by Sosie Frost
“You think you destroyed my faith?” He whispered a melody of gratitude and remorse. “Glory, you’re the one who might restore it.”
I hummed. “I won’t deny that I like being worshipped as a goddess.”
“And you should be.” He didn’t smile. Wasn’t joking. My stomach pitted. “You gave me faith in something—and I haven’t felt that for a long time.”
“What do you feel?” Why did I ask the question?
“Alive.”
“I didn’t know that was a unique feeling.”
“It’s a reaffirmation. And I owe it to you.”
But I didn’t want it. Wasn’t supposed to want it.
Served me right for getting so close to his man.
And demanding answers only caused us both more pain.
“What happened to you, V?” I stared at this amazingly beautiful and soul-crushingly lost man and had no idea what I expected to find. “Everyone in the church loves you. The town respects you. Your family is so attached to you. But…” I shrugged. “It’s a small community, and everyone talks.”
“What do they say?”
He knew exactly what they said—because it was true. “They say you’re broken.”
“And what do you think?”
“I know you are.”
But I was the bigger fool for wanting to put him back together.
Varius studied the altar, even ran a hand along the base of the pulpit. Didn’t attempt to stand behind it, but the touch seemed momentous enough.
Too bad it did nothing to soothe him.
“I’m not broken,” he said. “I just understand the world a little better now.”
“And what could happen in this world that would make a minister abandon his flock?”
He answered honestly. “What could make a minister stay?”
“They say you loved it,” I shrugged. “The job. The people. The church.”
He nodded. “I never stopped loving it.”
“So, what happened?”
Varius glanced upward. Not quite to Heaven, just to the new roof that adorned an old church. He stiffened as Lulu stirred, but my baby murmured and fell asleep.
I’d never seen a man study a sleeping baby with such sadness before.
“It’s a long story, and you have a longer drive,” he said.
Varius was a man of few words, and he remained quiet when he didn’t want to speak.
So, I’d talk for him. “They said there was a tornado.”
His eyes darkened to that stormy, dangerous green. Still couldn’t read what was behind them, but at least I got a little closer.
I prodded him more than I should have. “They said it destroyed the church.”
His finger grazed his eyebrow. One of his few frustrated tells. This was a man who hated to lie almost as much as he despised the truth.
“They’re right,” he agreed. “Nothing else to say.”
I took his hand and pulled him close to me, eager for another word, a whisper, just a breath of his secrets—even if I didn’t deserve them.
He eventually nodded, his voice low. “There was a storm.”
And that was all he gave me.
All the pain and sorrow of his past, and he refused to unburden himself of those few terrible moments. How long had he lived with it all by himself, struggling with the memories of that day and the decisions that weighed on his heart?
I reached for him, my fingers gently tickling along his jaw. So damned tense. He ground his teeth just to keep the words hidden.
“Tell me…” I leaned close, bumping my forehead against his. “You can’t hide much from me anymore. We know each other. Inside and out. Every little secret. Every inch of our bodies.”
“This isn’t as easy as watching you dance or tasting your sweetness.” His smirk boiled through me. “I used to come to you so I could escape all this.”
“Did I help?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Until we couldn’t lie anymore. Then it was too dangerous to continue.”
“What’s so dangerous about me?”
“Everything.” He pulled me close, his hand on my cheek. I parted my lips, but he merely grazed them with a kiss, soft and tender. “I used you. I don’t feel good about that.”
“I used you too.”
“It was all my pleasure. And it was selfish. I used you so I could hide from every memory, responsibility, and nightmare.” His breath released in an unsteady grunt. “Two years ago, I was preaching to a full congregation in this church. The storm intensified out of nowhere. Wasn’t even time for a warning. Hail as big as your fist. Trees ripped right out of the ground. The sky turned black. Once the lights flickered, we couldn’t see it coming.”
I swallowed. “The tornado?”
“Tore right through the church.” He closed his eyes. “And only the church. No other building in Butterpond was damaged. It was like the storm had a mind of its own, and it hated the chapel and everyone inside. That storm was made of something pure evil, and I’ll take that to my grave.”
“Sounds terrifying.”
“It came through that wall.” He pointed to the entrance. “Took the roof right off. Down to the rafters. No one had time to take shelter. The church collapsed around us.” He clutched the back of the pew until his fingers turned white. “It’s not often an act of God interrupts your sermons. Makes a man reconsider the words he speaks.”
“But you survived,” I said. “It was a blessing that it wasn’t any worse.”
That didn’t comfort him. “That’s what everyone says. It was a miracle. That God was protecting us.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“No.” The finality in his tone frightened me. “At first, I thought we’d been lucky. I thought no one got hurt. People were shaken up, of course. Bumps and bruises. But for those few minutes after the storm, I thought we’d been blessed.”
“But?”
Now he looked at Lulu, but he didn’t see my daughter. Didn’t see the light surrounding us. The candles. The Christmas trees. The festive garlands.
He lost himself in mourning.
