by Sosie Frost
They’d said that angels were blessed with patience, and Lucifer cursed by pride.
So what sort of creature possessed this stolen divinity?
“You need the help,” I said. “It’s a miracle Miley wasn’t run out of the congregation months ago.”
“I’m not Miley.” Glory unraveled herself with a bump of her hips. “I can handle myself and this town.”
“You have no idea what to expect,” I said. “We’re talking about a congregation so rooted in tradition they cried heresy when the wrong cookies were served after the service. It was by God’s grace Miley wasn’t stuffed into a coffee carafe after that mistake.” I silenced her laugh with a raised hand. “Two years ago, the woman’s group flipped the money table at the church’s annual yard sale because the raffle seemed too much like gambling.”
“Jesus,” Glory muttered.
“Even he’d have a difficult time with this pageant…” I pointed to my head. “You know…because of the long hair.”
“Is that why you quit preaching?”
Some secrets were better left unsaid, lost in the dark and quiet of a forgotten hotel room.
“It wasn’t their fault,” I said. “But you will need someone to help you with them. And the rest of the production.”
“And you’re all I get?” Glory frowned.
“A blessing in disguise.”
“I’ve seen what’s under that disguise, preacher.”
Dangerous words. Dangerous thoughts. “Still remember me?”
“Heaven help me, V, but you’re a hard man to forget.”
And the truth of it broke my heart. “What can I do? Have you finished casting? Made the programs? Approached the town to secure advertisers?”
Glory snorted. “Are you kidding? You think I’ve had time for that?”
That didn’t sound good. “Then…what have you done?”
“Well, I mediated an end to the choir’s hunger strike with a well-timed pizza delivery. Then I blew their progress after cutting Mary Did You Know from the production. Now they’re staging a silent protest by marching around Butterpond with duct tape over their lips.”
“I’ll work with them.”
Glory sighed. “Want to deal with the rest? My Joseph is a functioning alcoholic, the Ironfield zoo refuses to loan me a camel, and the preschoolers made a collage out of my reimbursable receipts. Then yesterday, three women got into a fist-fight over the chance to perform the invocation.” She paused. “So, no, V. I haven’t done anything with the programs yet.”
This woman deserved more than her exhausted scowl.
And, for the longest time, I couldn’t imagine Glory feeling anything but the honest, toe-curling pleasure I offered her. My angel would lead me straight to Hell—a perfect dark goddess of my own destruction.
I’d imagined her in my bed, in my arms, dancing for me and me alone on a stage bathed in holy light.
But now she was here.
Real.
Tangled in Christmas lights, her nail polish chipped, with bits of masking tape stuck to her behind from an unfortunate brush against wet scenery.
So why hadn’t the spell broken?
How did she so easily mesmerize me?
My thoughts darkened with sin, and lust corrupted my soul.
And yet her kiss promised such beautiful redemption I would have risked eternity for the grace of her lips.
“V…” Glory breathed a quiet warning. “What do you want with me?”
The lights cast her body in brightness and shadow. It suited her. Her curves were so often illuminated in the electric glow of pinks and blues that the white LEDs haloed her in radiance.
“Why are you here?” I whispered. “Why now?”
Her voice lowered. “I should ask you the same question.”
“I thought I’d lost you.”
She tensed. “You did, V.”
“But here you are.”
I guided the lights off her arms, freeing her from the brightness with a gentle pull. Our bodies nearly touched.
This time, I tempted desire. Teased myself with the promise of her warmth, softness, and utter pleasure. I’d lost myself within this woman once. Given to her completely. And I’d surrendered more than my body.
I’d lost my soul when I took her, and I prayed she’d be merciful with it.
Glory stared at me, her eyes a pure brilliance without the shades and heavy makeup she used to hide upon the stage. Thick lashes slowly blinked as her gaze settled on my lips.
“We can’t let ourselves do this.”
“You think I’m strong enough to resist you?”
