Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Four
Carmen
I could drive myself crazy with the ‘what-ifs’ that run through my mind as my mother drives me to my first day of work. What if I’d just majored in something else, like nursing? What if I’d applied for more jobs outside my field so I’d at least have an income while I waited for something else to come up? What if I’d rented a room or found some guy to live with like my friend Becky did. He’d paid all her bills. They had an arrangement, she’d said.
My mother halts the car as the crossing guard shepherds a group of children across the street to the school just down the road from the church. She’s been lost in her thoughts this morning. The first words she spoke to me were when I woke to find her looking through my closet.
“What are you doing?” I’d asked. She’d pulled out the dress I’d originally planned to wear when the priest came to dinner.
“You should wear this today,” she said.
“Dad said it was inappropriate.”
She’d walked over and hung it on the back of the door before turning to me with a sad smile. “It’s not inappropriate, Carmen. It’s fine.”
Is it her idea of defiance? I try not to read too much into what she says and does. My father has not only built a wall around the family, but also between me and my mother—a wall of fear.
When we reach the church, my mother guides the car to the curb.
“Do you want me to walk you in?” she asks.
“No.”
“The office is through that door by the…” she begins, but I cut her off.
“I know, Mom. I grew up here, remember?”
“Yeah.” She picks at a speck of something on the steering wheel then turns back to me. “This reminds me of when I dropped you off for your first day of school. And look at you. All grown up and going to your first real job.”
I want to push back and tell her I was excited about the first day of school. With my new backpack, lunchbox, and uniform, it had felt like a beginning. This feels like the end of something. I don’t say anything, though. I feel myself almost lean forward to hug her, but open the door instead.
“Thanks for the ride, Mom. Have a good day.”
“You, too, Carmen.”
I stand on the curb and watch her drive off. The sidewalk disappears down a hill. We’re three blocks from the train station. I fantasize about what it would be like to have enough money in my purse to just leave.
I close my eyes, then take a ragged breath that I hold until the frustration and anxiety subsides to a manageable level. Above me the bell tower on the sanctuary looms high under the gray sky. The brick path to the office door, located in a section of the church off the sanctuary, is lined with meticulously trimmed boxwood shrubs. The rectory is beside the church, a small tidy house with a steeply pitched roof that sheds snow in the winter. My mother told me there’s a name for the architectural style of the house—storybook. And it fits. The rectory does look a bit like a fairy tale cottage, and it complements the classic design of the old church.
“Good morning.” I jump at the sound of the greeting and turn to see Father Dominic leaning by a wall. He’s smoking, the cigarette between his finger burnt halfway down, the tip glowing red.
“Good morning,” I say.
He doesn’t immediately reply. He just stands there, looking, and I feel I’m being assessed. This lasts for only a second or two but seems longer, and I feel my skin grow warm.
He draws on the cigarette and exhales as he walks over. “You caught me taking a break.” He smiles and stubs out the butt in an empty birdbath by the path.
I point at the cigarette. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“Who told you that?”
“My father. He said you didn’t want a cigar.”
“Ah. Well, I guess I’ll have to confess a half-truth. I don’t care for cigars. They’re…”
“…stinky?” I offer.
“I was thinking pretentious,” he says. “But let’s keep that between us, okay?”
He leans down to catch my eye, and it makes me feel like a little girl. He’s taller than he seemed when he was visiting, but I didn’t get much of a chance to stand next to him when he came for dinner, or maybe I was too nervous to notice. I notice it now, though. I notice more of him than I did then.
He still has the stubble on his face and I raise my fingers to brush my own smooth cheek, subconsciously noting the contrast. His hair is dark like mine, his eyes a deep chocolate brown. I force myself to look at the collar at his neck. I shouldn’t be noticing his eyes, or how thick his hair is, or how full his lips. He’s a priest, and just because he’s joking about our sharing a confidence doesn’t make him my friend.
“Are you ready for your first day of work?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, and immediately regret my words. He stares down at me.
“I know you didn’t want this job, Carmen,” he says and I almost gasp in surprise. He puts his hand to his chest. “But I felt… led to offer it to you.”
He turns and begins walking toward the office, beckoning for me to follow.
“I’d hoped Mrs. Edwards would stay here to train you, but her husband is ill and she’s taking him to a specialist today, so I’ll have to show you the ropes.” He opens the office door for me and I walk in. “But I prefer to train you myself anyway.”
His voice is deep and something about the comment sends a little shiver through my body.
“My inner office is through there. Your desk is here.” He motions to a small desk by a door with a new nameplate reading Father Dominic Germaine. My father told me that Father Dominic has decided to follow the tradition of Father Morris, who preferred to be called by his first name. I could tell by the way he said it that he disapproved.
“You’ll answer phones, schedule appoint-ments, order office supplies…” He pauses. “Do you have accounting experience?”