“We heard her crying first. Under the rubble. A little girl, no older than Lulu.” His voice roughened, snarling in grief. “She was trapped under debris from the roof and wall, and we couldn’t get to her. The more we dug, the weaker she cried.” He met my gaze. “Glory, I threw myself into the debris pile until my hands were raw and bleeding. While the dust choked us and the hail pelted us. But with every piece of timber and stone we moved, more of the walls collapsed where we worked.” He went quiet. “We tried to get to her while she cried. And when she went silent…we dug faster.”
My heart sunk. My hand instinctively fell to Lulu, stroking her little leg. She attempted to roll over and nearly tumbled from the pew. I caught her and drew her close to my chest. She snuggled against my shoulder, and that was good. After a story like that, I wasn’t sure I’d let her go for the rest of the night.
Varius didn’t just hate this church. He hated the past. He hated everything out of his control and beyond his protection.
And for that reason, he hated himself.
And that thought probably plagued him more than the death of a little girl.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “You can’t predict storms like that.”
“Right.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“Believe me.” His eyes stared only upwards. “I don’t.”
The declaration chilled me. His voice wasn’t his own. He suffered through that rage and frustration and confusion, and it never should have afflicted him. Varius was too good a man to suffer such misery.
He was too good a man to live without his faith.
Without a word, Varius pulled a key ring from his pocket and handed them to me.
“These open the parish house,” he said. “Pastor Miley’s gone. No one’s living there now. You might as well use it.”
The keys weighed heavy in my hand. Neve
r expected a miracle to have weight.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You can’t keep taking the baby back-and-forth to Ironfield or Baker’s Park every day.”
My stomach tangled with my heart, and I didn’t know which one would burst first. “I can’t take the parish house.”
“You’re putting in full-time hours with the pageant. Might as well stay in Butterpond while you’re doing it. Lord knows the town’s going to start demanding more of you in the coming weeks.”
I swallowed, the words caught in my throat.
He offered me a place to stay. A safe place. A place where Andre would have a literal hell of a time finding us. A girl could do worse, and she didn’t have to take her clothes off for it.
I’d learned long ago to accept what people offered without distracting myself with troublesome concerns like pride and dignity. Both of those could be earned with the money I made and the men I charmed. All that mattered was providing for Lulu. And I do anything and everything in my power to keep her safe and happy.
“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say. I close my hand around the keys, squeezing it tight. “Everyone always said you were a good preacher.”
“I’m not a preacher anymore.”
“They also said you were a good man.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“Because a good man is selfless. I’m letting you stay in the parish house because I can’t risk you quitting if the commute is too long or the pageant is too frustrating.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“It’s not, Glory. If I don’t see you again, if I don’t get to touch you again, kiss you again, hear your voice again…” He clenched his jaw. “I’m no good for you.”
“Then were both pretty damned lucky.”
“Why’s that?”
I tucked Lulu against my shoulder, grabbed my bag, and flashed Varius a quick, dirty smile.
“Because I don’t fall for good men.”
7
Varius
Glory moved in ways God never intended.
Her every movement cast a spell, luring even the holiest to sin. She was my own goddess of beauty, untouchable, undeniable. She’d tied her hair into a ponytail, but the deep crimson trusses slipped over the delicate slope of her shoulders as she danced. Her dark skin glistened under the lights. Perfect poetry.
It didn’t matter if she danced around a pole or demonstrated the addition piece for the pageant’s abridged presentation of The Nutcracker. The woman was a temptress who lured me from the darkness and destroyed me with pleasure.
I’d lost myself inside of her, but I hadn’t found my way out just yet. I wanted her every minute of every day, in every dark, terrible, righteous way. But I wouldn’t surrender again to that perfection. God only knew what would happen to my soul if I offered it to another, especially when the devil waited for the moment when I’d finally submit.
The ballet was simple, elegant, and accentuated her every graceful movement. Who was this woman who could as easily inspire with a classical dance as she could seduce with a heavy beat and pulsing lights?
She wasn’t just talented. She was an utter mystery.
The music ended, and Glory grinned as she rose from the stage floor. Her motions came naturally, fluid and silken, even on the tips of her toes.
But the purple cast distracted me. I hated to think of Glory in pain. The only agony that suited her was the purest form of pleasure. Not that she’d ever allow anyone to realize she was in pain. Only I saw how it slowed her, irritated her…
Scared her?
“Now you’ve seen the audition piece.” Glory addressed the handful of brave congregation members willing to audition for the ballet. “Any questions?”
Not anymore. She didn’t have many willing volunteers—and even fewer who knew how to dance. Didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of her audience had wandered into the lobby, lost after the woman’s missionary meeting.
“I’m going to expect perfection, I’ll tell you that now,” she said. “The Nutcracker is a traditional ballet, but we can adapt the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy to your ability. Anyone is welcomed to audition, but…” Glory mustered a smile and nodded to a few women. “If you’ve recently had a knee or hip replaced, a few ballet positions might be a bit strenuous.”
