Chapter 13 Charlie
CHARLIE
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and wilted flowers, but Grandma Rose’s smile makes everything else fade away.
She’s propped up against pillows, her silver-white hair freshly brushed, and there’s color in her cheeks I haven’t seen since before the stroke.
“They’re saying I might go home soon, baby girl.” Her voice is stronger now, though her left side still doesn’t move quite right. “Can you believe it?”
I squeeze her hand three times. I love you. Our secret code. She squeezes back twice, the best she can manage with her weakened grip, but I feel the intention behind it.
“I can believe it.” My throat tightens with emotion. “You’re too stubborn to stay down for long.”
She laughs, the sound raspy but genuine. “Take after my granddaughter, I suppose.” Her faded hazel eyes study my face with unnerving perception. “Speaking of which, how’s that volunteer work going at St. Michael’s? Father Cross treating you well?”
Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it. I busy myself adjusting her blanket, avoiding her gaze. “It’s fine. Good. Everyone’s been very…kind.”
“Kind.” She draws the word out, suspicious. “That’s an interesting choice of word.”
“What other word would I use?”
“I don’t know, sugar. You tell me.” Her good hand pats mine. “You’ve got that look about you. Like you’re carrying a secret that’s too big to hold.”
My stomach flips. Does she know? Can she see it written across my face that I’m sleeping with three men of God, that I’ve become exactly the kind of girl she raised me not to be?
“I’m just tired,” I deflect. “Working at the diner and volunteering keeps me busy.”
She hums, unconvinced, but lets it drop.
We talk about her physical therapy, about how every time she’s ready to come home something new happens and she has to stay even longer, so now she’s being transferred to a long-term care unit, how alone I must be at home by myself.
I don’t mention that I’m living above the church rectory now, that I fall asleep most nights tangled between bodies that shouldn’t want me but do.
When visiting hours end, I kiss her forehead and promise to return tomorrow.
As I’m leaving, she calls out, “Charlie? Whatever secret you’re keeping, just remember, love isn’t something to be ashamed of. Even when it’s complicated.”
The words follow me all the way to St. Michael’s.
The parish hall buzzes with activity when I arrive, the annual potluck in full swing.
Long tables groan under the weight of casseroles and salads and desserts that smell like every church basement in America.
I slip in through the side door, my dress swishing around my thighs, carrying the cherry pie I stress-baked at three this morning when sleep wouldn’t come.
Adrian stands near the entrance in his cassock, every button fastened, every line crisp.
He’s shaking hands with Mr. Patterson, nodding at something the elderly man is saying, but Adrian’s gray eyes find me across the room.
The look lasts only a second before he forces his attention back to his conversation, but that second makes my skin burn.
I remember those eyes dark with hunger, remember his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, remember the scripture he quoted between kisses like he was trying to pray away his desire.
I look away first, my pulse hammering.
Mrs. Delacroix holds court near the dessert table, her steel-gray hair pulled into its usual severe bun.
Her lemon meringue pie sits in the center of the display like a crown jewel, perfectly browned peaks catching the fluorescent light. She’s been the parish’s “best baker” for five years running, a title she wears like armor against her loneliness.
I place my pie at the end of the table without fanfare, trying to make myself invisible.
It’s nothing special, just Grandma Rose’s recipe, the one she taught me when I was barely tall enough to reach the counter.
But it looks good, the lattice crust golden and the cherry filling bubbling through in jewel-red promises.
“Charlie!” Mrs. Patterson appears at my elbow, her kind face lighting up. “Did you make this? It’s beautiful!”
“It’s just pie,” I mumble, but warmth spreads through my chest.
Marcus emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of dinner rolls, his tattooed forearms flexing with the weight.
He’s wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and I watch the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders as he sets the tray down.
His dark eyes find mine, and something electric passes between us. I remember those arms around me in the confessional, his voice rough with Spanish and English, how he marked me as his.
He moves to stand beside Adrian, and I watch them both track my movements as I help set out napkins and utensils.
The weight of their attention makes me hyperaware of my body.
The way my dress clings to my curves, the swell of my breasts above the neckline, the curve of my ass when I bend to retrieve dropped silverware.
I catch Adrian’s jaw clench, and Marcus’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
Elijah appears from the choir loft stairs, his golden hair slightly mussed, wearing jeans and a white button-down that makes him look younger than thirty-two.
His crystalline blue eyes find me immediately, and his angel-boy smile has an edge to it that makes my stomach flip.
I remember those hands on my body, his filthy praises whispered in French and English. He made me sing.
The three of them stand together near the entrance, a united front of barely restrained hunger, and I feel like prey being circled by predators who’ve agreed to share.
“Everyone, please help yourselves!” Father Adrian’s voice cuts through the chatter, smooth and controlled despite the tension I can see in his shoulders. “We’re blessed to have such a wonderful community.”
