Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Fifteen
Father
Come Sunday, there are more people than I expect in the sanctuary of St. Thomas’ old church. I speak on God the Father, whose perfection we cannot attain but whose unfailing love lends understanding when we stumble. I describe his love as a warm embrace, even in our darkest times, and urge those in need to remember that grace is ever present.
I’d written the homily with Carmen in mind, knowing that I could only shake her hand after the service, but hoping the words would make her feel the love I could not outwardly display.
She does not hear the homily, however. She’s not at church on this Sunday, and when my gaze drifts to the part of the church where she usually sits, I find myself stumbling over my words. I’m supposed to be standing here as a man of faith, but my faith is shaken. I worry that my prayers for her safety and well-being have not been answered; if they had been, then why isn’t she here?
After the service, I stand at the door, forcing myself to make small talk with the parishioners, mustering a joke here and there for some of the more jovial members, straining to focus when Mrs. Maloney tells me how hard the cold has been on her knees and asks for a prayer for her upcoming surgery.
“Father…” Claudia Hudson has purposefully hung back to be the last one out. She clasps my hand, holding it too long as she seeks to catch my gaze. Her perfume is especially cloying today. “How are you? You seemed so… unfocused today.” She leans in. “I lit a candle and said a prayer just for you this morning. I know how you must struggle to adapt to this life. If you ever need a friend…”
“No.” My response is abrupt and harsh. She came to confession yesterday afternoon, her admissions more suggestive and lurid than ever.
Her eyes narrow in a show of irritation as I pull my hand from her grasp.
“Well,” she says, stepping away. “I’ll see you later.”
I breathe a sigh of relief as she leaves.
The church is quiet. I walk back up the aisle, tucking abandoned hymnals back in the pockets behind pews, picking up a dropped sippy cup a fretful child had tossed onto the floor. I look at the lectern, wondering how I got through the homily. Several parishioners asked me if I was okay. I said I was, but I’m not.
In the breezeway outside, I stop and have a cigarette. I think of Rory, of how he roamed the world looking for peace always beyond his grasp. Have I fallen into the same trap? The priesthood has given me a focus, but was this a calling or a place to hide from my greatest, unspoken fear—the fear of losing someone else close to me?
My church family isn’t a real family. I told myself that a life without intimate attachments would eliminate the risk of being abandoned through death or rejection. Carmen is the first person to make me realize the risks outweigh the rewards. She’s awakened a different kind of father in me—a daddy—and I think I’m in love with her, but it’s too late. I’ve made a promise to the Church, to God, and to the people who trusted that investing in an older priest was a wise move.
My cigarette is finished. Funny, but I smoke less when I’m around Carmen. I walk the rest of the way to the church office, where the computer we ordered sits in a box on the floor. It was delivered yesterday, and I look forward to seeing her excitement when she comes back to work on Monday. Making her happy in a workplace setting is the best I can give her now. I hope her absence at church doesn’t mean she’s ill.
I go into my inner office and sit down. When Father Morris was here, I leaned on him for counsel and have avoided calling him as he’s settled into retirement. But I need to hear his voice. I need him to remind me of how I will be tested, and of how I will prevail against any obstacle to my calling.
He answers on the third ring, his tone jovial. “Father Dominic,” he says. “Survived the snowstorm, did you?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you didn’t go stir crazy all alone in the rectory, my boy.”
I close my eyes, thinking of the soft feel of Carmen’s skin, the look of passion in her eyes. I think of the smell of her hair, her taste.
“I managed just fine,” I say.
“And how are things in the parish?” he asks.
“Good.”
“Are they?” he asks. “There’s trouble in your voice. You don’t serve as long as I did without detecting something like that. And I know you. You wouldn’t call unless you needed something.”
I sigh. “You’re right. And I’d hoped I wouldn’t need to so soon. I’m sorry to bother you, Father Morris. I know I could go to talk to the priests at St. Sebastian’s, but I just don’t feel comfortable. I need counsel from someone I trust.”
“You don’t trust the priests at St. Sebastian?”
I sigh. “It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t know them like I know you.”
“I told you I was always here for you, Dominic, and I meant it. What troubles you?”
I pause. “You know my story. You know what led to my joining the priesthood. After Rory died… when I went to the church I was so sure I heard God’s voice telling me this was the path I needed to take.”
“I believe you did,” Father Morris says. “In my year with you, you proved yourself to have the heart of a servant and the mind of a leader. I saw you as a man well suited to lead the parish. Do you doubt that now? Has something shaken your faith?”
“No. My faith is still strong. It’s not God I doubt, Father Morris. It’s my own weakness.”
“I see,” he says softly. “And does this weakness have anything to do with your vow of celibacy? I won’t ask for more details than you want to give.”
I can’t bring myself to answer his question directly. “What if God put me on the wrong path, Father Morris? What if I wasn’t led to serve and lead?”
“God doesn’t put us on the wrong path. But he may put us at a crossroad, or on an indirect one.” He pauses. “Is this a private struggle, my son? Or is someone else involved in your dilemma?”
Now I’m the one who goes silent. I think of Carmen again, her soft yielding lips, her desire for a different kind of father, and the pull of my heart towards her needs.
“I want to do what’s right,” I answer, and wait for him to press me on what’s going on, but he doesn’t.
“You will do what’s right, Father Dominic,” he says. “Service to God may be a struggle, but it is not meant to cause suffering. A broken vessel cannot serve living water. Look to your path. Pray.”
“Thank you, Father Morris,” I say.
After I hang up, I put my face in my hands. What was I expecting from Father Morris? An answer? Permission to leave the church? Pressure to stay? That he did not ask for more information inclines me to believe he knows exactly what is going on, and trusts me to do what is right. But what is right? What is my path?
I close my eyes to pray, but all I can see is Carmen’s sweet face. When I pray, it’s not for answers, but for her safety. My child. It means something entirely different when I think of her.
