One
Jude
Eight Months Later
“…and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
The relief that Mrs. Furthlow’s penance was done for the week was sweet, as she was the last one of the day. The hours of reconciliation had ended ten minutes ago, but seeing as it took Martha Furthlow a while to admit all her gossip, which she told me in detail even though I had assured her that it wasn’t necessary, I was still here. The two years since I’d been placed at Holy Rosary in Madison, Mississippi, I had learned to just take it as a given that she would show up for no other reason than to spread her gossip in a place where she felt it wasn’t a sin.
I really didn’t need to know about the affair her postman was having with the lady who owned the drive-in, but now, I did. Hopefully, she could refrain from a sin until Sunday. That way, I wouldn’t have to listen to more town gossip before Mass tomorrow.
Sighing, I stood up and took off my stole, thankful we didn’t have a reconciliation room where there was a face-to-face option. I preferred the screen and the booth. While I was sure most of the parishioners would be fine with my jeans and boots, there were a few who would want me to be in slacks and something other than my worn Tony Lamas for their confessional.
Stepping out into the sanctuary, I did a quick scan of the pews to make sure there was no one else here for reconciliation. The sight of long platinum-blonde hair that hung in perfect waves, curling slightly at the ends, caused me to stop walking. I didn’t recognize that hair, and I knew for certain if I’d seen it before, I wouldn’t have overlooked it. The woman’s back was to me as she stood in front of the votive stand. I could only see three candles lit with her body blocking the others. Her tanned shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh.
It was the first time in a while that I’d had to work hard at not letting my gaze fall any further down a female body. What was visible without actually looking at her lower half was, there was a lot of leg. Bare legs. It was almost mid-April, and the temperature had warmed up. Still, I wasn’t accustomed to seeing that much skin inside these walls.
Then, she turned, and I realized this was my punishment for looking at my phone to see what time the first round of the NFL drafts came on tonight while Martha had confessed of being jealous of Agnes Glenn’s new set of cookware her husband had bought her.
The Lord had been unfair when he created a female like this one. Eyes so blue that they stood out all the way across the room. Shiny pink gloss over a mouth that was going to have me turning around and going back into the confessional. And as hard as I tried, it was impossible not to see the size of her boobs in that shirt that didn’t cover up much.
Clearing my throat—because I was sure I would sound strangled if I spoke without doing it since my mouth had gone dry at the sight of her—I managed to smile.
“Hello,” I said, luckily my legs remembered how to move. “Can I help you with something?”
I might not be slowly scanning her body, but she had no issue giving me a complete once-over. The corners of her mouth lifted, and a dimple appeared. As if this girl needed anything else to add to her appearance. When her eyes finally made it to my face again, I could see amusement dancing in them.
“You’re the priest?” she asked as if she was going to laugh.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had a woman react this way. When I had been in seminary, there were always those who would take it as a challenge to get me to sin. None of them knew my past—because if they had, then they wouldn’t have wasted their time. The females from back home in Fort Worth had been there for it and watched it all play out. They knew how unavailable I was, even before my vow of celibacy. Relationships and romance in my life had been buried eleven years ago, along with the only girl I would ever love.
“I am,” I replied.
She lifted a hand and tucked some of her Beach Barbie hair behind her ear. “Figures. This was a stupid idea,” she said, then glanced back at the candles. “I lit one anyway. Not sure if I did it right or whatever.”
I stood there as she started to walk back toward the exit, and considering my reaction to her, it was best that she left.
Get away from me, Satan .
But she’d lit a candle. She’d come in here for a reason. And it was my job—my calling—to help her.
“Wait.” The word came out, and I inwardly winced.
This is a bad idea, Jude. She needs to go find another priest to help her. who is old enough not to care that she looks like one of those girls dancing on the bar at Coyote Ugly.
I’d only been there once, but it was memorable.
When she stopped and looked back at me, her hair floated slightly off her back with the motion. “Yeah?” The sultry tone to her voice was natural.
God, seriously? thing. You could have given her at least one flaw. A big one. Something to even out all the others you blessed her with.
“Why did you light a candle?” I asked, taking a few more strides in her direction.
She lifted one of her shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I even understand what it is for.”
Okay, so she wasn’t Catholic.
“If you aren’t Catholic, what brought you here?”
I was probing. She had me curious, and, yes, I wanted to help her.
She shook her head and let out a short, breathy laugh, but it held no humor. It masked pain. She was hurting and covering it up well. Or I’d missed it because I was so focused on her extraordinary face.
“I think I lit it for me,” she said. “I don’t know anymore.”
