ordinance that had nearly caused its own schism. The second—the rules for reserving the chapel and social hall.
Thou shalt not register an event without express written sign-ups and a copy of the cancelled check.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked. “It’s not my church anymore.”
Cassi huffed. “Well, little Miss Booty Shorts over there seems to think that all this…” She spread her hands out. “Is hers. Tell her to stop the rehearsal. We need to do the christening.”
I’d already searched for Glory, but she and her booty shorts hid somewhere in the hall. A rare blessing. It was hard enough returning to the church, but the think of the mistake I’d made, letting myself taste her, hold her…
My faith had once filled me with joy. Without it, I was empty. But in Glory, I’d surrendered to passion and lust over absolution and submission.
And I’d loved every terrible minute of it.
A demon of desire might have stolen my soul, but my heart belonged only to Glory, broken and hollow as it was. For the first time in years, it wasn’t the church that terrified me.
It was her.
Where she was. What she might have been thinking. How badly I’d hurt her.
We needed to talk. I needed to run.
And Glory needed to hire sound engineers who weren’t wearing hearing aids.
The speakers crackled. An elderly woman sputtered and slapped the microphone with a frown. She shouted loud enough for the microphone to squeal.
Her voice pierced the chapel. “Which button?”
An elderly man answered for her, slamming a hand over a variety of buttons without regard for which slide adjusted the bass, which button negated the treble, and which prerecorded sound effects he happened to re-record. What had been an applause became a honking clearing of his throat. A bright Hallelujah reworked into a belch. And the cheerful amen resonated his grumbling question, “Are we supposed to be touching this?”
“You’re gonna break it.” The woman’s voice blasted through the speakers.
The old man snorted. “Push that button on the right, Alice.”
“They’re all light!”
The sound system popped as his arm smacked the speaker. A mug of coffee overturned onto the soundboard.
He hollered loud enough to negate the use of a microphone. “It’s the bluish button!”
“The Jewish button?” The woman paused. “Is that this one…with the tip of the switch lopped off?”
Another squeal from the soundboard and a merciful Magi kicked the plug from the outlet. But it was too late. My nephew wailed a shrill, helpless cry which drowned out the parishioners arguing over the board.
Julian and Micah collapsed into the pews. Battle worn and exhausted, my oldest brother slouched, one arm over the pew before him, the other gently rocking the baby’s carrier. His wife, however, did her best to look post-modern and post-partum. Designer clothes. Perfect nails. Curled hair. Micah’s dark skin contrasted the cream dress that offered her a stylish, sophisticated look that did not belong in Butterpond.
Despite denying her complete and total exhaustion, she’d accidentally worn two different shoes. This fact was discovered as Max began to cry, and mommy seemed ready to crumble as well.
I’d watched Julian conquer a broken back. Stood by him as he suffered in silence through a career ending injury that had lost him not only a multimillion-dollar contract, but any opportunity to play professional football. He’d worked without complaint as he returned to the farm and did all he could to get up and running again.
But today? My brother looked broken. He needed to sleep. I wasn’t sure he was awake now.
He grumbled, unaware that the program for last week’s service now stuck to his forehead. “Can we just get this over with? How long does a baptism take?”
Depended on how easily they could convince Miley to return to the church or how badly Glory had scarred him. Only God knew which was worse. I glanced over the chapel, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the parishioners. No Miley.
No Glory either.
Where was she hiding?
“Depends on the type of service you want…” I flinched as one of the Carols swayed a little too close to the stained-glass window. “Miley gets preachy when it comes to establishing godparents.”
Then again, I couldn’t imagine Miley returning to the Nativity scene of the crime. Not while eight teenagers texted, five geezers grouched, four toddlers tantrumed, and the pear tree precariously teetered off the stage.
Julian cleared his throat. “About that, V—"
“I need a picture of me kissing the baby.” My brother Marius stormed down the aisle, dodging a wayward Judas searching for his misplaced bag of silver. He skipped the formalities of polite conversation to grab his nephew, sling him into his arms, and pose for a cheesy, staged photo for his election campaign. His girlfriend snapped the picture, and he handed the baby to Micah. “Thanks, kid.”
Julian scowled. “Saw the new campaign slogan. Whose idea was Booze and Babies?”
Marius, a former Navy seal and current candidate for Butterpond Mayor, expertly hid his grimace as he sat, almost moving naturally with the prosthetic. “That would be Gretchen’s master plan.”
“We wanted something to…resonate with the town,” Gretchen said.
My youngest brother, Quint, snickered. “Booze wasn’t enough?”
Gretchen peeked over Micah’s shoulder and coo’d at the baby. “Women between the ages of eighteen and sixty-five absolutely love to see a man with the baby. We’ve run the demographics.” She patted her own swelling tummy. “And I’ve learned that from experience.”
That was true. After losing his leg—and his mind in falling for Gretchen—Marius decided to settle down, start a family, and run for office. Unfortunately, he’d approached these new challenges with the mentality of a soldier. He wasn’t trying to knock Gretchen up—it was an invasion. He wasn’t canvassing—he was marching. His wasn’t a campaign for mayor—he interrogated the citizens of Butterpond and used sophisticated tactics to ensure their votes.
