by Sosie Frost
I knew my brother well enough to realize he told the truth. Didn’t make me feel any better.
“The family’s worried about you,” I said.
Tidus rubbed the scruff on his chin with a calloused hand stained by grease. At least he’d been to the garage before he started drinking. Meant he’d worked on some cars. Made some money. Did something besides destroy himself.
“You know…” His advice was often combined with a punch to the gut. “You might want to take a look in the mirror before you start preaching. Just make sure you do it real slow. Not sure the man staring back is gonna like what he hears.”
Fair enough. “One of us had to say it.”
“And one of us better start believing it.” Tidus chugged half of his beer. “How come the family always gives up on me, but you’re the one there picking up the pieces?”
“No one’s given up on you.”
Tidus helped himself to the macaroni salad. Always hated the stuff, but he was probably buzzed enough that he couldn’t taste it. “You’re not paid to say that anymore, V.”
“There was never much money in the ministry.”
“Don’t tell me you did it for the women.”
I pointed to the dozen casseroles lining the countertops. “Got my pick of the ladies from Green Acres Retirement Home.”
“What a sweet gig—can’t believe you left it.” Tidus eyed me. “Or that you haven’t gone back yet.”
I stared only at my plate. “That part of my life is done.”
“Bullshit.”
I used to correct profanity at the kitchen table, but I let this one pass. “Why don’t you worry about yourself for once, Tidus?”
He smirked. “I’m doing fine.”
“That’s what we always say.” I shrugged. “We’re doing fine until the blood spills.”
“As long as it’s not the whiskey.”
He wasn’t going to escape it—not this time. Not that pinning him down would do any good. Sober Tidus understood the disasters he caused. Drunk Tidus never much cared.
“Were you drunk or high when you came to the christening?” I asked.
“Were you angry or scared that we asked you to do the baptism?”
“I asked you first.”
“Yeah, but my question is better.”
My brother had a skill for irritating even the most patient of men. “At least I stayed awake for it.”
Tidus frowned. “God damn it, V. You gave up the right to preach, but you’re still so fucking sanctimonious. When are you gonna realize you’re no better than me?”
Easy. “When the town bribes you with a dozen different casseroles.”
Tidus leaned back, swiping his plate with a slice of white bread. “Only reason the town’s delivering food is because they think you finally died in the basement.”
I said nothing. My brother shrugged.
“Relieved you didn’t,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“…And?”
Really? “I’m not planning on it.”
“Glad to hear it.” My brother was oddly observant when he wasn’t staring at the bottom of a bottle. “So, who is she?”
“Who is who?”
“You’re still around. Figure there’s a reason. Who is she?”
She was my everything.
And I deserved none of her.
I wasn’t afraid of what Glory would find in me. That darkness wasn’t hidden. It infested me. Consumed me. Destroyed everything that had once made me a decent man. Hope. Happiness. Excitement. For months, I’d been lost in that nothingness.
Then, in an instant, Glory offered me pleasure.
Then joy.
Then anticipation.
She was the first thing I’d felt since that terrible day.
And that made her more dangerous than any rope in the basement.
I focused only on my dinner. Tidus smirked, but he let it go. Tended to be cooperative when he knew he was right.
“I got a call from the Elders,” I said.
My brother wasn’t impressed. “You realize you don’t need to listen to them anymore.”
“I might have to…this time.”
“Unless they’re offering a third Testament, tell them you’re not interested.”
If only it were that simple. “They’re going to close the church.”
His fork stilled. “Our church?”
“Miley put in his resignation, so they checked the records. The congregation shrank the last two years.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“They can’t afford to hire another minister in Butterpond.”
“What the hell are they gonna do?”
I had no idea. “The congregation will have to join the church in Chestnut Mill.”
Tidus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed his plate away. “That’s twenty minutes from here. Most of your parishioners can’t take twenty steps.”
My gut rolled. “I know.”
My brother hesitated. “So?”
“So what?”
“What are you going to do?”
My fork scraped the plate. “I’m going to finish my casserole.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself.”
I grimaced. “I don’t control the diocese.”
“You and I both know you’re not letting a damned thing happen to your church.”
“It’s not my church anymore.”
“Bullshit.”
I didn’t take his bait. “I’m not preaching anymore.”
Tidus groaned. “Every fucking word out of your mouth is a sermon. Problem is—you never listen to your own advice.”
I didn’t believe him.
I couldn’t believe him.
“What do you think I can do for those people?” I asked. “I can’t comfort anymore. Can’t give them direction. I’m a hypocrite if I tell them to pray.”
“Got news for you, preacher. Everyone is a hypocrite.” Tidus wagged his finger. “That’s what makes the world go ‘round. People saying one thing, doing another, then bitching about it the next day. It’s what keeps men like you at the pulpit, and guys like me at the bar.”
I arched an eyebrow. “They closed Renegades when the county went dry.”
“Which is exactly why we can’t lose the church too. Christ. No booze and those busybodies on the prowl means no one in this town will have the balls to leave their basements—especially you.”
