“Yes, Ma’am. Pull up your sins and make yourself at home.”
She followed him into the small room that served as the Church’s confessional. The old two-parter booths weren’t in use much anymore. It wasn’t “confession” so much anymore but “reconciliation.” Priest and penitent sat in chairs facing each other and Stuart had gone to great lengths to make sure his confessional was as comfortable and inviting as possible. Priests liked repeat customers after all.
“Leather chairs,” the lady said, nodding her approval. She ran her hand over the back of the chair, scarlet red fingernails stark against the chocolate brown. “Very nice.”
“Have a seat, please,” he said as he took his chair by the floor lamp. “Oh, could you put the sign on the door first? You can lock the door if you like, but you don’t have to. No one will interrupt.” As she walked to the door, he lit a handful of votive candles on the low altar of the prie-dieu and switched on his iPod.
“Mood music?” she asked. “Never had mood music played during confession before. What do you have there? Gregorian chant? Bach?”
“Enya,” Father Ballard said.
The woman burst out laughing. It was such a wide open laugh that it made him sit up straighter.
She pointed at him and shook her finger. “You surprise me. Takes a lot to do that. Now I have to revise a few mental pictures I had...”
“I like to make my penitents comfortable,” he said. “Plus, it’s pretty, relaxing, and masks our voices. Speaker’s by the door. If anyone wanted to listen to us, all they’d hear is music.”
“I like it,” she said. “I play music during sessions with my clients. It does help them relax. Never Enya though. I’ll try that next time.”
She took the sign off the back of the doorknob, read it, and raised her eyebrow.
“‘Do not disturb’, ” she read the sign. “ ‘Courtesy, The Sauveterre.’ That’s a five-star hotel, Father. What’s a Jesuit priest doing with a hotel sign from a five-star hotel?”
“Stole it,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ve confessed that sin and been absolved.”
“Met your girlfriend there?” she asked as she hung the sign on the outer doorknob. She shut the door and locked it.
“I wish,” he said, watching as she took her seat across from him. He tried not to watch as she crossed her legs.
But he did anyway.
“Yes,” she said with something like sympathy in her voice. “I bet you do.”
“Conference,” he said quickly. “The Ecumenical Council of America met at the Sauveterre three years ago. They asked me to speak there. Free night at a five-star hotel? Couldn’t turn that down, could I? Stole the sign, but I left the towels.”
“Sauveterre—it means ‘safe haven’ in French.”
“That’s where you are right now, dear. A safe haven. You seem to know the Sauve well.”
“Very well,” she said, sitting back in the chair. “I’ve met clients there before.”
“Second time you’ve mentioned clients,” he said. “You’re a therapist?”
“We’ll get to that. Should we begin?”
He looked at her a moment before leaning forward and meeting her gaze again. She looked back at him with wide eyes, a slight smile on her lips, and not a blush to be found on her pale cheeks or a tear in her eyes. If he had to describe this woman’s expression, he might pick “confident” or “fearless”…but if he could choose only one word, he’d probably pick “shameless.” Interesting expression on the face of a woman who was ostensibly here to confess her sins.
“We should begin, yes,” he said. “Let’s pray.”
Obediently she crossed herself, closed her eyes and bowed her head.
“Glory be to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end,” he said. “Amen.”
“Amen,” she said, crossing herself and raising her head. “I like it better in Latin though.”
“Say it,” he said.
“Gloria patri,” she began without a moment’s hesitation, “et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”
“Very good.” Father Ballard clapped. “Accent could use some work.”
“Considering Latin’s a dead language, isn’t my guess at an accent as good as anyone’s?”
“Not a bad point. You’re too young to have grown up with the old Latin Rite. Where’d you learn it?”
“My priest,” she said. “He can be a little old school.”
“Nothing wrong with the old school,” he said. “I can be a little old school myself.”
“You’re playing Enya on an iPod Nano in a confessional that looks like a Park Avenue psychotherapist’s office. Leather chairs, candles, and if I’m not mistaken...that’s a bowl of Jolly Ranchers on the table next to you.”
“So I’m a little old school and a little new school. I know Latin, I wear a cassock, but I can still appreciate the power of a little candy to get a nervous child talking.”
“Or a nervous woman?”