Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Six
Carmen
My father was smirking at breakfast when he asked if I was enjoying my job and I replied that I was.
“I told you I knew what was best. In my day, secretarial work was ideal for women until they got married. Just you wait, Carmen. Some good Catholic man is going to walk into that office and the next thing you know the sound of that ringing phone will be replaced by the sound of wedding bells. Maybe someone will even get a grandson out of it.”
He’d looked at my mother as he’d made the comment and I saw her spine tighten where she stood at the stove. I’d bitten my lip, feeling like a hypocrite for not defending her as she never defended me.
I couldn’t wait to get to work, but I don’t enjoy the job for the reasons my father thinks I do. It’s boring, and the biggest challenge is getting off the phone with elderly parishioners who call about some church business and end up wanting to chat. Father Dominic says they’re lonely, but I need to set limits.
He says so many things that are kind and helpful. He seems to know what advice I need to hear. When I come home, I find myself mulling over his words. Well, not just his words but everything—the way he smiles, the timbre of his voice, the shape of his hands, the way he leans against the wall when he takes a cigarette break, the smoke circling his dark hair like a wavering halo.
I have a crush on the village priest, so when my father mentions marriage, my mind defaults to a man I can’t have. This is the part of the job I don’t like—the guilt of wanting a man who’s not just married, but married to the Church. Still, I find myself taking pleasure in his company. He’s kind. He makes me feel valid. He never says a cross word. As my father changed the subject to drone on about something else, I’d silently counted the minutes until he’d leave and mother could take me to work.
When I arrive, Father Dominic greets me with a slightly exasperated expression. “Carmen, would you mind helping me set up the fellowship hall? We had the floors waxed last week and I just realized the spaghetti dinner is tonight and the tables and chairs are still by the wall. Mrs. O’Connor will have a meltdown if she comes in and everything isn’t ready.”
Mrs. O’Connor has organized the spaghetti dinners for years. They are so good they draw in people from other parishes, but if something goes wrong, she complains for six months.
“Sure,” I say, glad to be spared the ringing phones for one day.
Father pulls out a cigarette as we enter the breezeway leading to the fellowship hall.
“Those are bad for you,” I say.
He lights it, exhales, and gives me a wink and a grin that make my nipples feel tingly and tight. The tug between my legs is fierce. I look away so he won’t see me blush at the scandalous reaction of my body to his expression.
“It’s the only vice I have left. Well, this and a drink here and there.”
The question of what his other vices were sits on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare ask.
“You haven’t come to confession,” he says, and the statement is so unexpected, I stop walking. He turns to me. “Any reason why?”
The reason is standing right in front of me. I flush scarlet and look at my shoes, sensible flats I’ve paired with a tartan skirt, blue sweater, and white blouse. I take a breath and catch the scent of cigarette smoke and cologne and the incense clinging to his robes. There’s a surge of wetness between my legs.
It’s not the first time I’ve soaked my panties in his presence. Each day I go home to find a tell-tale splotch on the fabric. I’ve taken to doing the laundry myself, terrified that my mother will see, and know the cause.
She never talked to me about sex or masturbation or how to handle my own needs, and until now they were confined to sweet fluttery feelings when a boy looked my way. Sexually, I’m a late bloomer. But I’m sprouting in full wicked glory in the presence of Father Dominic.
“I went to confession in school,” I say.
“And you’ve not sinned since?” There’s a teasing tone to his voice. When I don’t answer, he sighs. “There’s no shame in being human. Confession isn’t about focusing on our weaknesses, Carmen. It’s about unburdening our hearts. It helps and heals.” He falls quiet. “It pains me to think of you carrying any kind of burden. If you are, you can always come to me, you know that, right?”
Now the warm feeling moves from between my legs to my heart, which thumps hard in my chest. He’s just doing what priests do, but the way he looks at me makes me feel special and cared for. I feel like he expects an answer, but I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t tell him that I want to stand on tiptoe and press my lips to his for what would be my first real kiss.
“I need a computer in the office,” I blurt out suddenly and Father looks shocked and then laughs.
“That’s it? That’s your need?”
It’s not, but I can’t tell him that.
“Well, that’s a start.” He chuckles. “Come on, Carmen. Let’s get to the hall. Do you realize you’re shaking?”
I am, but not from the cold. Inside the hall, I force myself to calm down.
“I’ve been thinking that myself,” he says. “About modernizing church functions. It’s time we bring the church office up to date, technologically speaking. There’s a parish council meeting next Wednesday. I’ll put it on the agenda if you’ll come speak to the council about the need for a computer.”