“You have no idea how badly I need this job, V.” Her words warmed through me. “I won’t let anything jeopardize it. Not Miley leaving. Not a tone-deaf cast. And definitely not a man like you.”
“And what sort of man am I?”
Her lips parted. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“I’ll be whoever you tell me to be.”
I tugged the lights closer. Glory braced her hands on my chest, but the touch was all I needed. I hardened. Wickedly. Unrepentantly.
And, for an instant, she was mine once more.
I stole her kiss with a wild growl, welcoming the heat surging through my blood. Numb no longer. That cold, heavy weight of nothingness incinerated in a heartbeat.
I’d burn forever for her.
But Glory pushed away, gasping a quiet profanity and nearly tumbling backwards against the snarl of lights binding her knees.
“No.” Glory panicked. “What the hell are we doing?”
“Hell has nothing to do with it.”
She gave a sharp laugh. “Hell has everything to do with it. Varius, if anyone finds out how we know each other…I’ll lose this job. And you—”
I couldn’t disappoint the people of the town any more than I already had. “No one will know about us.”
“There is no us. They would never understand. We just need to get through this pageant without raising suspicions. If anyone asks, we are complete strangers. We’ve never met. We’ve never talked. We’ve never…”
“Made love?”
A thin amusement layered her voice. “I thought I wasn’t a woman who ever made love.”
I had no other words for the perfection. “Then tell me what we did.”
“We made a mistake.”
“You’ve never made a mistake in your life.”
Glory smirked. “And I won’t admit to one now. If you want to help me, then help me. Just forget about me.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“You have to.”
“Why?”
The door opened. A high-pitched squeal bubbling excitement echoed from the hall. Little hands beat against the wood, and Glory rushed forward before sticky fingers grabbed the costumes.
A tiny bundle of smiles and energy bounced into Glory’s arms.
A little girl. A toddler with mocha skin, fawn eyes, and a puff of curly hair wrapped into a perfect ballerina’s bun on the top of her head. A flashy, pink leopard print leotard stretched over her chubby tummy and legs, and the frilly tutu perfected the little diva’s ensemble.
I stumbled backwards as the child thrust her hand into Glory’s face and pointed to a tiny finger.
“Ouchie!” Her pout perfectly mirrored Glory’s. “Lulu bite!”
A heartbeat passed, and Glory’s toughened exterior melted, revealing a warmth and gentleness she’d hidden from the stage, the world, and even me.
“Uh-oh!” She gave the child’s finger a kiss. “Lulu, who bit you?”
The girl scrunched her face into a giggle. “Me!”
To demonstrate, she nibbled on her finger once more before presenting her hand to Glory. The smile dropped, the weepy frown returned, and she pleaded once more for comfort.
“Kiss!”
This wasn’t fair.
I slipped away, knocking over a stack of sheet music. Lulu stomped her feet, admonishing me with a quick wag of h
er not-so-injured finger.
“Careful!” She shamed me with such a familiar glance that I nearly crumbled to my knees. “Mess!”
Glory shushed her. She hauled the toddler into her arms. Her expression revealed a quiet guilt, but my shock had already stolen the questions I might have asked.
“You…weren’t the only one with a secret, V,” Glory said. “I didn’t take this job because I wanted to aneurysm my way through Jingle Bells. I need the money.”
The darkness fell around me. That sinister, terrible nothingness that had broken my heart, shredded my soul, and reduced me to the numb pain of nightmare.
I stared at the little girl, but Glory, the church, the present was lost once more to the endless storm, rains, and winds that beat at my mind.
In that moment, I lost myself to the misery.
The grief.
The loss.
And even as Glory smiled, even as the most beautiful woman in the world placed a gentle kiss on the darling cheeks of a perfect angel, the echo of that pain clawed my throat, gouged my eyes, and lashed my skin.
Glory teased the girl with a giggle, but she didn’t apologize for the secrets. Didn’t look away.
“V…” She introduced us with a smile. “This is Lulu…my daughter.”
