Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Three
Father
I’d come armed with a consolation prize–an expensive bottle of whiskey that I’d hoped would soften the blow when I politely told Stephen Angelo I’d have to interview other secretarial candidates before making a decision. But as the man before me praises my choice in alcohol, I can barely hear him.
My attention is focused on the young woman standing on the staircase. This is the daughter? I look at Mrs. Angelo then, and remember that Father Morris said this was the second marriage for the deacon. He’s an older father, and when Carmen is standing before me and introductions are made, I can tell she is fortunate to have inherited none of his qualities.
Where the deacon is hefty and big-boned, his daughter is like a finely sculpted doll.
Where his skin is pitted and ruddy, hers is fair and smooth.
She has a natural beauty that transcends the painfully plain dress she’s wearing; I see a shadow of that beauty in Laura Angelo, but it’s muted too, not by clothing but by something else—a kind of subdued aura.
I note that while our eyes locked when she was on the stairs, once she’s before me, Carmen purposefully avoids my gaze. I start to tell her I’m pleased to meet her, but her father cuts the introduction short, sending her and her mother off to the kitchen like scullery maids as we head to the living room.
“Let’s break this open while the women are setting the table,” he says, patting the bottle of whiskey. There are two empty beer cans on the table beside a recliner, its seat bearing the indentation of his bulk. Aside from the cans, the room is neat as a pin; his wife appears to be as busy as he is slothful.
“You have a lovely home,” I say as he hands me a glass and pours a finger’s worth of amber liquid over the ice cubes in the bottom.
“Thank you, Father.” He points to the television. “Sixty-four inch with surround sound. Makes it the best room in the house.” He puffs out his chest. “Closed on this house the day I celebrated my fifth anniversary with Mary, may God rest her soul.” He takes a sip of his drink. “She was my first wife. Good, solid Christian woman. Organized the food drive for over a decade, but I’m sure Father Morris told you.”
In fact, Father Morris did not single any one parishioner out for praise, so I deflect. “The food drive is one of the outreach programs I hope to expand now that I’m taking over for Father Morris,” I say. “Perhaps Mrs. Angelo would like to help.”
“Laura lacks Mary’s organizational skills,” he says. “She’s a godly wife, but a ninny. Fortunately, she has me to take care of everything so she can concentrate on keeping house.”
I glance towards the kitchen where I can see both Laura Angelo and her pretty daughter carrying dishes to the dining room table. The deacon has a booming voice that carries; it feels awkward being a party to an insult made within earshot of the recipient.
I hastily change the subject, this time to the Angelo Furniture Company. It’s a successful tactic, distracting a man who likes to brag about his success, and I listen politely between stealing glimpses into the dining room where Carmen is lighting candles on the table.
I tell myself that my interest is born of the shock of how different she is from what I expected. I wish now I’d pressed Father Morris for more details on her situation. Older women, not fresh-faced young adults like Carmen Angelo, usually fill church secretary positions.
“Look at this spread!” Angelo pats me on the back when we’re finally called to the dining room. “They don’t feed you like this at the rectory, Father. That roast? Prime aged Angus beef. Sixteen dollars a pound, Father.”
He takes a seat at the head of the table, gesturing to the chair to his right. I sit down. His wife sits across from me. Carmen sits beside her. Usually I’m asked to say grace, but the deacon gives no preamble before launching into a prayer in which he thanks God for the bounty of the table, his successful business, and all the other gifts bestowed upon him as a faithful servant. I’m reminded of the Pharisees, the religious sect of Jesus’ day who prayed loudly for the benefit of being heard and decide to add something about them to my first homily. They had nothing on Stephen Angelo, who continues to drone on about his gratitude for the means to do good works, and while I know I shouldn’t, I crack one eye open and look at Carmen, whose head is bowed and eyes are closed, the long curled lashes dark against the fair skin of her face.
Finally, the ‘amen’ comes, and Laura rises from her chair to take her husband’s plate.
“You dig in, Father,” the deacon says as his wife serves thick slices of roast, and a huge serving of potatoes.
“No green beans?” I ask jokingly, nodding at his plate.
“Don’t do vegetables,” he says. “I’m a meat and potatoes man.” He nods to Laura. “Roll?”
It’s within his reach, but she apologizes as she stands again, picks up the basket and puts two on his plate.
I look back at Carmen, who hasn’t said a thing since her murmured greeting.
“Father Morris tells me you’re interested in the secretarial position, Carmen,” I say, deciding not to delay the inevitable. At the sound of her name, she looks up as if surprised to hear it and opens her mouth to form a reply that’s interrupted by the man at the head of the table.
“He told you right, Father,” the deacon says. “Carmen here suffers from a problem common to today’s youth—education with no common sense. Back in my day, women were smart enough to dream of a husband who could take care of them. Today, they dream of useless pieces of paper to put on the wall. B.A. degrees? More like B.S. if you ask me. It’s worth about as much, so here she is, back home and unable to support herself.”
Across the table, Carmen focuses on the food in front of her, but she’s yet to take a bite. She moves the green beans around with her fork, and from here I can detect the slight tremble to her hand. I look at her mother who is buttering a roll with unnatural focus.
