The Priest

1

Winter, 938

In my family, for generations, the second son has joined the priesthood. I fought it as a youth but gave in when my mother became ill. I wouldnˇt have, if Iˇd ever dreamed someone like Marie-Therese Durand might exist.

The temptation Iˇve endured under Marieˇs luminous gaze has tortured me for years. Iˇve prayed over it , yet it never seems to improve:

Please God give me the strength to do the right thing.

Give me the strength to resist her.

Please stop testing me. Not like this.

But Iˇve never prayed harder than I did when she was gone-that trip last fall, the one she said would take a week and ended up being months and months.

It was desperation that led me to her house that day to grill her brother about her whereabouts, and when I saw how destroyed he was-whiskey bottles lining the counter, full beard, his shotgun on the table-I wanted to fall to my knees right there.

Instead I took a shot of his whiskey and walked out the door, turning my face toward the faded winter sun, ignoring the bitter wind pulsing through my jacket.

God, let her be safe and I will walk away. I will stop thinking of her the way I do.

She returned a week later and I wished, desperately, that I hadnˇt made the deal I had.