Eyes like hers shouldn’t look so lost and broken. I preferred when they had sparkled with amusement that I was the priest. What I saw in them now made my chest ache.
“You can light it for anyone. But did you pray? That’s what it’s for. A petition to the Lord or a saint for intercession on your behalf.” I didn’t want to get too complicated and bore her with the entire reasoning behind it.
Her eyes shifted to the votive stand. “That’s the thing. I don’t know what to pray. I’m not sure if I even believe in God. This is the second time I’ve been inside a church in my life. I just…well, nothing else seems to work. I figured I’d give the God thing a go.”
The heaviness behind her words were what made me say what I did next.
“Listen, I have two hours before men’s Bible study. Why don’t we sit here and you can talk? I might have some wisdom to share. It is my job.”
Her eyes did a quick take of my jeans and boots again, and she almost smiled. “How old are you?” she asked me.
“Twenty-nine.”
“They let you be a priest at twenty-nine?” she asked, sounding shocked.
“They will let you at twenty-five if you’ve received your degree and other requirements. I was twenty-seven, however, when I finished my internship at a parish in Fort Worth and was assigned this one.”
She licked her lips, then pressed them together. I shouldn’t be looking at her mouth, but it was extremely difficult not to. Another reason letting her leave would have been the best choice.
“Okay,” she replied and walked over to take a seat at the end of a pew. “Since you’re an elder in the priesthood at the ripe ole age of twenty-nine, I suppose I can talk. Might help. It’s either this or go get drunk and show up at a wedding when I’d rather eat glass than attend it.”
This could not be about heartbreak. There was no straight male on this planet who would have dumped her for another woman. Not possible. But then maybe that was it. He wasn’t straight. She’d been in love, and he was gay and hadn’t come out of the closet until it was too late and her heart was involved.
I sat down in the pew in front of her, sitting sideways and bending my knee so that I could face her. Resting an arm along the back of the seat, I told myself this would be fine. She was in need of guidance, and I could do that.
She gave me a small smile, and I noticed the slightest gap between her two front teeth. You’d have to be close to her to see it, but it was there. An imperfection that only seemed to make her more appealing.
Try again, God. That one ain’t working.
“I hate a dead man,” she said, then let out a long breath. “It’s been ten months since I watched the boy I’d loved for most of my life get shot and killed and eight months since I found out he’d left behind a pregnant girl that he’d been cheating on me with.”
Whoa. Okay. I hadn’t expected murder or guns or cheating—at least not on her. Good Lord, what had the other girl looked like? No. That was not the point. She was hurting. She had come to seek out a god that she wasn’t sure existed. I was here to help her see that he did and that he cared.
“Whose wedding do you not want to attend?” I asked, wondering how this fit into the reason why she was here.
A laugh—which could have been labeled as cynical, but I knew was threaded with heartbreak—fell from her lips. She dropped her gaze to her hands, fisted in her lap. “Oh, that. Yes. Well, you see, the baby momma was taken in by my dead boyfriend’s older brother. He fell in love with her—really damn fast, if you ask me. The baby was born two months ago. It’s a boy. I haven’t seen him, and I do not want to. Anyway, they are getting married today, and seeing as our families are all connected in a way that is stronger than actual family, everyone in my life will be there. They are all happy for them. Everyone is just fucking full of joy.”
Except her. She was lonely. She felt abandoned. Left out. Forgotten.
Nothing I would have thought this woman would ever experience. Seemed I had gotten one look at her and forgotten that fate did not care who you were or how stunning you might be. It happened regardless.
“I not only hate a dead man, but I also might actually hate a baby, and if that is the case, then I don’t need to be in here because I am for sure going to burst hell wide open,” she said, starting to stand up.
My hand shot out, and I grabbed her arm. “Wait,” I said.
She was gorgeous and smelled like vanilla with a hint of cinnamon, but I could ignore all that. There had been a cry for help in her words that couldn’t be ignored.
“Sit back down. You aren’t going to hell, and you don’t hate a baby. You hate what that child represents. And you’re human. You were betrayed. You lost someone you loved, and while mourning that, you had the betrayal slapped in your face.” I released my hold on her arm, but if she tried to leave again, I might actually go after her.
She stared at me for a moment, then slowly sat back down on the pew. “I’m tired of hating. Of all of it. The hollowness in my chest. The inability to trust. The feeling that, at any time, someone else I love will turn on me. And I’m tired of needing the meds to sleep.”
I needed to hear she had someone, anyone she could talk to at home. It wasn’t like I could keep her here, but the idea of her being alone bothered me.
“Who do you live with?” I asked.