The food soured in my stomach. “I can’t start preaching again. Can’t stand myself for doing the work I did for so damned long. I wasted so much time.” My words dried. “Wasted so much hope.”
And I clung to the numbness shielding me from that unrepentant, dark rage clawing at my veins. I could lose hope. But the rest? My sanity? My soul? My life?
Easier to stay numb than to confront that final demon.
And Tidus was the only man who might’ve understood that.
“I know you, V, you might not be preaching, but you’re not gonna let the town suffer.”
He was right. I shrugged. “Depends on your definition of suffering…”
Tidus frowned. “Boils and plagues?”
“More like…song and dance.”
“All Moses needed was a glee club, and Pharaoh would’ve left Egypt himself.”
At least we agreed on something. “Miley had a plan for the Christmas pageant. Crazy fool thought he could make money off the production. He wanted to advertise it as a destination pageant. Have people come from all over the state to see it. Miley figured he’d earn enough money from ticket sales to stash it away in charity or replenish the church’s emergency funds.”
Tidus nearly choked on his rigatoni. “Miley thinks people are gonna pay to see this shitshow?”
“They will. That’s how Butterpond will afford it’s new minister.” I held his gaze. “They’ll need to make enough money to pay for the production and the salary of my replacement.”
Tidus laughed a little too hard. “You remember the other
pageants, right?”
“I do.”
“The drunk wise men?”
“You were a wise man.”
“And I was drunk as a skunk too.”
“You’re always drunk.”
“So was our Jesus.” Tidus hooted. “Remember when Sheriff Samson arrested our Lord and Savior for underage drinking and public indecency while on stage?”
I rubbed my face. “He’d already thrown up his last supper.”
My brother toasted me with his beer, noticed it was empty, and grabbed a new one. “How the hell are you gonna make money off this disaster?”
Too bad I couldn’t sell my soul. Might have been worth something a couple years ago.
Fortunately, I’d concocted a plan. Whether or not it would work depended on if I could survive it. First, I’d need to grovel to Glory for the chance to help her make the production a success. Then, I’d throw out the godforsaken script and write one myself.
And finally, I’d have to protect the church from the disaster left in my wake.
I had a better chance at catching a matinee for the Second Coming, but I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. The church needed me.
Only wished I could do more to undo the pain I’d caused.
“I’ll need your help with set design,” I said.
Tidus swore. “Tell you what. If you survive one week back at the church, I’ll build you a scale model of Bethlehem so realistic every unwed teenager in the county will be lining up to give birth in the manger.”
I grabbed my coat. “Wish me luck.”
“Worried about the congregation?”
No. Just worried about the hell I’d have to pay when I begged Glory for forgiveness.
The woman was sharp as a whip, and it was a miracle she never actually wielded one. She had a skilled tongue, a siren’s dance, and enough confidence to drop a sinner to his knees.
I’d used her to explore a part of me I’d deliberately hidden while preaching. I’d explored the world I’d forsaken, tasted drinks I’d never dared to order, and embraced a woman who lived, breathed, and teased pure sex.
I’d thought I met her at my lowest point. Wrong.
I didn’t hit low until I’d tried to live without her.
And now? I didn’t have a choice. Life had thrust us together. And, for the first time, I hoped I’d survive it.
I arrived at the church in time to comfort two snowmen shedding scarves and carrots as they attempted to flee the building. The rest of the rehearsal threatened to mutiny as well. The schedule on the bulletin board had events scheduled down to the minute, but the a cappella troop wasn’t singing. They huddled in the back of the church, slumped in their pews.
Terrified.
With a trembling finger, Keith McDonald pointed toward the supply room turned director’s office. As the founder of the Stuttering Singers—Butterpond’s first choir for those suffering from speech impediments, ADD, and Tourette’s Syndrome—he took charge, begging for my intervention.
“She wants us to sing in German or Spanish too!” Keith stumbled over his words with a stunned cry. “We can hardly do it in English!”
One only needed to recall the colorful rendition of Amazing Fuck-Titties Grace at the late Mrs. Supinsky’s funeral to understand the problem.
“I’ll talk to Glory,” I said.
“Take the crucifix.” Martha Pendleton, the church’s organist for the past fifty years, thrust a booklet of sheet music at my chest. She lit up her third cigarette though the previous two were still clutched between her fingers. “Hopefully you can play the organ, Pastor V. Always thought a pack of wild dogs would have to rip me away from the bench. Apparently, it just took one bossy bitch…”
She disappeared in a puff of smoke and the gasp of a trio of scandalized angels. The door slammed behind her. An Ebenezer Scrooge escaped as well, dragging the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present with him.
Fantastic. In the span of a week, Glory had turned the Christmas spirit into a holiday poltergeist.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
I ordered the rehearsal to take a five-minute break and some well-deserved hot cocoa while I braved a trek into the supply room.
She answered the knock with a bit of seasonal blasphemy.
“Sweet baby Jesus!” Glory’s fury would have melted the snow lining the church windows if it hadn’t been sprayed on with the wrong type of paint. “If Clayton is stuck in that fake fireplace again, so help me God his ass will stay trapped in those bricks!”