“What’s your degree in, Carmen?” I ask.
“Psychology, Father,” she says and something about the way she says ‘Father’ sends a little jolt through my veins that I tell myself to ignore.
“Home economics,” her father says. “That’s what proper girls used to study.”
“Dear, they stopped teaching home economics when I was a girl.” Laura speaks up, and her husband fixes her with a withering look. He doesn’t say anything, just slowly chews his food while glaring at her until she drops her gaze.
“A lot of things were better back in the day,” he growls, and points towards the sideboard with the knife he’s holding. “Take my first wife, for instance.” He smirks in Laura’s direction. “She took home economics. Learned how to run a house, balance a budget… useful stuff that women need but have forgotten how to do because they’re so busy trying to be men.”
There’s no change in Carmen’s expression, but her jaw tightens. I wait, giving her and her mother an opening to say something in defense of their gender. As a priest, I’m traditional, but I’m not misogynistic. Part of me wants to tell this chauvinistic lump what I think of his opinion, but I won’t attack a man at his own table.
“What about you, Carmen?” I ask. “Do you want to be a church secretary?”
I hear her mother give a little gasp and know this isn’t a question she wants her daughter to answer. Why? Because she knows it already and is afraid of what her husband will do if Carmen is honest? Beside her, the deacon is glaring at his daughter, willing her to say what he wants.
“I need a job, Father,” she replies.
“Damn right she needs a job,” the deacon says. “I told her when she went away to school that was the end of the free ride, and if she had to come home, she’d pay rent. Fair market rate.” He smirks. “She’s already overdue.”
“Would you like seconds, Father?” Laura Angelo nods to my plate and I realize that it’s not an offer, but a hint. I’ve barely touched the meal she and her daughter obviously slaved over.
“I’m a slow eater, but I’m sure I’ll want seconds, Mrs. Angelo. It’s very good. You both did a wonderful job.”
“Thank you,” she says, and for the first time she smiles, and it lights up her face, accentuating the age gap between her and her husband. She nudges Carmen. “Thank the Father, dear.”
“Thank you,” she says.
I force myself to eat and take seconds of everything. Meanwhile, Laura finishes half her food and Carmen has only eaten a few bites while at the head of the table, the deacon is working on thirds. He’s laid off criticizing his daughter now and has launched into sharing his opinion on Vatican II and what he sees as liberalism encroaching into the Church. As his wife brings out the pie, he ticks off a list of societal ills that he lays at the feet of those who aren’t religious enough.
Eventually, he comes back to the home where he once again frets over feminism before seeming to remember why I was called to his house.
“Carmen, go fetch your resume for Father Dominic. I know you have one.”
She rises from her chair and I watch her go upstairs, noting the loose fit of her dress and wondering why such a pretty girl would dress like that.
“You like cigars?” The deacon lumbers from his chair.
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
“Cigars aren’t smoking,” comes the odd reply. “I have one after dinner three nights a week. Good expensive ones. You can have another drink while I enjoy one in the living room. But first, I think I need to go to the boy’s room.”
Laura takes my plate. “Father, just go have a seat. He’ll be out directly.”
I get up and head to the living room. Laura smiles at me again and I smile back. “It really was so good, Mrs. Angelo. And if you ever want to come volunteer, we’d love to have you.”
The smile fades, but her eyes are wistful. “I’d love to, but my husband…” She glances to the sideboard. “He considered the church volun-teering to be Mary’s legacy. I think he feels like I’d be intruding.”
She gives me no time to respond, leaving me to marvel at the dysfunction of this family. Does Laura realize how the admission sounds? She seems oblivious to how it appears to an outsider as she walks to the kitchen.
I turn to go into the living room and stop. Carmen is standing on the bottom stair. I wonder how much she’s heard. She’s holding a paper in her hand. I approach her.
I nod at the paper. “Your resume?”
She nods back and I take it. It’s short and neat, listing her education, her club activities, and limited work experience.
“I made about fifty copies,” she says. “I’ve been planning to take them to different places in town.”
I look into her eyes, and for the second time she looks directly back. This time, though, the gaze isn’t curious but pleading. She doesn’t want this job. She is telling me without telling me that she is hoping to work somewhere—anywhere—else that’s not of her father’s choosing.
“Ah, good. So, you see her qualifications, Father.” The deacon’s booming voice makes me turn. “So, what do you say? I’d consider it a favor.”
What do I say? I want to say no. I want to say that she deserves to work where she wants. The church can’t afford to pay Carmen what a college graduate earns. But I’m standing close enough to feel her warmth, to catch the clean, subtle scent of shampoo. And God forgive me, but all I can think of is helping her and I can’t do it unless I get to know her.
“I say she’d be perfect for the job,” I reply, feeling a little sting of guilt when I see the look of betrayal she shoots me. It kills me to know that she may have told herself that I understood until I just proved I was like any other overbearing man in her life. I try to catch her eye again to shoot her a hopeful look that says it’s going to be okay, but she averts her gaze and refuses to look at me.
“She’ll start Monday,” the deacon says.
