As I take deep, calming breaths, I think of all the people from this small town who’ve sat here, prayed, worshipped, wed, mourned. They’re part of my history, my past. If my grandmother hadn’t taken that job with the USO while she was pregnant with my mom, if she hadn’t followed her dreams and gone to Hollywood, this church on the hill could be mine, and that graveyard could be my future.
A door squeaks open from somewhere inside the church, and I jump. A sliver of light shines out from behind the altar. If I let my imagination have its way, it could look like a portal bringing a supernatural being into the church to give me words of wisdom. But in the dim light, my fantastic thought dissolves as a man dressed in priestly attire comes into focus.
“You can turn on the light when you come to visit,” Father Patrick says in an official priest voice, making me wonder if he realizes who I am.
“I . . . I’m sorry I broke in.” I sniff and shove my wet gloves into my pocket, positive I look like a drowned rat.
“Miss Branson?” he asks. I think I hear an extra lilt to his question that almost sounds like amusement.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you. I just needed a minute out of the storm,” I say, and sniff again, melting snow dripping down the sides of my cheeks, back of my neck, and into the top of my shirt.
Father Patrick makes his way to me. I wish the lights were on so I could read his expression. Then again—the brightness would expose my embarrassingly disastrous state.
“That’s why the door is always open. There are lots of storms out there,” he says, sitting in the row in front of me but turning around enough that I can see his eyes and the easy, welcoming expression on his face.
“I know you’re being all deep and figurative, but there’s a literal storm out there.”
“Sure. But there are lots of places to find shelter from that kind of storm. You chose the church. I think there’s usually a reason for that, even if the one in need of respite doesn’t know it.”
“Damn, you’re deep today,” I say, making a joke, the parable he’s spinning hitting a touch too close to home. “You don’t lock the doors—ever?”
He shakes his head. “They did for a long time, probably twenty, thirty years. Especially after the mall was built and we got more occasional tourist traffic. But what good is God’s love when it’s limited or conditional? And since when does sorrow follow a nine-to-five schedule? We decided to keep the doors open to all who need to find rest and comfort here.”
“You’re not worried about vandals or theft?”
“I mean, the cameras and motion detector by the front door help.” He holds up an older version of an iPhone with a list of alerts on it, and I laugh loud enough for it to echo around the room.
“Here I thought you were gonna give me some speech about God protecting you, but it’s a doorbell camera like the rest of us have.”
“God’s busy. It’s a bit much to ask him to take care of something when I could solve the problem with two-day delivery of a door cam.”
I laugh again and shake my head.
“Look at you, a funny priest. I bet you and Father Ignatius have a classic ‘butting of heads.’ I feel a movie plot in this somewhere.”
“We have our differences of opinion; that’s for sure,” he says, putting the phone away and then getting serious again. “You’re dripping.”
“Oh, I know. I’m making a mess. These must be antique.” I wipe away a trail of melted snow, and a pool of cold water soaks into my already-damp pant leg. “I can call a car in a few minutes. I’m waiting for a phone call. Or I could walk to the library and wait there. It’s not that far . . .”
“No, no. Stay as long as you need. I don’t want you to get cold. One moment,” he says, returning to his office. I take off my coat and keep it turned in on itself to trap all the moisture. He comes back carrying a terry cloth towel, flipping on a row of can lights on the way.
“Here.” He passes me the towel, and I use it to dry the bench and then my face and hair. “Do you need coffee, tea?”
“Coffee sounds like heaven, but please don’t make a new pot for me.”
“Mrs. Thompson, our volunteer secretary, bought us a Keurig last year, so one cup of coffee is almost too easy.”
“Cameras and coffee machines—I’m impressed. But I don’t want to be a hassle. I plan to get out of your hair soon.”
“You’re no hassle, Miss Branson.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do than bring me towels and hot drinks—things like feeding and clothing literal refugees. That’s pretty amazing work you do, by the way.”
“I could tell it affected you when I saw you on base.” He pauses and searches my expression like he’s trying to figure out an interesting word problem or brainteaser. I wait for some pointed or deeply religious question, but instead he says simply, “Working with the families on base is humbling.”
“I told Mac he should talk to the people at Atterbury and possibly do a segment in the film about your efforts.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“When do you go again?” I ask, finally warm and nearly dry, and blissfully distracted from the crisis I’ll have to address as soon as my phone rings.
“I teach a class there on Thursday.”
“A class? Like, a religious class? I guess I assumed most of the refugees were Muslim.”
“Oh, it’s not religious. I teach art therapy,” he says in a rush. Then I remember his background before joining the priesthood, and a new burst of respect ignites in me.
“That’s right. Your art degree.”
He shrugs like he’s uncomfortable with acknowledging his accomplishments. After making a career out of the egos of Hollywood stars and millionaire businesspeople, I find his modesty fascinating.
“You’ve got lots of layers there, Father.”
“One or two, I guess.”
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I jump.
“Oh shit!” I say, digging through the rumpled pile of fluff.
“Your call?” he asks, not even flinching at my second swear word of the conversation.
“Oh God, I hope so.” I retrieve the buzzing device out of the coat’s zippered pocket. But it’s not my mom or her assistant or even Farrah. It’s Hunter. I want to talk to him, I really do, but a small part of me wants to hit the cancel button and call him back later, fill him in without Father Patrick listening in the background. That way I can keep talking to the unusual clergyman who still hasn’t told me his, I assume, tragic backstory that I want to know. No—that I crave to know.
“Your fiancé?” Father Patrick asks, seeming to catch on to my hesitancy.
I nod.
“You should get it.”
He’s right. Plus, how would it look to not pick up my fiancé’s call? Father Patrick is supposed to take us through the rest of our Pre-Cana. Marry us. Send us on our way into marital bliss. I wouldn’t blame him for judging me if I dodged Hunter so cavalierly.
I hit the green button and put the phone up to my ear. Father Patrick takes my towel and coat and excuses himself as I answer.
“Hey, babe. Got your message. Everything okay?” I can hear traffic sounds in the background. I’m guessing he’s in the back of a car in transit between meetings.
“Not really.” I try to whisper.
“What’s wrong? Are you safe?” There’s an immediate edge to his voice.