Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
ANDREA
The door swings shut, muffling the exit hymn. My heels click in rapid succession on the polished wood as I rush to the vestry, shedding my lector's robe as I go.
Sundays have become dreaded. Confidently reciting passages that proclaim the importance of trusting the Lord and His timing to the congregation is a sick joke.
The organ’s pipes blare at full volume, then are quickly stifled by the door shutting a second time. I glance over my shoulder, preparing my mask—
Then let out a sigh of relief.
Just Lilly.
Twisting her honey-blonde hair into a low bun at the nape of her neck and securing it with a pin, she sighs, “You think there’s any tea left?” She wrinkles her nose at the crumpled plastic bottle in her hand. “Water doesn’t really help after three hours of singing.”
“Should be. Unless Mrs. Clemmons drank it all.” The organist sees herself as an invaluable member of Mass, but it’s Lilly who’s irreplaceable. Her voice alone could carry the entire ceremony. Not that she has a choice. The minute she started singing as a child, our father put her in vocal lessons.
We split to opposite sides of the vestry; Lilly to the cupboard and me to the cubbies. I’m hanging my robe when deep baritone voices enter the hall. I hold my breath, ears straining.
“Pastor, if we want to expand as we’ve discussed, we need a figurehead,” insists one of the voices. I’ve overheard it before when eavesdropping on a previous donor meeting.
“Yes, yes, August, I haven’t forgotten,” Father chastises. That’s who he is: Dr. August Larson— Grant’s dad. Their footsteps get closer. Lilly creeps toward me, her tea forgotten.
“Do you have someone in mind?” Another man asks. This one I recognize off the bat as my cheer captain’s plastic surgeon father, Dr. Brett Aldrich.
“I do,” says my father. “I’ve been talking with my dear friend, Randall, from Camp Christ and he agreed that we need a true believer and faithful servant of the Lord. And after communing with Him, He has pointed me toward Sebastian Holt.”
A pit of dread forms in my stomach.
Dr. Larson scoffs. “His background isn’t ideal.”
“As I said, we want someone who has overcome adversity in the name of faith. He’s the perfect candidate for the position. Quiet, devout and discreet,” my father replies. Their footsteps fade down the hall toward my father’s private chapel.
Seba can’t get involved with these men. Especially my father.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Cade:
What’s taking so long? You having some after-church hanky panky with Jesus?
I snort. Lilly raises a brow, glancing between me and the phone.
“Cade’s here.”
She’s still making that face at me. The one that screams, You’re not fooling me, buddy.
So I give her one back that says, What’re you looking at?
She slow blinks deliberately.
I sigh. “We’re just going to the mall.”
“Mmmmhmmm.”
“Don’t start,” I warn, slinging my purse over my shoulder.
“Does Seba know this non-date to the mall is happening?”
“I’m sure he does,” I shrug. Though I haven’t mentioned it. Not out of guilt or anything. I just didn’t feel the need to share that I’m hanging out with his stepbrother. Alone. Right after we had a magical date.
Ok, it looks bad. But it’s not.
“If Dad asks, I went to—”
“Melissa’s, yeah, I know the drill,” Lilly smirks.
I flick her arm. She swats me off. Then I’m rushing out the back door, jogging across the gravel lot to an idling red coupe— a hand-me-down from his stepmom after his dad leased her a new SUV.
The windows are rolled down, a trail of smoke wafting out of the driver’s side.
I open the passenger door to find Cade, cigarette pinched between his lips, texting like he’s screaming through his thumbs.
“Who you harassing?” I laugh, plopping into the bucket seat.
He doesn’t look up. “A guy.”
A sour taste fills my mouth. I swallow it and force a grin. “Planning some after-mall hanky panky?”
I’m gifted a smirk. He shakes his head. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
The vague answer twists something in my chest. Lilly’s skeptical face flashes in my mind as Cade accelerates out of the parking lot.
It’s a good thing he’s talking to someone. He has every right to hook up or date whoever he wants. I mean, I can’t talk, I’m sort of seeing his stepbrother.
It’s a good thing.
A good thing.
Maybe if I repeat it enough, it won’t bother me anymore.