Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (29 page)

The festival
descended upon St. Cecilia’s. The parish was meant to celebrate the end of
summer. Instead, we mourned the departure of Father Raphael.

Some more than
others.

The Battle of the
Choirs drew the crowds for the opening night’s events. Other parishes and
neighboring churches sent their best for a “friendly” battle of song, but the
congregation came to support our nine-person troupe. Suddenly, St. Cecilia’s
was desperate for the win.

Something for
Father Raphael before he left.

But hadn’t I
already given enough? My heart. My soul. My virginity?

I had nothing else
to give this man, and yet, if he had asked, I’d have given him so much more of
me. But he’d made his choice. He decided on the path for his life, and I wasn’t
a part of it.

I shouldn’t have
expected to be.

It was selfish.
Wrong.

And it hurt too
much.

The festival was blitzed
in light and music, shrieking laughter and crying babies. The cacophony swirled
in my head, throbbing like a hangover. I wished I had the courage to drink, but
Mom and I kept no temptations in the house.
Why test an already tested soul
,
she had said.

If only I’d listened
to her.

I hadn’t slept. My
voice wasn’t in any shape to sing for the concert, and I feared the sounds that
would squeak out once I attempted my solo.

Deacon Smith
gathered us in a circle, and his blessing for a fun and productive Battle of
the Bands quickly devolved into a plea for some sort of miracle that would keep
us on key or un-tune everyone else’s ears. But despite his lack of faith,
Father Raphael had always complimented us.

And he was nothing
if not honest.

I scanned the
crowds. The stage and risers were installed in the back of the lot, shimmering
in the lights and the neon glow of the rest of the festival. I remembered St.
Cecilia’s events as a child…and it was probably why I worked so hard to make
this event better.

Craft booths were
moved to the far corners so we could open the main path to games, bouncy
houses, even an arcade. The rides were installed to the right, near the road to
draw in more people. And the food booths and candy shops were pushed to the
back, so more attendees would walk through the lanes.

It worked. The
festival was packed into the lot, and hundreds of people swarmed in the
sweltering late-summer night.

But he wasn’t
here.

Or he wasn’t with
us
.

Father Raphael
probably spoke with the other churches, greeted the rest of his congregation,
or accepted the well-wishes of everyone in the parish who was still finding the
time to thank him for his love and service to the community.

I hadn’t thanked
him enough for that
kindness
.

And I wouldn’t.
Couldn’t. I had no idea what I’d do when I faced him again, probably for the
last time. I wanted to cry, to scream, to rage.

But hadn’t I already
done that?

How could I resent
a
priest
for following his calling?

What was
wrong
with me?

No matter how hard
I tried, I’d never justify my feelings. Our last conversation spawned words
that erupted from a dark and terrible place in my heart. I didn’t know
that
sin existed in me, and I hated that it might have been the last thing I ever
said to him.

The crowd cheered
as the lights centered on the stage. Judy crossed into the spotlight to greet
the festival.

 “Welcome,
welcome!” Judy took a microphone, juggled with it, and struggled to shout over
the feedback until Deacon Smith slapped it from her hand and adjusted the setting.
The crowd showed their gratitude in modest applause. “Thank you all so much for
coming to cheer on St. Cecilia’s first—and hopefully annual—
Battle of the
Choirs
!”

The festival
attendees funneled towards the stages while the bells, whistles, and other
loopy game sounds echoed over the park. Alyssa and Samantha each took one of my
hands and clutched them to their chests. At least it covered them up. Deacon
Smith was unable to convince them to wear something more modest that didn’t
reveal their flirty pink bra straps to the entire congregation.

“You ready?”
Alyssa giggled. “How pathetic is it that
this
is the highlight of my
summer?”

Samantha pouted.
“I don’t see Daddy El. He better come over to wish us luck before we sing.”

I said nothing, listening
as Judy introduced our distinguished judges for the event—two town
commissioners and the owner of the local Pizza Hut. It seemed absurd now, but
all Father Raphael had wanted was to provide the church better opportunities.
He’d worked tirelessly to give us fun activities and a chance to get involved
in the community.

And he’d
succeeded. Despite the sins and darkness and nightmares of his past, Father
Raphael did
good
everywhere he went.

The least I could do
was sing for him, so he realized not all of things we did together were sins.

In fact, the
entire summer had been wonderful.

Confusing.

Heart-Breaking.

I chugged my water
before I got upset. I’d lose my voice if I started to cry.

And I’d never be
able to explain the tears.

We took to the
stage last—and after four rousing renditions of
Ava Maria
, the crowd
cheered when Deacon Smith announced our chosen hymn,
Pie Jesu
.

The choir picked
it because it best complimented my voice. I chose it because I knew Father
Raphael would love it.

But I still didn’t
see him.

My heart beat a
little too fast as organized on the stage. I scanned the crowd. Mom bounced in
the middle of the woman’s group, cheering me on. It was the first event she’d
ever attended in support of me, so I expected the barrage of camera flashes.
Others also shouted and called for us.

The women’s group.
The youth group. The deacons.

But not him.

I couldn’t find
Father Raphael.

And the
realization made me sick.

Deacon Smith
called off the song.

I missed the cue.