Three older ladies grumbled, grabbed their walker, cane, and seeing-eye dog, and shuffled from the pews. Glory thanked them with a half-hearted wave, and then frowned as her gaze settled on my brother, Quint, volunteering with his hand raised high in the air.
“What…” Glory shook her head. “What part are you auditioning for?”
Quint caught my glance and winked. “Sugar Plum Fairy.”
I’d had the argument with him all morning. Wasn’t winning this one, but I wished Glory luck.
She furrowed her brow. “Seriously?”
Quint flexed. A couple of the women were impressed. Not Glory.
“Looks like fun,” he said. “Sign me up.”
“You want to be the pageant’s star ballerina?”
“If Madonna can do it, and she’s like sixty now…” Quint laughed. “Why can’t I?”
Glory looked to me for a translation.
“He means prima-donna,” I said.
“Oh, no.” Glory pointed to the exit. “I’m not casting you as the female lead.”
My brother nodded. “I get it. You don’t want to look like you’re playing favorites because my brother is in charge of this production.”
And that’s where Quint screwed up. Glory’s eyebrow twitched.
“V’s just the pretty face we’re using to market this show…” She set her jaw. “I’m in charge of this production.”
“Oh, I like a woman who isn’t afraid of taking control.”
If there was a line, Quint would be the first to step over it and then fall on his face. Glory didn’t need any help, it was my brother who faced a lioness in the Colosseum that was these auditions.
“Sweetie…” Glory gestured for him to move along. “Keep your bookmark in your Bible. Got it?”
“If you want…” He winked. “I can send you some really holy texts. What’s your number?”
I warned him with a quick smack to his head. “Knock it off.”
“You’re not the minister anymore,” Quint laughed. “Can’t yell at me in the church.”
“And because I’m not the minister, I’m allowed to kick your ass.”
“Look.” Quint had an innate ability to disarm all tension with a flash of dimple. Probably kept him alive when he inevitably flirted with trouble. “Just let me try out. I’ll twirl here, jump there, lunge a bit.” He blew a kiss to Glory. “Just get me in those tights, baby. People will come from miles around to catch a glimpse.”
Glory snorted. “Probably won’t see much past the first row.”
“Don’t let the smile fool you—you’ll be charging double for the show.”
“I’m afraid to ask…” Glory sighed.
“Well, I’m twice the man of anyone else in Butterpond.”
“Family friendly show, Quint.” I shoved him down the aisle. “And we’re not giving refunds.”
My brother lowered his voice. “Come on, V. Give me a shot with the choreographer. You’ve been camping in the basement for a while, but even you gotta realize…” His eyes lingered over curves that didn’t belong to him. “She’s hot as Hell.”
Yeah.
I’d noticed.
And so had the only other viable candidate for the audition.
Lady Barlow wasn’t such a little girl anymore. She shared the iced mocha complexion of her brothers, but the braces and twenty pounds of baby fat were gone. The new, twenty-year-old Lady Barlow had transformed into a quiet beauty.
But she’d stared at Quint, her eyes watering. With a cry, she bit her lip and bolted from the church.
My ever-oblivious brother elbowed me. “Already intimidating the com
petition.”
I’d always suspected Quint was an idiot. This confirmed it.
Glory surrendered as the last potential dancer fell asleep and dropped her knitting. “Fine, Quint. If you’re serious, get up here. The choir is only watching Lulu for another hour and a half, and I don’t have time to screw around.” She arched an eyebrow. “Though I’m not sure you could screw for too long.”
“Only one way to find out,” Quint said. “Spend the holidays with me and Christmas will come more than once this year.”
Christ. We were all going to hell, starting with my brother.
“And if you want to live to see New Year’s, you’ll shut your mouth,” I said.
Glory whistled, beckoning over a cadre of what would become toy soldiers. Currently the kids wore tissue boxes on their feet and paper hats on their head. The Nerf guns were a source of contention for the pageant, so they were given harps instead. But the boys were inventive. They quickly converted the instruments into sling-shots and had already broken one lightbulb and one nose.
“From the top…” Glory awaited her cue with the poise, grace, and patience of a woman who hadn’t just spent the last twelve hours of her life picking Styrofoam out of her coffee after the set of Bethlehem’s untimely collapse. “Just remember to smile—”
A soldier immediately broke rank and accidentally catapulted a pudding cup across the stage, shattering his harp and tipping a water bottle. Glory’s ballet slippers offered no traction, and she pirouette’d to the ground. The rest of the soldiers followed, crashing into the Christmas tree and casting ornaments, tinsel, and half a dozen branches onto a stacked set of paint cans.
Candy cane crimson.
Garland green.
Angelic amber.
A tidal wave of Christmas vibrance splashed out of the cans and onto Glory.
As the holiday edged ever closer, and the church filled with the warmth and joy of Christmas, Glory’s tidings for the production echoed like the tinkling of bells. “Fuck me!”
Glory clutched her bad wrist, but her profanity was certainly harsh enough to break bones. Or bring down a church. I winced, but the walls held, and the toy soldiers scattered to the pews. I hurried to the stage, but she shoo’ed me away.