And when bamboo shoots and waterboarding didn’t test well with certain demographics, he changed slogans.
“Booze and babies,” Marius shrugged. “Figure I’ll reopen the bars…”
Gretchen burst out of the pew with a dizzying smile. “And I’ll help start new programs for the youth of Butterpond! Preschool programs. Sports. Art clubs. I’ve got a million ideas!”
“How many of them involve geese?” Micah’s eyebrow rose.
Gretchen hesitated. “Okay. I’ve got a couple hundred thousand ideas!”
She was a cute little psychopath. A brilliant, quirky staple of the Butterpond community, like the herd of irrationally angry geese that harassed and assaulted every resident who happened to approach the municipal park. As the town’s only geese police officer, Gretchen spent her days patrolling the community ponds and ensuring a goose-free experience. But with Marius’s election on the horizon, she’d switched from managing water fowl to running a campaign.
The municipal waterways were now as dangerous as the
campaign trail.
“We just gotta run Mayor Desmond out of town first,” Gretchen said.
Marius, the former Navy SEAL, snickered. “I know a couple tricks.”
Gretchen sighed. “Nothing bloody, sailor.”
“No promises.”
“Okay…” She squealed over the baby once more and hurried from the pew. “Don’t start the baptism without me—I’m a couple hours late for my morning sickness. I’ll be right back.”
Gretchen whistled, calling for a black and white border collie. Her dog barked, crashing through the pageant rehearsal, knocking over a gallon of paint onto a toddler dressed as a snowflake. Gretchen winced.
“Sorry about that!” She waved towards a shrieking parent dressed as a Christmas tree. “Vote Payne for Mayor!”
Her dog bounded into the pew, covered in a sweater made of cotton balls and a bucket of glitter. The dog had turned from a shepherd into a sheep for the production. Marius sneezed as the dog shook a cloud of glitter from his fur.
Micah watched Gretchen scamper away. “Oh God. I think I’d trade some sleep for Gretchen’s morning sickness.”
Julian yawned. “You never had problems sleeping with morning sickness.”
“No, cowboy,” she said. “You never had problems sleeping when I had morning sickness.”
“To be fair…” Julian took one look at his wife, realized luck wasn’t on his side, and played it smart. “Princess…how about a truce? We’ll fight once Max is sleeping through the night.”
She sighed a heavy breath. “Deal.”
Julian kissed her fingers, and she snuggled in against him. Crisis averted, at least, until the enemies-in-love saddled up for their next quarrel.
Quint, silent as he watched the rehearsal with his charming blend of curiosity, perception, and confusion, gave a hum. As the production shifted from a reverent, solo rendition of Silent Night and transitioned into a 1950s doo-wop interpretation of Amazing Grace, Quint braced the family for what was sure to be his declaration of the ages.
“Hey, V? You think Mary had morning sickness?”
And there it was. “…Why?”
“Seems like a dick move to give her morning sickness on top of everything else.”
Marius did the honors, swatting Quint’s head. “We’re in church, dip shit. Don’t swear.”
Quint apologized with a sheepish grin, revealing the dimples he’d inherited from Mom. “I’m just saying. First an angel knocks her up—”
I cringed. “—It wasn’t an angel—”
“—Then she gives birth like a cow in a barn.” He elbowed Marius. “Or an alpaca during a wedding.”
Marius snorted. “Yeah. Gross.”
“See?” Quint shrugged. “And I bet you they didn’t have epidurals back then, did they?”
“Didn’t mention it in seminary,” I said.
“Seems like the least God could have done was give her an easy, morning sickness free pregnancy.”
Cassi returned to the pews, holding the hands of both of Rem’s nieces as they struggled to move in snowflake costumes made of Styrofoam. She gave Quint a strange look.
“And what do you know about pregnancy?” she asked.
Julian answered for him, his voice edged in warning. “A hell of a lot more than you better know, that’s for damn sure.”
Cassi stiffened, pointing at each one of us with an accusing finger. “I am not pregnant. Please remember that for later.” She protested as Rem hauled her into a pew before Julian and Marius rose to defend her honor. “I don’t want there to be any…problems.”
Too late. Where the Paynes traveled, trouble followed.
Julian eyed Rem with an exhausted, irritable glance. “Speaking of problems…where’s Tidus?”
Quint lost his smile. He pointed two pews back. “Not sure if he’s in one piece, but he should be sober enough to see the kid.”
I’d always considered the church a sanctuary for anyone in need. Unfortunately, the person who needed it the most was my brother, Tidus. And right now, my brother also needed a slap to the face, a toothbrush, and the ability to stand on his own.
Rem did the honors, rubbing an arm around a drunken Tidus and dragging him closer to the family. It wasn’t a Payne reunion without arguments, bloodshed, and public drunkenness. The tradition extended to baptisms as well.
