Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Father Carmichael chuckles softly and leans in closer. “You should join us inside, we won’t bite.”
Is he flirting with me?
No.
Priests don’t flirt.
Right?
“I’ll be right in,” I say, nodding toward the chapel.
“Can’t wait,” he murmurs.
I watch him walk away and can’t help but continue to stare at him, wondering what his body looks like underneath the robe.
I take a deep breath and then propel my feet to move forward, closer to the chapel doors.
There’s a blonde lady standing near the front, handing out programs, and she smiles as she watches me approach. “Hi, I’m Sandy. Are you new?”
I nod. “I am.”
Her eyes light up and she reaches out her hand for me to shake. “I volunteer in the gift shop around the corner, and my husband works closely with Father Carmichael in the Outreach Program. Have you met Father Carmichael?”
I nod again. “I have.”
“You’re going to love him. He’s so nice.”
I smile. “I’m sure I will.”
“I can give you a quick tour before service starts, if you’d like.”
“I’d love that.” I glance around. “Only if I’m not keeping you from your duties.”
She smiles. “It’s fine. And after, you can sit with me, if you want.”
Sandy eases my worry about doing this alone instantly. She’s a touch older than me, and already, I’m happy to have made a friend.
“Sure.”
She glances over my shoulder. “Are you here by yourself? Husband? Children?”
I hate when someone asks me if I have children. Yes, I have a son I’m very proud of, but many people can’t understand why he doesn’t live with me. When I mention that my son lives with his father, I can see the judgment written across their faces. She must be a druggie. Crack whore. Dead beat.
“Nope, I’m all alone,” I finally say.
Sandy doesn’t skip a beat and wraps an arm around me. “Not anymore.”
I sink into her hold as she takes me on a quick tour before the service begins. “Over here is the grotto.” She leads me into a small, serene space off the main chapel, enclosed by intricate wrought-iron screens. The soft glow of flickering candles illuminates the dim area, casting warm shadows on the stone walls. There are over a hundred votive candle holders, some gently flickering with light, while others remain untouched, waiting for someone to offer a prayer. A few stained glass windows high above filter the sunlight, bathing the grotto in a mix of blues, reds, and golds. I notice the sign that reads, "Donation: $1 a candle," in elegant calligraphy.
I admire the concrete statues of saints, their expressions solemn and wise, scattered around the grotto. The air smells faintly of incense, lingering from a previous service. Sandy leads me through an arched doorway and down a cobblestone walkway lined with ivy-covered walls. We pass through a small courtyard, the centerpiece of which is a grand statue of a man wearing a robe, a little bird perched delicately on his shoulder. His eyes are cast downward as though in thought, radiating a sense of calm. The garden surrounding us is filled with vibrant flowers—roses, lilies, and marigolds—blooming in a riot of color.
Two wooden benches sit beneath the shade of an ancient oak tree, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. The soft rustle of leaves adds to the tranquility of the space.
“Lots of people sit out here to think,” Sandy says quietly.
I nod, taking it all in. “It’s peaceful.”
She smiles warmly. “Father Carmichael lives here.” She gestures toward a modest brick home nestled behind a line of tall, neatly pruned hedges, about a hundred yards from the garden. The house is simple, with ivy creeping up one side, a small chimney, and a porch with hanging baskets of flowers. It looks almost out of place on the church property, like a quiet refuge tucked away from the world.
“He lives on church property?” I ask, glancing back at the chapel, its tall steeple casting a shadow over the courtyard.
“Well, of course. He’s devoted his life to the Lord’s work.” Her tone is casual, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Oh.” I chew at my bottom lip, thinking about the man I met earlier. Father Carmichael—kind eyes, a gentle demeanor, and to my surprise, rather handsome. He didn’t fit the image of the older, stern-faced priest I’d imagined.
“See that building over there?” Sandy points to a large structure set at an angle from the chapel. Its beige stucco exterior contrasts with the red bricks of the church, and it has its own parking lot with a few scattered cars. A tall sign in front reads “Family Center,” with smaller lettering beneath that says “Outreach Program, Gift Shop, Offices.”
“That’s the Family Center. The Outreach Program is located there, along with the gift shop and offices.” Her voice is bright as she talks about it, clearly proud of the church’s efforts.