She didn’t let me speak. She came forward, holding her fist out to me.
Her fingers unclenched.
The communion wafer waited in her palm.
“I’m sorry, Father Rafe,” she whispered. “I couldn’t. Deacon Smith handed them to the entire choir, and I would have made a scene if I refused. I didn’t know what to do.”
My voice rasped, hoarse, a harsh and graveled sound. The same tone I took with her in bed. The grunted and masculine dominion over her.
“You aren’t supposed to take that,” I said.
“I know.”
I had options. Return it to the tabernacle. Use it in the next service. The body of the Lord wasn’t something that could or should be smooshed within the penitent hand. But I knew what I was to do.
I took her palm, pulling it close. Her heat stirred me once more, and I caressed her fingers in mine. I murmured the blessing and took the wafer in my mouth, allowing it to dissolve upon my tongue as I was permitted to do.
A crumb remained on her hand.
I drew her fingers to my mouth and kissed her skin.
She trembled.
“Honor—”
My angel ripped her hand from mine and bolted from my office.
I hated to swear, hated the vulgar words and profane meanings, and yet nothing expressed my frustration more. I bit my tongue and clutched my rosaries before my temper overwhelmed me.
No.
Not temper.
Guilt.
Hell wasn’t a place or an idea. It was guilt. The realization of my sins and of the sins I’d committed against those innocent to my desires.
And yet, even as I stood, even as I dressed for the second Mass and prepared myself to lead yet another ceremony, my mind raced with the guilty thoughts.
Not for what I had done.
Not for the vows I broke.
Not for the woman I lost.
But because no matter what prayers I whispered or confessions I gave, I’d never forget last night.
She was a sin I would never regret.
Chapter Fifteen – Honor
“I really hope Jesus is tone-deaf.”
Alyssa declared it after a particularly poor rendition of the Alleluia. Deacon Smith shushed her.
Samantha giggled. “Was that blasphemous?”
God only knew. Everything was a sin—or at least, it looked that way to a sinner.
“Look, guys.” Deacon Smith sighed. “We have three weeks until the festival. Can we please pick a song so that we can practice said song so we aren’t humiliated at our own Battle of the Choirs? You know. The one we organized?”
Alyssa sighed. “I vote Ava Maria.”
Deacon Smith would pop a vein. “Everyone will sing Ava Maria! We need something stellar. Something that will really show up those other choirs.”
Samantha giggled. “Amen.”
I couldn’t fault Deacon Smith. We rehearsed a dozen different songs, but nothing felt right. And our latest piece was scrapped after we encountered a bit of…competition.
“This is getting real,” I said. “The other churches we invited? They’re taking it a little too seriously.” I crinkled the paper in my hand. “The Lutheran Church down the road just stapled their set-list to our doors.”
Most of the choir groaned and laughed.
Samantha tilted her head. “I don’t get it?”
Deacon Smith smacked the piano and ordered us to open our hymnals again. “We just need more practice. I’m thinking of scheduling another night.”
The choir grumbled. I opened my phone’s calendar. Every day had an event or a crisis or a class or a job of some sort. Women’s group. Choir practice. Festival organization. Food Pantry. Classes. Part-time hours I’d begged to work at the library for extra money.
Mass.
Four days had passed since my night with Father Rafe and the Mass that followed. I tried not to think of the passionate moments I’d spent in his arms, but my memories burned for him. I closed my eyes and saw his body. I knelt in prayer and remembered his touch. I sang, and I felt the press of his lips against mine.
Lust had blinded me to everything but him, and longed for more. He had filled me so impossibly, so perfect that without him I suffered in a terrible loneliness.
No penance was this cruel.
Deacon Smith clapped his hands, and everyone stood.
Uh-oh. Had he been talking?
Yes.
I stood in my place and tried to peek into the hymnals of those near me. No dice. I’d have to guess.
“Let’s try again.” Deacon Smith counted off the song. He gestured for us to hold the first note before moving to the next chord of the song.
I sang a perfect C. Everyone else started on an A#.
And that sounded unholy.
“Whoa.” Deacon Smith blinked. “Honor, what song are you singing?”
“I…” My mind blanked. “Amazing Grace?”