“Me?” I shake my head. “I can’t, Father Dominic. I know my father will just…”
My words trail off and I catch myself before going any further. My father hates change, especially when it comes to the church. He’s already interrogating me at dinner about what kind of outreach programs are in the works. I’ve been vague in my answers, and twice dishonest, adding to the sins I would confess if I could. If I go before the council, my father will humiliate me.
“Carmen.” Father Dominic puts down the chair he’s holding. “Look at me.”
I can’t, then he does something unexpected. I feel the tip of his finger go under my chin, tilting it up so that I have no choice. My lips part. My pussy throbs. There’s a fluttery feeling in my lower belly.
“He’s not God, Carmen. He’s your father, and while the Bible tells us to respect our parents, you are serving the church as its secretary. We need computers, and your father is just one member of a five-person council. He’s not the only one you’ll have to convince.”
“I’ll have to go home if he’s voted down,” I say, and his eyes search mine.
“And if you do and he’s angry, what will happen?”
I turn away.
“Carmen, are you in a bad situation at home?”
I whirl back. “No,” I lie, suddenly afraid. If my father even knew Father Dominic was asking this question, he’d make me quit. The idea of losing a job I never thought I wanted, of not seeing Father Dominic outside of church services makes me ill. My father has only struck me three times in my life, all in fits of rage, but it’s not the physical blows that have left their mark. It’s the constant drip, drip, drip of negativity, like acid, that’s eroded me to what I am.
“My father is just intimidating,” I say.
“And that’s all?”
“Yeah. That’s all.”
Father Dominic regards me. “I’d like you to do this. For me. As part of your job, Carmen. I’ll be there to help you make your pitch.”
I’m torn. Anger my father or please Father Dominic?
“I’ll do it,” I say, but decide not to think about it right now.
There will be time to worry, and we have tables to arrange.
He lifts them easily; he won’t let me help. I get the chairs and help arrange them after he’s put up the fold-out tables. He whistles as he works. It’s just the two of us, and I decide that maybe this is a chance to get to know him better.
“Do you like it here at St. Thomas?” I ask.
“It’s nice,” he says. “A big adjustment, though.”
“I imagine it was, settling down after seeing so many places.” I immediately bite my tongue, terrified that he’ll ask me how I know he’s well-traveled. I don’t want to tell him I looked at the photos in the rectory.
“I haven’t seen that much,” he says. “I’m ashamed to admit this, but my trip to Rome last year was my first time out of the country.”
I think of the pictures of him smiling with the native children, the Himalayan Sherpa, and the man by the well. I stand staring at him with my hands on the back of a chair.
“Really?”
He looks up at me. “Yes. Embarrassing, isn’t it? I was thirty-three when I finally got a passport.”
The warm feeling I had is suddenly replaced with disappointment. He’s lying to me, and there can only be one reason why. He doesn’t want to divulge much of his personal life to a parishioner. His private life is just that. Private.
I’m a silly fool, thinking that the parish priest would just start opening up to me about digging wells in Latin America or climbing mountains or what other adventures he experienced in his prior life, which is obviously something he keeps to himself.
I begin to push the chairs back under the table.
“What about you?” he asks. “Have you been anywhere exotic? If you have, please tell me so I can live vicariously through you.”
Is he mocking me now on top of lying? I blink back tears that sting my eyes, feeling silly.
“Are you okay, Carmen?” He’s noticed and walks over. I put my hand on my forehead.
“Just a sudden headache,” I say. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” He stares at me with concern. “Do you need to go home?” I shake my head.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“Could I just go back to the office?” I ask. I don’t want to go home, but I don’t want to be in the same room with him right now, either.
“Of course,” he says. “There’s some Tylenol in my office drawer if you need it.”
I leave the fellowship hall and head back to the office, walking briskly in the cold breezeway. I feel guilty for getting emotional. This is nothing to cry over. Even if he sat down and told me every detail of his life’s story, what would that change? Nothing? He’s still a priest.
By the time I get to the office, I actually do have a headache from the cold. I get a cup of water from the water cooler in the corner and remember the Tylenol. I’ve been in Father’s office before, but always facing the desk. I go around to the drawers and open the top right one and there, just as he said, is the bottle. I take out two pills and down them with the water, but as I’m putting the bottle back in the drawer, my focus is drawn to a small frame sitting on the desktop beside a stack of books.
It’s Father Dominic as a younger man. In this shot, he’s standing with a man in a turban. They’re on a sandy dune. The man with the turban has a falcon on his arm. At the bottom is scrawled, “Greetings from Saudi Arabia.”
I go back to my desk and spend the rest of the afternoon trying not to cry.