6
Glory
The town of Butterpond lived in terror of the Virgin Mary.
I didn’t blame them. The woman armed herself with a Bible, cane, and seventy-five years of righteous indignation. And while the scriptures never specifically mentioned it, I didn’t remember the angels cowering in fear when they delivered the Annunciation onto Mary.
Maybe the good book just left out the important details—like when the mother of our Lord and Savior cracked the knuckles of a teenaged Gabriel and threatened eternal damnation on his friends for chewing gum in the presence of a lady.
Aiden was the third Gabriel we’d cast. And likely, he wouldn’t be the last. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance against Agatha Barlow, reprising her role for what had to be her millionth performance of the Virgin Mary. But, even in her twilight years, the Widow Barlow presented her interpretation with grace, poise, and only a touch of gout.
The teenaged boy delivered his lines from across the stage. Might as well have been across all of Bethlehem. Aiden was wise to stay beyond whacking distance of her cane. He offered the joyous news with a tremble in his voice, a bruise spreading across his knuckles, and his wrinkled wings twisted over his chest to protect his tender ribs from further prodding.
“M-Mary…” He clutched himself instead of the plastic harp. “God has f-favored you.”
The Widow Barlow’s cane slammed against the stage. The echo rocked the church, jolting awake the stagehands lying in the pews. With a scowl, Mary judged them all with a harsh shake of her head.
“Shame on all of you, falling asleep in a church!” She eyed the boy with a grunt. “And you. Speak up when you’re talking to an elder! Making a woman of my years strain to hear. No manners. None at all.”
Gabriel fretted, shifting his weight from sneaker to sneaker. Stage fright usually meant the actor was afraid of the audience, not his castmates.
“G-God has favored you with a child.”
The scenery crew did the dirty work for me, corralling Gabriel back into the same dimension as Mary with a conspicuously placed mock camel. Mary did the rest, hooking the boy with her cane and dragging him into the spotlight.
“You will bear a b-baby boy, and name him Jesus,” Gabriel murmured.
“Eh?” Mary cupped a hand to her ear. “What’s that?”
“A baby boy! Jesus!”
“Lord have mercy, child. Stand up straight.” Mary frowned. “Slouching like a fool. Don’t you have any respect for yourself?”
“Sorry, m-ma’am.”
Technically, Gabriel was a celestial being of indeterminate age, power, and righteousness. And Mary, at least, according to the script, was a young girl—meek, mild, and gentle.
No one was buying it. Literally. Not a single ticket had been sold.
At least Widow Barlow had stopped threatening the angels with a freshly cut switch and a solid whipping over her knees.
“Speak up, boy!” Mary interrupted him once more.
Aiden gave up. He sucked in a breath and rambled the rest of his lines. “Godhaschosenyouandyouhaveearnedhisfavorbenotafraidyouwillhavethesonofgodcauseyouareblessed.” He ripped his wings off and pleaded with me. “Can I go home now, please? I’ll be late for dinner.”
This displeased the mother of God. I called to the crew before her cane rose again.
“That was good for today,” I said. “We’ll…pick it up later this week.”
The wings didn’t flap, but that didn’t stop Aiden from taking a running leap off the stage. The harp clattered to the floor, the wings tangled in the pews, and the boy was gone.
Probably for good.
Christ, the part was for Gabriel, not Job. How much torment could one widow inflict?
“In my day…” Widow Barlow smacked her thin lips. “Children had respect for their directors. And directors…” Her eyebrow rose. “Could manage their casts.”
I’d already bribed the lighting crew to stay an extra hour with the promise of donuts. What else was I supposed to manage?
“Then again…” She murmured loud enough for all to hear. “The directors were usually members of this congregation, not women of…questionable morals.”
She had no idea. Despite her best efforts and gossip-mongering, she hadn’t learned the truth about me. And, God willing, she never would.