Cassi’s heart broke in an instant as she struggled to wake Tidus up. “What’s wrong with him now?”
Remington Marshall, a man who, in any other lifetime, might have ended up in the gutter next to his best friend, hauled his nieces onto his lap and shrugged.
“He’s gotta sleep it off. He’ll be okay.”
Cassi didn’t believe him. Neither did I. How many more years would Rem make excuses for his friend? He’d been doing it since grade school. Hell, he’d joined that downward spiral in high school and after, and it was only by the grace of God that he sobered up, left town, and returned five years later to take custody of his nieces.
And to steal my sister’s heart again.
At least he had Cassi now. Tidus didn’t have that stabilizing influence in his life. Just had the bar, and now that it was closed, God only knew what vice he’d abuse.
“Is he alive?” Julian asked.
Cassi sunk into the pew next to him and squeezed his hand. “For now.”
The family quieted as Gretchen returned. Marius popped from his pew so fast he nearly lost his real leg in the shelf with the hymnals. After taking so long to conceive, neither of them dared to jeopardize anything about her pregnancy. He helped her into the seat, Ambrose cuddled against her leg, and Micah handed her a stick of gum. Gretchen thanked her with a smile.
“Did we ask V yet?” She glanced around. “Did he agree?”
My brothers tensed.
So did I.
“Agree…to what?” I loathed the question.
None of the Paynes were subtle—and I knew them better than they knew themselves. Cassi suffered from her endless optimism. Julian wrestled with a damnable pride. Marius—wrath, but Gretchen was helping him improve. Tidus drank so much his blood would be banned in the dry county. And Quint had yet to take anything in life seriously—including the diabetes he treated with candy bars and crossed fingers.
Despite their flaws, the family had survived countless miseries, from the destruction of the farm’s barn to Mom’s death to Dad’s depression and terminal diagnosis. We’d made it work, carefully constructing family events around platitudes and small talk.
The problems only began when the family worked together and attempted to function like a loving, trusting unit.
Which had been happening entirely too often.
And I was the idiot who had encouraged that solidarity.
Cassi took the initiative. She squeezed my hand and batted her eyelashes. The baby of the family had that power over us, and it was infinitely cuter than when Quint attempted it.
“Pastor Miley wasn’t available for the christening,” she said. “We were hoping…”
A fierce whistle silenced the rehearsal. Glory sauntered from the back offices, wiping paint from her hands onto her dark booty shorts. Bright yellow handprints slapped her behind, highlighting the miracle curves that would have quieted the men in the production even without her call to order.
I breathed deep. The air turned hot in my lungs. My thoughts burned away, simmered in the dread of lust.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“Hoping…?” I asked.
Julian stood. “Wondering…”
Glory’s eyes danced across the chapel. The heat of her stare met mine—a boiling flash of rage, hurt, and desire. She’d never accept an apology.
And I owed her so much more than that.
I ignored my brother for as long as I could. “Wondering…?”
Micah stood by his side, wrapping her arm around his. “V, it would mean so much to all of us.”
Silence.
I frowned, blinking, breaking away from
the vision that was Glory. My family awaited my answer with hushed breaths.
Great. What did I miss?
“What is it you wanted?” I asked.
“We wanted you to…” Julian shrugged. “You know. For Max.”
I fought the urge to turn as Glory’s melodically seductive voiced commanded the pageant’s attention.
“I don’t understand.”
Julian nodded. “We didn’t invite Miley to do the ceremony.”
My stomach pitted. I backed away, my knee slamming into a pew.
Quint slapped my shoulder and gestured towards the altar. “We wanted you to do the…you know…Splish, splash.”
Right. Splish-splash, the prophetic words of John the Baptist in the river Jordan.
Hell no.
“You want me to do the baptism?”
Julian was brave enough to look me in the eye. “You’re his uncle, V. Who better to do it?”
Anyone. “How about a practicing member of the clergy?”
Quint grinned. “They’re overrated. Give me some of that local, homegrown talent.”
“We’re talking about baptizing a baby, not sampling a microbrew.”
That, Tidus heard. He sat up, rubbed his face, and grumbled. “Don’t drink that hipster shit. Be a man. Pour the whiskey.”
We’d had enough blasphemy in the church without inviting the demon of my brother’s alcoholism. “Tidus, I’m driving you home. You can sleep it off.”
Cassi dove for Tidus before he lurched out of the pew. “Careful. All we need is for you to get sick.”
Tidus shrugged. “I try not to vomit before noon.”
“It’s three.”
“Right on schedule then.”
Enough of this. I backed away from the pews, accidentally bumping into a passing caravan of Christmas lights, tinsel, and yet more glitter.
What was it with strippers and glitter?
“Why would you ask me to do this?” I hardly recognized my family. And that was fine. They didn’t recognize me either. “Never known you to be that cruel.”
Julian set his jaw. Had a bad habit of looking a little too much like Dad when he got pissed. “We need you. We don’t want to put off the christening any longer. Why the hell can’t you do it?”