“I’m good with numbers,” I say. “And I kept my own budget at school.”
“It would be helpful if you could keep up with the budget for the food bank and the supplies for church suppers and whatnot.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I just wish I could pay you more than the position offers. It’s only eleven dollars an hour.”
I try to hide my disappointment; the figure is barely more than minimum wage, and I feel a surge of resentment for being pressed into a job without having a chance to negotiate better pay.
“I’ll ask the parish council about raising it come next meeting.” He pauses. “You’re worth more than that, Carmen, but you know that, right?”
He’s staring at me again, and I get the impression that the question isn’t about pay, but about something else, something deeper. A mixture of gratitude and intense awkwardness overcomes me.
I walk past him and slip my purse off my shoulder and put it on the back of the desk chair.
“I hope so,” I say for want of a better answer. “I’ll try to do a good job.”
Silence hangs between us, and then he claps his hands together. “Okay, I’m going to go in my office and try to finish that homily. If you need anything, just knock.”
He turns to a table and picks up a stack of papers and takes them into his office. I sit in the chair, feeling slightly disoriented. I have absolutely no idea where to begin, so I start by opening the drawers of the desk. There are several ledgers inside—one for office expenses, one for the food bank, and one for miscellaneous expenses. There is no computer, and I’m amazed that anyone still keeps books like this. It’s absolutely primitive, and I’d offer to bring my laptop to work and organize everything if it had enough space, but I know it doesn’t.
There’s a Rolodex beside a cup holding pens and pencils. The cup is emblazoned with the slogan “World’s Best Grandma,” and I decide if I’m going to be stuck doing this job, I’ll need to personalize the desk a bit. I flip through the Rolodex, looking at the parishioners’ names, some of which have lines through them and the word ‘deceased’ written in red letters.
The phone on the desk rings and I jump.
“St. Thomas, can I help you?” I sound more professional than I feel.
The caller is a man from the plumbing service. He’s come to work on the kitchen pipes in the rectory and needs to be let in. Ten minutes into the job and I already have to disturb Father. I get up out of my chair, feeling nervous without knowing why. I knock on the door and when he calls for me to come in, I instantly apologize for disturbing him before telling him about the call.
“Would you mind letting them in?” he asks, pulling some keys out of his drawer.
“Sure,” I say.
“And Carmen, you don’t have to apologize for coming in here. You don’t have to apologize for anything with me, okay?”
“Yes, Father.”
The odd little tingle runs through me again. He’s a priest. He’s supposed to say nice things. That’s his job. My inner voice chides me for taking his kindness personally. Outside the air is growing cooler. I walk quickly to the rectory. An older man is standing by the front door, toolbox in hand.
He’s jovial as he greets me when I move past to let him in.
I haven’t been in the rectory since I was a child when my mother brought me here for a reason I can’t remember. I think it had something to do with meeting Father Morris’ sister who was visiting at the time.
The house is clean, sparsely furnished, and smells vaguely of old books and furniture polish. A rotating group of volunteers—all older women—come weekly to clean although there can’t be much to do with only a single man in residence. The plumber asks me if he should lock up when he leaves and I tell him yes, adding that he can bring his invoice to the office, which I assume is what is expected. I’m pleased when he nods, indicating that I’ve guessed right.
On my way back through the living room, something catches my eye. There’s a desk by the wall with several photos on top. I glance back towards the kitchen where I hear the clanging of tools. Is it so wrong to look at the pictures if no one sees me? It’s not exactly snooping, but I’m drawn to them.
At the desk, I find myself staring. There are four photos. Two are of an older couple that I assume are Father Dominic’s parents. The others are all of him, although he looks a little younger. In each one, he looks to be in a different part of the world. One has him flanked by native children underneath a canopy of broad banana leaves. In another he’s holding a sturdy but bedraggled looking horse by the reins. There are huge mountains in the background. The Himalayans, maybe? The last one looks to be in Central America. It’s raining and he’s wearing some kind of slicker, but despite the weather, the handsome smile is still there. He’s holding a shovel in one hand. The other hand is on the shoulder of a shorter, swarthy man. A huge hole in the ground indicates they were digging a well.
Last night my mother had told me Father Dominic had come to the priesthood later in life. When I asked her if she knew anything else, she’d paused and said no, and that it was none of our business, really, and that the church was struggling to find godly men and had to take them where they found them.
I wonder if Father Dominic had been some sort of missionary abroad. I’d like to ask him, but if I did, he’d want to know why I asked and I could hardly tell him I was gandering at his photos when I’d only been asked to let the plumber in.
This reminds me to get back to the office. My mother is right. I have no business thinking about Father Dominic as anything other than the parish priest and my employer. But this means pushing the sound of his voice out of my mind.
I prefer to train you myself, he’d said. I redden when the tingle begins to grow all over again, this time accompanied by a tug of need between my thighs.