The door couldn’t swing open. My once pristine supply closet had exploded with holiday clutter. Every manner of costume layered the shelves and boxes that once housed extra Bibles, hymnals, and the Sunday school’s wayward hamster. Now, Christmas sweaters and shepherds’ hooks, disco balls and angel wings littered the space. Gold and silver glitter coated every surface that wasn’t already stained by a rather Eastery shade of pink paint.
Wet pink paint.
I grimaced and attempted to wipe away the garish handprint on the door. It was the least of our concerns. Jesus’s tunic had suffered more than the floors and walls. Somehow, his costume had been sewed into a lifelike animal hide. Would make for a unique retelling of his arrival to Jerusalem on top of a reindeer with a glowing nose.
But no disaster would be complete without the centerpiece of catastrophe.
Glory had failed to organize the fifty-foot strand of Christmas lights and instead tangled herself within the twinkling LEDs. The lights wrapped over her arms, legs, waist, and strayed precariously close to her neck. She gave a hobble, gasped as the lights wound between her ankles, and nearly fell over.
I’d be forever damned for desiring to unwrap that beautiful Christmas surprise.
Her voice hardened. “Get out.”
Glory was in no position to make demands. The lights bound her hands and feet, and every jerk of her hips tightened the bindings. Her hair fell from a once pristine bun, casting over her chiseled cheeks in a crimson kiss. The white LEDs teased her dark skin, dazzling me with naughty tidings.
“What are you doing here?” Glory asked.
I surveyed the lights with a smirk. “Would you believe I’m finally getting into the holiday spirit?”
“Bah, humbug.”
“All you need is a star on top.”
“You come at me with any ornament, and I’ll show you where to stuff it.”
I laughed. “Can’t imagine why the congregation is calling you a grinch.”
Glory puffed at the lock of hair dangling before her face. It was a mistake, but I gently swept the curl away, tucking it behind her ear.
The warmth of her skin burned my hand. Hellfire, probably, so why did I love it so much?
Glory hobbled backward and attempted to shed the lights from her shoulders. “Don’t tell me the Whos from Whoville begged you to intervene.”
Another three casseroles had been delivered during the night. My cholesterol was up, but their morale was down.
“I came of my own volition,” I said.
“What’s wrong, preacher?” Glory’s beautiful laugh raked over my skin. Such lovely pain. “Are you worried I’m destroying the sanctity of Christmas?”
“More worried about the sanctity of theater.”
“Great. I didn’t just sleep with a minister. I fucked a critic.”
“I had nothing to criticize that night, Glory.”
“What about the next morning?” She frowned. “Didn’t get to hear your thoughts on the matter before you split.”
“Would you listen now?”
“Absolutely not. What the hell are you doing here, V?”
I gestured around a supply closet turned Broadway landfill. “I’ve decided to help.”
“Little late, don’t you think?”
“Miracles happen.”
Glory hummed. “What’s wrong? Think I’m gonna start pole dancing around a giant candy cane?”
It was a particularly divine image. “I didn’t know tha
t was an optional show.”
Was she amused, or did she measure me for the kill? “I only offered that routine on Sundays. Seems you’re usually busy those days.”
“Not during this last year.”
“And how was I supposed to know that?” She shimmied, but the lights wound tighter into a knot. “You didn’t tell me anything about who you were. Not your name. Not where you lived. Not what you were supposed to be doing on the weekends.”
No sense looking away, not when my stare already fixed on the most frustratingly beautiful woman in the world. “I thought you wanted it that way, Glory.”
“That was before I twerked for a minister.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
Her voice hardened. “Never said I did. But you should have been honest with me.”
“Would you have believed me?” I asked. “That I lost my faith and found my purpose in you?”
The lights twinkled as her scowl deepened. “Don’t start, V. You fooled me once—”
“—I never lied to you.”
“It was a mistake to get involved with you.”
I gently reached for the lights, slowly unraveling the strand from her shoulders. “Was it so bad?”
“It was worse.”
I’d never met a person as honest as me. The truth often complicated everything. Made things messy. Burdened too many souls.
Glory went still as my hands grazed her skin. “When I first met you…I knew you were a man who needed a little help.”
“And now?”
“Now I know you’ll never ask for the help you need.”
I breathed in the sweet, tempting scent of her. A simple pleasure, undeserved. “You were all I needed, Glory. A touch. A kiss.”
“Stop.” She struggled against the lights, swaying backward and nearly crashing into a talking, novelty Christmas tree.
“You ghosted me. You used me, left me without a word, and would’ve disappeared forever, if my ass hadn’t bounced into the town that talent forgot. You wanted to keep it uncomplicated?” She couldn’t shove me away, but her arched eyebrow dared me to make a foolish move. “You got your wish.”
Fair enough. “Then let me help you with this pageant.”
She rolled her eyes. “I thought you were done with the church?”
“I stopped preaching—not caring.”
She wiggled her fingers and managed to loosen the strand. Even tangled in a multitude of lights, covered in paint, and dusted with glitter, the woman breathed poise.
