By the time I arrive at Holy Trinity, the sun has set, and I’m walking instead of maintaining the sprint-like pace I’d started with when I bolted out of the Haymark Garden Inn. I turned off my phone completely so I wouldn’t be tempted to check any messages or pick up the calls that started within minutes of my grand exit. I hope my mother took notes because that exit was epic—and well deserved.
It’s Friday-night confessional hours, so I know the church will be occupied, though I have no idea if I’ll see Father Patrick or Father Ignatius inside. I also don’t know if they’re aware of the developing scandal, which means I might have to tell them. I suppose I’d rather be the one to talk them through it than have them hear it from a member of the community or, God forbid, a member of Mac’s staff.
I pick up my speed and run up the front steps two at a time until I reach the top, out of breath. I know I must look a mess. My gym shoes and yoga pants are not exactly church attire. I put my hand on the curved metal handle and work to slow my breathing and the slam of my heartbeat against my rib cage.
Inside, all the lights are on. A mother and her child sit in one of the pews, and a gray-haired man kneels by another. The atmosphere of the room is contemplative and peaceful—exactly what I need. I sit in the back row, hoping to identify which priest is in the confessional before facing either of them one-on-one. I don’t want to step into that box, that space I know my grandmother and Father Patrick view as holy, and distract Patrick from his religious life more than I already have. But then again, I have to talk with him, and it might not hurt to have a wall between us.
A middle-aged woman I recognize as the assistant librarian exits the confessional. It’s a wooden structure with a latticed door in the center where the priest sits and an open but shielded area with a step where the penitent kneels. The little girl takes her turn, bouncing into the confessional with a lightness that comes with youth. I long for the innocent confessions of eight-year-old me.
I mimic the reflective pose of the man in the front row, kneeling, folded hands, eyes closed, only without the constant movement of my lips in prayer. Though if there’s ever a time to pray, this is it. I don’t know the entire anatomy of my mom and Hunter’s betrayal, but I’m slowly piecing it together. My relationship with Hunter was real; I know that. He loved me, and I loved him. But did he propose after only six months because of Mac? Does it go back that far? And Hunter is not a naive fool—he saw the potential rewards in a quick engagement. I’m sure of it.
In the PR arena, relationships and engagements and weddings are tried-and-true methods to improve or change an image. And plenty of agents and publicists participate in this kind of manipulation. More often than not, the two personalities might not even know each other beforehand. There are contracts, signatures, details as specific as where and when the individuals can be photographed together.
I decided early on with Toffee Co. that we wouldn’t dip our toes into those waters. If a client is looking for that kind of a quick boost, I have plenty of references willing to help them. But my relationship with Hunter didn’t feel orchestrated—no contract to sign, no stipulations, no nondisclosure agreements. Just proclamations of love and plans for our future. Perhaps the other way is better—a business agreement instead of a fairy tale. That way, everyone knows what to expect.
I peek up over my clasped hands, the sound of two men engaged in a whispered conversation pulling me out of my introspection. My throat tightens, and a low note hums in my ears, making it difficult to hear what they’re saying to one another.
Patrick sits beside the contemplative man in the front row, a white garment over his black vestments and a purple stole around his neck, deep in conversation. I get off my knees and sit on the wooden pew so I can see them better. The man wears a burgundy sweater with a hole at the elbow, his thinning hair askew on the top of his head. It’s obvious the man is in crisis and Patrick—Father Patrick—is counseling him. Father Patrick takes the man’s hand and bows his head in prayer, and they sit like that, communing with God together.
I grow emotional as I watch them, one man helping another man find access to his God. I know I don’t believe the same way they do, Father Patrick and his parishioner. I don’t know if I believe in a deity much less one specific church. But I do believe in what Patrick is doing. If there is a God and if there is a Jesus and if any religious thought is real—then this kind of brotherly love and charity are what I believe in. Even if it’s not real, if we’re alone on this planet and when Dean died, he was gone forever and all he got were those few brief years on this earth—this is still good.
Patrick may have entered the religious life to find purpose in Magdalene’s death, but I think he stayed in it because he found a purpose greater than his own personal redemption.
“Miss Branson, may I help you?” Father Ignatius stands beside me between the pew and the stained-glass window that looks like a patchwork of dark purples and blues and reds now that the sun has set.
“Oh!” I start, not expecting to see anyone standing there, much less the elderly priest.
He puts a finger over his lips, shushing me. I check to see if I’ve caught Patrick’s attention unintentionally.
“This is a time for meditation and prayer. We’d appreciate your reverence,” he scolds, and I feel like a child in Sunday school not knowing the right answers. I haven’t seen the senior clergyman since my first day in Edinburgh nearly a month ago, and I wouldn’t mind living the rest of my life without interacting directly with his sparkling personality. If Patrick is an example of the good of religion, Father Ignatius is the embodiment of why people my age are leaving traditional belief systems in record numbers.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I was waiting to talk with Father Patrick.”
“Father Patrick is otherwise engaged tonight. If you have specific needs to discuss, I’m available, but unfortunately, he’s not.”
I thought I’d have the courage to tell Father Ignatius about the article, but I don’t. It’s none of his business, anyway. I’m sure Father Patrick will be in enough hot water as it is; he doesn’t need more judgment.
“I can wait,” I say, ready to return to my kneeling position, hoping Ignatius will walk away and give me privacy. But he calls my bluff and remains in the same spot, unmoved. Stagnant and complacent.
“I’m sorry, Miss Branson. He cannot meet with you tonight. If it’s something of import, we can speak in my office . . .”
“I really need to speak with Father Patrick specifically. There’s been a”—I search for the right words to convey gravity without giving away all the details—“development with the documentary, and we’ll be leaving immediately. He’s been a significant part of the film. It’s important we speak.”
He holds his ground, hands clasped on the curve of his belly. “You’re in luck. We are well aware of your so-called ‘development,’ so you’re free to go.”
“You know?” I’m clearly too late. They know.