Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter One
Father
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
I cast a side eye that catches the confessor’s silhouette through the tight lattice that separates us. She detects my motion and shifts, pressing her lips close to the window.
“It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”
I know this to be a lie. The husky smoker’s voice gives her away. She pauses, waiting for me to call her on this fresh sin of dishonesty. I don’t.
“Go on, child,” I say.
She doesn’t immediately reply. Her presence, so near, is cloying and I experience a moment of guilt. It’s God’s place to judge her, not mine, but Claudia Hudson isn’t here looking for absolution. I can smell her perfume, some spicy floral scent that might be pleasant if used in moderation. She started wearing it after Christmas along with a diamond necklace—both gifts from her unsuspecting husband.
“I’ve had… impure thoughts, Father.”
“Have you taken them to the Lord in prayer?”
“He doesn’t hear me, Father.”
“He hears us all, child.”
“There’s more, Father.” I hear her shift closer. “My husband no longer pleases me. He can’t function. At night I touch myself while I think of another man…”
Another scent now mingles with the heady perfume. A man born to the cloth would not recognize it, but my call to the priesthood came during a former life, and I know the subtle smell of an aroused woman. On the other side of this thin confessional barrier, Mrs. Hudson is masturbating.
I wish I could say the anger and disgust I feel is righteous, but there’s more to it than that. Claudia Hudson is just the kind of woman who made celibacy seem like an attractive alternative.
“Is it so wrong?” she continues. “Is it so wrong to want to comfort someone as I need to be comforted? To give myself to someone with the same unfulfilled needs? Someone discreet?”
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,” I say.
The heavy breathing on the other side of the screen subsides. There’s nothing like quoting Beatitudes to cool the ardor of an enamored parishioner.
“He’s not dead, just impotent, Father.”
I almost smile.
“No, but your bond with your husband is a bond made in the eyes of God. Betray it, and it dies. Do not wait for God to comfort you for what you kill, child. As penance for your sins, you will visit St. Mary’s Home for the Elderly and volunteer. May being in the company of widows inspire appreciation for what you have. I encourage you to talk to your loving husband. I assume he wants to please you. And you will say ten Our Father’s. Go in peace.”
I exit the confessional before she can reply, moving quickly through the side door of the sanctuary. I light a cigarette as I walk the breezeway to the attached building that houses my office, which is my own kind of sanctuary. Once inside, I close the door with a soft click. The room is blessedly quiet save for the ticking of the clock atop the cabinet I open. I kneel, moving aside books I collected in seminary to retrieve a bottle of whiskey I keep tucked away behind an autobiography on Pope Paul VI. It’s only three o’clock, but this hasn’t turned out to be the kind of day where I can wait until five for a drink. I regret that I didn’t lock the office door when I hear the handle turn, then sigh in relief when I see who’s interrupted me.
Father Morris walks in with a shuffling gait. He gives me a wry little smile when he sees the bottle.
“Got a second glass, Dominic?”
I walk to the desk and open the drawer to pull out two shot glasses. I sit them down beside the unfinished homily I’ve been slaving over for the last week. No matter how many times I revise it, I never feel like it’s quite good enough.
“Longhand.” Father Morris peers down at my papers. His body may be old and stiff, but his eyes and mind are as sharp as mine. “Hardly ever see that anymore.”
“I think better when writing things with a pen,” I say. “I just wish I could finish it. I want it to be perfect.”
“Only Christ is perfect.” Father Morris turns the papers towards him and silently reads. “But this is good, my boy. Very good.” He pauses and looks up to the small round stained-glass window on the side of my office. The afternoon sun illuminates the inset scene of a shepherd and a lamb.
“I remember my first homily,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s talking to me now or to himself. “Standing up there at the lectern, looking out at the people.” He nods to the window. “I was seized by this sense of incredible responsibility because I realized they weren’t just… parishioners. They were a flock. My flock. And as long as I was parish priest, I would be their advisor, their father confessor, would share the joys of birth and marriage and the pain of separation and hardship and death.”
The room falls quiet. Is it my imagination, or is the clock ticking louder?
“Do you think I’m ready?” I ask.