The crowd descends on the food tables like locusts. I hang back, watching from the kitchen doorway as plates fill and conversations flow.
Mrs. Delacroix stands beside her lemon meringue pie, waiting for the inevitable compliments.
But something strange happens.
A few people bypass her pie entirely, gravitating toward mine at the end of the table.
I watch Mr. Chen take a slice, his eyes widening at the first bite. He calls his wife over, and she tries it too, making a sound of appreciation that carries across the room.
Within minutes, a small crowd has formed around my pie.
“Who made this?” someone asks.
“Charlie Davis,” Mrs. Patterson announces proudly, like I’m her personal discovery. “Rose’s granddaughter.”
“It’s incredible,” Mr. Chen says, going back for a second slice. “Light, flavorful, perfect amount of sweetness.”
“The crust is amazing,” his wife adds. “Flaky but not too buttery.”
I feel my face flush hot as more people try it, as the compliments pile up, as my pie disappears slice by slice while Mrs. Delacroix’s creation sits untouched and perfect in the center of the table.
Marcus appears beside me in the kitchen doorway, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “You’re causing quite a stir, querida.”
The Spanish endearment sends heat straight through me. I glance up at him, and the hunger in his dark eyes has nothing to do with pie.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts beneath my dress.
When his eyes meet mine again, I’m breathing harder.
“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper.
“I know.” His hand hovers near my lower back, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Across the room, Adrian is watching us. His gray eyes are dark, stormy, and I watch his hand tighten around his rosary beads until his knuckles go white.
He’s fighting himself, fighting the urge to cross the room and claim me in front of everyone.
Elijah joins the crowd around the dessert table, trying my pie at Mrs. Patterson’s insistence.
I watch his face transform at the first bite, his crystalline blue eyes widen then find me across the room.
His smile is slow, knowing, intimate.
He licks a bit of cherry filling from his thumb, the gesture somehow obscene despite its innocence, and I remember that tongue on my skin.
“This is extraordinary,” he announces to the room, his French accent thickening slightly. “Charlie, where did you learn to bake like this?”
All eyes turn to me. I want to disappear into the floor.
“My grandmother,” I manage, my voice barely carrying. “She taught me everything.”
“Well, Rose Davis clearly knows her way around a kitchen,” Mr. Chen says. “This is the best pie I’ve had in years.”
“Better than mine?” Mrs. Delacroix’s voice cuts through the praise like a knife.
The room goes quiet. I watch her face, see the hurt and anger warring beneath her severe expression.
Her lemon meringue pie sits mostly untouched, a monument to five years of unchallenged supremacy now toppled by a girl in a thrift-store dress.
“It’s just different,” Mrs. Patterson tries diplomatically. “Both are lovely.”
But the damage is done. People are already moving away from the dessert table, plates full of my pie, leaving Mrs. Delacroix standing alone beside her creation.
I see her hands shake slightly as she smooths her dark skirt, see the way her thin lips press together in a line.
I should feel triumphant. Instead, I feel sick.
Marcus’s hand finally makes contact with my lower back, warm and solid and grounding. “You okay?”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass her.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “You just made something beautiful.”
Adrian crosses the room toward us, his movements controlled but purposeful.
People part for him automatically, and I watch the way his cassock swirls around his legs, the way his broad shoulders fill the space.
When he reaches us, he’s careful to maintain appropriate distance, but his gray eyes burn into mine.
“That was quite a pie, Miss Davis.” His voice is formal, priestly, but I hear the roughness underneath. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
“Thank you, Father.” The title feels wrong in my mouth after everything we’ve done, but we’re surrounded by parishioners who can’t know the truth.
His jaw clenches at the word. I watch his throat work as he swallows, see the pulse beating beneath his collar.
He wants to touch me. I can see it in the way his hands flex at his sides, in the way his eyes drop to my lips before he forces them back up.
Elijah joins us, completing our dangerous quartet.
To anyone watching, we’re just clergy and volunteer having a polite conversation.
But the air between us crackles with barely restrained need, with the memory of tangled limbs and desperate kisses, with the knowledge that tonight, when the church is empty and the doors are locked, we’ll claim each other again.
“You should teach me to make that,” Elijah says, his angel face innocent but his eyes promising sin. “I’d love to learn your technique.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on any of us. Marcus makes a sound low in his throat. Adrian’s knuckles go white around his rosary beads.
“Maybe,” I manage, my voice breathier than I intend.
Across the room, Mrs. Delacroix watches us with narrowed eyes. She’s seen something—the way we stand too close, the electricity crackling between us, the careful-not-to-touch proximity that speaks volumes.
Her expression shifts from hurt to something sharper, more calculating.
She picks up her lemon meringue pie and carries it to the kitchen, her spine rigid with wounded pride.
As she passes our group, she pauses just long enough to meet my eyes.
The look she gives me is pure venom.