I pushed off the stage and checked on Lulu, delighting herself by changing the settings on my iPhone into an indecipherable language. Her chubby fingers pressed a variety of exciting, brightly colored boxes on the screen. Fortunately, I’d remembered to delete the Ebay app. Unfortunately, that was a harsh three-hundred-dollar lesson learned via a bid on a broken Kitchen Aid mixer.
Still, my two-year-old daughter recognized a wallet when she saw one. I’d taught her well.
But the money was drying up. Three weeks of living in a hotel tended to decimate one’s savings. I hadn’t thought we’d be away from home for this long, but until I felt safe, I wasn’t risking it.
Besides, another couple of weeks and the cast would be off, the production would be over, and we could get back to normal.
Whatever that was.
My baby was tired. Her eyes drooped, as did her ponytail. So much for my perfect little ballerina. The tutu went flying along with her Cheerios. I had a good ten minutes until the whining began, fifteen from the pouting, and twenty from the full-on tantrum.
If I timed it right, we could slip out before my precious toddler turned into a primed nuclear warhead. I hurried to the stage as the Widow Barlow waited patiently for an escort down the stairs. With a forced smile, I offered her my elbow. Her dark, gnarled fingers beelined for my left hand. She flipped the palm over twice, examined a bare ring-finger, and nodded.
“That one is your child,” she said.
It wasn’t a question. Which was good. I had no patience to give a real answer.
“No, she’s a loaner. Thought we might need a cherub to put on top of the Christmas tree.”
The widow slowed her steps. “Don’t you sass me, young lady.”
“Then don’t you judge me, ma’am.”
The cane rose, tightened in her hand, then plunked onto the stage. She slowly descended the stairs with my help.
“It’s not right for a woman to raise a child alone,” she said.
I agreed, but sometimes it was worse for a mother to stay. “A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.”
She hmphed. “Seems to me, a good woman would’ve done things right before.”
“If wishes were horses, ma’am, we wouldn’t have so many jackasses to deal with.” I prided myself on her scandalized smile. “Besides, if I hadn’t done things the wrong way, the good Lord wouldn’t have blessed me with a d
aughter.”
The widow frowned. “Wouldn’t have given you so much trouble either.”
“Hardship makes a woman.”
The widow hummed. “And how much hardship have you endured, Miss Hawkins?”
“You wanna swap war stories?”
I didn’t expect her to laugh. “A woman doesn’t get to be my age without solving her share of problems.” She stared at me, hard. “But any poor sinner can survive. Takes a good woman to make her way in the world while retaining her virtue and dignity. That’s how a soul gets saved.”
I winked. “I’ve never been one to wait around for a rescue.”
“That’s what I feared.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Apparently not,” she said. “Women like us don’t need a rescue…but what would a woman like you do with someone who is desperate to be saved?”
I shouldn’t have followed her gaze. The widow stared at Varius.
Then again, so did I.
Every second of every blasted day. When he worked in the church, helped the choir, hauled the bulky scenery pieces around the stage. I couldn’t help but tremble when his heavy, solemn stare found me and set me on fire with every terrible, sinful memory of his touch, kiss, body…
For a man who swore he wasn’t part of the church anymore, it sure was a part of him. He saw everything in the congregation, from the conflicts and misery to the joy and celebrations. He knew every soul who stepped foot in his chapel, and he sure as hell recognized the one who didn’t belong.
Me.
I’d never known someone with such confidence—especially about his own flaws. His words, his movements, even his sins were presented with absolute humility and honesty. He seemed a man who detested lies and secrets, and yet he denied the truth to himself.
He wasn’t a bad man.
But he punished himself for it anyway.
So why did that make me want him more?
Hiding our relationship, denying that pleasure, ignoring the pain was the right thing to do. And if the fifty-seventh playthrough of the all-trombone rendition of Jingle Bell Rock hadn’t chased me from the not-so-easy paycheck yet, then no sexy ex-minister with whispered promises and a devil’s tongue would force me away.