He looks at me and chuckles. “You’d better be. Come Friday I’m leaving.” He lifts his glass and downs the brandy, sighing with contentment. I down mine, too, but doubt it goes down as easily. Father Morris is facing a deserved rest.
My work is just beginning, and I wonder if I’m prepared.
“Dominic,” he says, suddenly serious. He puts the glass down on his desk. “I know what you’re thinking. Your path to the priesthood is different than most others. You don’t come as an innocent. You have life experience most parish priests don’t have. But perhaps in today’s changing world that’s a benefit. You can relate to these people in a way I never could.” He arches a brow. “But we both know you’ll face temptations, too. I’ve seen the way the women here look at you. The devil will sorely test you.”
I think of Claudia Hudson who grips my hand a little too tightly when Father Morris and I see the parishioners off after services. The look she gives me is knowing, as if sharing her confessions means we’ve shared something intimate. Two Sundays ago, she looked back at me and smiled, her generous bottom moving sensually under the tight red skirt she wore. She’s easily the most attractive woman in the parish, but still not my type. Would it make a difference if she were?
“That part of my life is over, Father Morris,” I say with conviction.
“Be mindful, just the same,” he cautions. “Keep faith with others from the order. Go for counsel and confession at St. Sebastian’s, even if it is half a day’s drive from here. Don’t neglect your own soul while caring for others.”
“I won’t,” I say.
He reaches up and pats me on the shoulder, then nods down at the homily. “Have you prayed over it?” he asks.
“No, Father,” I answer honestly.
“If you don’t ask for help with the little things, you can’t expect help with the big ones. Take it to the Lord. You’ll find the words.”
“Yes, Father.” I smile, thinking how much I like the old fellow, and how much I’ll miss him when he leaves.
“Goodness.” He shakes his head. “All this talk made me forget why I came in here in the first place, Dominic. I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” I say.
“As you know, I’m not the only one leaving. Mrs. Edwards is leaving, too.”
“Yes, the church secretary. I’ve been going over the applications. I’ve narrowed it down to…”
“I have someone for you to consider,” he interrupts. “Someone with connections to the parish.”
“Who?” I ask haltingly. I think of Claudia Hudson, who has hinted heavily at wanting the position. But that’s not who my mentor has in mind.
“Stephen Angelo’s daughter,” he says, and while I’m relieved that it’s not Claudia Hudson, I suddenly regret my premature promise to grant any favor Father Morris might ask. St. Joseph’s is a small parish that’s set in its ways. As it is, I expect pushback from the church council for some of the outreach I have planned, especially from Stephen Angelo, who is both a deacon and the council’s most conservative member. He’s made no secret that he’s opposed to taking the church in a liberal direction, which in his mind is the implementation of more charity programs aimed at poor or immigrant families.
“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” I say.
“She’s been away, but now she’s back and needs a job. She’s a quiet and meek. Won’t give you any trouble.”
I picture a woman in early middle age, a female version of her father with the same sanctimonious scowl.
“I’d hoped to install my own secretary,” I say.
“I appreciate that,” Father Morris says. “But Stephen has been leaning on me about this.”
“What do you care? You’re leaving.”
Father Morris smiles. “You’ll learn soon enough the delicate balance that exists between parish council and priest, Dominic. I didn’t last this long at St. Thomas by being a fool. I know what you’re thinking—that Stephen Angelo wants his daughter in your office to be his eyes and ears, to give him a heads up on what you’re planning, hmm?”
I look away, ashamed to have underestimated him.
“I don’t blame you,” he says. “And I won’t hold you to your promise to grant me any favor I ask if you won’t be angry with me for telling Stephen you’d come to dinner tonight to interview his daughter for the job.”
“Father Morris…” I begin, but he holds up his hand.
“It’s just dinner, and you’ll have to dine with all of them alone sooner or later. Just go, Dominic. Talk to his daughter. Consider her. That’s all I ask. Ultimately, the choice is yours, but politically, it’s in your best interest to at least give her a chance.”
He’s right. He is no fool, and while I don’t want to go, what he says makes sense.
All right,” I say, my fingers moving to the collar at my throat. Suddenly it feels tighter than usual. “I’ll do it.”