“My parents,” she replied with bitterness in her voice.
“And they know you are dealing with all this?”
She raised her eyebrows and looked off to the side. Not at me. “They prefer to say it’s PTSD from witnessing the shooting, and if I take my meds, I’ll be fine. The shooting was something that will forever haunt me, but it’s not that. Not anymore. It’s all the…other stuff.”
The other stuff being the betrayal. Seeing those around her move on and find joy again. Poor girl.
“Tomorrow night—every Saturday night actually—we have a support group that meets in the rec hall. The white building to the left of the church. It’s for coping with loss, be it from death or betrayal. It’s not a large group. Less than a dozen most nights. But I think it would be good for you. We serve dinner, and then everyone discusses their week. With no judgment.”
And I’d get to look at you some more.
Not the train of thought you need to be having, Jude. Get it together. You want to help her.
She scrunched her nose. “I’m not sure that’s for me.”
I would not pressure her. This had to be her decision.
“Will you be there?” she asked me.
Why did she want to know that? Why did I like that she’d asked? Because I needed to take my ass into that booth and do some confessing. A few Hail Marys, some Our Fathers.
“Yes. I lead the group.”
Her eyes met mine, and I focused on the pain in them. That would keep me grounded. Grief, sorrow, bitterness—it all swirled in the blue that reminded me of a clear sky at dusk.
“What time?” she asked.
The immediate relief that jolted through me was because she needed help to deal with all this inside her. That was it.
“Six thirty,” I replied. “And Lora Gail will be making her famous chicken potpie and carrot cake for the meal. The weeks she supplies the dinner are always a favorite. We might actually hit the dozen mark in attendance.”
She released a soft chuckle, and I wished I could hear more of it. A laugh like hers should be enjoyed by everyone. If I could lead her to a path where she could let this all go and find joy again, then this would all be worth it. This being…my attraction to her. Not something I wanted in my life. I’d grown accustomed to not being distracted by beauty.
“What’s your name, or do I just call you Father?” she asked, and for a moment, there was a teasing glint in those dark blue depths.
My cock decided to remind me just how well he worked.
I shifted slightly, glad my jeans could keep my reaction somewhat hidden. “My parishioners call me Father Jude. Some of the older members prefer to be more formal with my last name and refer to me as Father Rayne. You’re not Catholic or my parishioner. You can call me Jude if you prefer.”
The corner of her lips curled up slightly. “I don’t know. I kinda like Father Jude.”
Another jump from my dick. Great. Just great.
She held her hand out to me as she stood back up. “It was nice to meet you, Father Jude.”
I looked down at her hand for a moment too long before sliding mine into hers and standing up, hoping like hell she didn’t notice the bulge in my pants.
“It was nice to meet you too…” I paused, waiting on her name.
That dimple appeared again, but with it came a second one. She had them in both cheeks. The tiny gap between her otherwise perfect teeth had probably started a trend in her high school, girls wanting one just like it.
“It’s Saylor”—she paused—“Rice.”
Her eyes seemed to study my face for a reaction to that name. As if she was almost concerned I would recognize it. Or maybe I was reading too much into it.
“Miss Rice,” I replied with a small nod.
“Saylor, please. I’m not as elderly as you. I am just fine with my first name.”
I smiled, biting back a laugh, and then she let my hand go and started for the door.
I dropped my eyes this time, unable to help myself. I wished I hadn’t looked. Because the sight of her barely covered butt in those shorts, her long and tanned legs, and cowboy boots was going to be hard to wipe from my memory.
I waited until she was gone, the doors closed behind her, before I gripped my cock through my jeans and squeezed, letting out a low groan.
It wasn’t like I was perfect. Over the years, I had jacked off on occasion. But it had been a while since I’d felt the necessity to. I wouldn’t though. That would lead to more thoughts, and with that girl, it could be dangerous.
Guilt slowly sank inside my chest as I realized that my body had reacted to her in a way it had never responded to Delana. But what I’d felt for Delana had been pure. Every choice I had made since her death had been because of the time I’d had with her here on earth.
A gorgeous face and man-slaying body weren’t going to change that. I had fallen in love at fourteen and loved hard enough for a lifetime in the four years I had her. Those last two years, watching her battle the leukemia that eventually took her from me, had been the hardest times of my life.
She had made me promise not to blame God, even when I wanted to. But for her, I made that promise. I couldn’t love another woman. Delana was it for me. So, I had given my life to God completely, and until today, there had never been a temptation like the one who had just walked out that door.
We all were tempted. Even Christ. Perhaps He felt as if the time had come that I face my own Mount of Temptation.