Not that it
mattered. We planned, practiced, and thought it’d be an amazing idea to sing
our
Pie Jesu
acapella, written in layered harmonies. It all hinged on
me. I was to sing the first half of the first verse completely solo, without
even a tuning note from the piano.

I didn’t have
stage fright, but now I feared that note more than anything. It didn’t matter
if it was out of tune or out of time. He wouldn’t hear it.

He wasn’t here.

Deacon Smith
clapped a bit louder, counting off the song and marking the rest of the time
with his hands so I could see the downbeat.

Christ, what a
fool I was.

I didn’t look over
the congregation. I opened my mouth, surprised that the note which emerged was
as rich, powerful, and lovely as the first note I sang during try-outs.

When he had been
watching. Listening.

Wanting me.

He deserved better
than the way I treated him. Even then, I sang deliberately to tempt him. I did
all I could to draw his attention and earn his favor, even knowing what I was
doing and the pain it would cause.

Father Raphael had
tried to protect me. From him. From myself. From the lust and desire and the
darkness that I thought was just a physical attraction to the forbidden.

It wasn’t.

We hadn’t prepared
for what would happen. Didn’t know
why
we’d wanted each other so badly.

And now as I sang,
as my voice rang over the festival and drowned out the whizzing games and
electronic songs and the constant hum of conversations and phones, I meant for
him to hear me.

I wished he knew
that I was sorry for hurting him.

That I was so
grateful for him.

That I never meant
to fight.

And that I did
love him…and I understood why he had to leave.

I just hoped I
wasn’t too late to tell him.

The song
crescendoed, slow and melodic and surging the goose bumps over my skin as our
voices harmonized and forged a beautiful, haunting breath of music.

It ended softly,
reverently, and the stillness was shattered by a rousing applause.

Judy took to the
stage, accepting the praise of the crowd as she reintroduced us as St.
Cecilia’s
prized
choir.

“Thank you all so
much!” She clapped and the microphone buzzed. “Now I think we ought to invite
up here the man who made this all possible up here. I am so pleased to
introduce Father Raphael St. Lucian, our parish priest...” She hesitated. “At
least for the rest of the week.”

The audience
cheered. I held my breath.

I didn’t see him.
Neither did Deacon Smith. He shrugged at Judy.

“Father Rafe?”
Judy called over the festival. She nervously made a joke. “Would our priest
please come to the stage?”

One of the youth
group mothers shouted over the crying baby in her arms. “I thought I saw him in
the church?”

“Oh, for Pete’s
sake.” Judy sighed. “All right. We’ll just move onto the judging. Now, we’re
going to give our esteemed judges a few minutes to discuss—”

I wasn’t
listening. Alyssa and Samantha called to me, but I hurried from the stage,
jumping off the steps and nearly losing my heel to the muck behind the stairs.

I knew where
Father Raphael was, and I knew just what he was doing.

Leaving
.

He wouldn’t have
missed the festival unless he meant to avoid it, to rush from our lives, without
the common courtesy to tell us he was packing his office.

He was leaving
.

The tears stung my
eyes and blurred everything as I sprinted to the church—as fast as I could
break through the people and dart through the booths.

The crowds
thickened beyond the concert. Pressed in. Laughed and milled and got lost
between the flickering reds and yellows and purples of the lights. Canned music
and the rumble of chains on steel equipment muffled the presentations from the
stage.

I didn’t care.

I pushed through
the dizzying crowds, parting the sea that would crush back and tear me upon the
rocks of my own sin.

Was he still in
the church?

He wouldn’t have
gone. Not yet. Not so soon.

I closed my eyes
and prayed.

Please don’t be
gone
.

I twisted through
the booths and vendors, sliding between two tables and rushing behind those
restocking from their trailers. An electrical cord twisted in the grass, and I
hopped to avoid it. My toe crunched against a concrete block used to pitch the
tents, and the pain would have made me weep if I could afford those few
precious seconds.

 In the dark, I
slipped against mud and sweated as the night drew close. I filled my crushing
lungs with humid misery.

The parking lot
was full, and I dodged parking cars and swarms of people milling outside the
festival. I burst to the sidewalk and yanked on the back door.

Locked.

No
.

I didn’t have time
to catch my breath. I ran to the front, tripping over my dress and falling to
my knees at the front steps of the church.

Before the crosses
out front.

Beneath the
sculptures and shrines warning me of my transgressions.

I stared at the
crucifix, my words twisted in my own revelation and revulsion.

“I have to tell
him.” I confessed as I forced myself to my feet. “
Please, forgive me
.”

The vestibule was unlocked.
The door clattered behind me, and I plunged into the silent dark of the church.
The doors to the sanctuary were opened wide.

I walked to the
entry.

Just as I had done
so many times before, but never for the right reasons, and always in pursuit of
that selfish and destructive desire.

Was this time any
different?

Did I have the
strength to deny
this
temptation, this final unrelenting desire to find
him, see him, talk to him…

Tell him how I
felt?

But wasn’t this
the darkness he had tried to cleanse? We had failed in so many ways, and we
drowned in every sin we tried to right. Was I that wicked that I couldn’t
accept the one lesson he offered?

I had to let him
go.

No apologies. No
declarations.