Sweetest Sin(24)

I had Father Raphael to myself now.

Deacon Smith muttered to himself and tripped on his way to the organ. Mrs. Britters, the ninety-year-old organist, readied to play whatever he placed before her. He spread his papers out and approached the pews with a hand to his forehead.

“I’ve been a deacon here for twenty years,” he said. “And, in my life, I’ve wanted two things. Firstly, to keep my hair.” He tugged on the few strands that remained. “Obviously, this hasn’t happened. However, I’ve dreamed of St. Cecilia’s choir becoming…professional. That means no chewing gum. No requests for Freebird or Like A Prayer. No singing from the hymnals upside down—Aiden, yes, I’m talking about you. I want to create something…beautiful.”

Deacon Smith just needed a sweater wrapped around his neck and a director’s chair, and we’d be one set list away from a production of Godspell. He tapped his clipboard.

“We have twenty people auditioning today for a nine-person choir. Before anyone gets too excited, please make sure you can commit to more practices—we’ll need an hour or so later on the nights after regular choir rehearsals.”

That just meant my summer was now completely booked with church events—just as Father Raphael wanted. At least it would look nice on a resume for a full-time job. Of course, I wouldn’t have a degree, but maybe I’d get lucky.

Deacon Smith already looked stressed as Alyssa and Samantha synchronized the crossing of their legs. He cleared his throat. “You’ll each get to sing one song, and I’ll post the results tonight on St. Cecilia’s Facebook group. If this goes well, we might be able to do a couple competitions or shows and turn this group into something great. So we’ll hear…” He crossed himself, looking at Alyssa and Samantha. “How…it sounds.”

“It should be fun.” Father Raphael called out.

The twenty people auditioning all turned to listen to their priest. I shifted lower in my seat.

Did that make me seem guilty?

Father Raphael welcomed their attention. “I have a couple priest friends who formed choirs from their youth groups and congregations.” He shrugged. “They’ve won trips to Disney. I figured, why not try that here?”

“How…” Alyssa hummed. “Secular.”

Deacon Smith cleared his throat. “Okay. Line up. Who’s first?”

A few hands rose, but not mine. I breathed deep. A mistake.

Why did Father Raphael smell so…divine? Sandalwood and incense and something else. Cedar? A woody, tangible scent that watered my mouth and would linger in my dreams that night.

His voice didn’t help, a quiet admittance only for me to hear. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“About the audition?”

Sure. That was easier to admit. “I haven’t soloed in a long time.”

“I have faith in you.”

“Do you?” I didn’t know whether to stare ahead at the linen-draped altar or cast a glance to the black robes at my side.

“Of course I do. I have the most faith in you, Honor.”

“How?”

His smile was unexpected but not unwelcomed. “I’d lose faith in myself before you.”

That was what we both feared.

The organ strummed Ava Maria. A loud and sharp middle aged woman took to the stairs, an octave too high and a beat too late.

I thumbed through my duffel bag and pulled out five different songs I’d previously memorized during choir in high school and college. He glanced at the music, made a face, and tossed out Wither Thou Goest.

“Narrowing it down?” I asked.

“Trying to help,” he said.

“You haven’t heard me sing before.”

“Honor, every word from your lips is a song to me.”

I warmed head to toe, but I refused to let his words distract me. I spent too many minutes, hours, days, and now weeks in adoration of him instead of the church. I breathed deeply, ignored his scent, and pretended he was any other man, any other friend, anyone but him.

“Which song is your favorite?” I asked.

“Dream On by Aerosmith.”

I nearly laughed. “I don’t think that will work today.”

“I’ve always liked Pie Jesu, despite the circumstances in which it’s sung.”

“Me too.”

Father Raphael paused as the singer missed a note. I knew he looked at me, but I stared only at the music, wondering how badly I must have been trembling to blur the notes on the page.

“You don’t want to talk with me, do you?” he asked.

That depended. Would it appear too suspicious if we spoke this much? Or would it look worse if we weren’t talking? Did I trust myself enough to have an innocent conversation with him without dreaming of what hardened under his cassock?