Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I tried not to stare at his ass for too long as he did it.
I put my things down and sat in the chair that had so thoughtfully been pulled out for me by the sexy, swaggering priest. This had to be the oddest Saturday night of my life.
Mary placed her things across from me. “You weren’t at Mass earlier. Are you going to come tomorrow?”
How many times did they have Mass in one weekend? Seemed excessive.
“Uh, well, I’m not Catholic,” I replied.
She shrugged, sitting down. “So? Girl, that is a misconception. Anyone can attend Mass. Now, you can’t take communion, but honestly”—she leaned forward—“there are some Catholics who shouldn’t be taking it either.”
She had a you know what I mean gleam in her eyes, but I hated to tell her I had no idea what that meant. Or what it was.
A plastic cup was placed beside my bowl, and the fresh, clean scent of a countryside on a warm summer’s day met my nose. It was so pleasing that I quickly inhaled again. Deeper.
Father Jude sat down beside me, and I wanted to look at him, but refrained since Mary was still talking. I had lost track of the conversation, being distracted as I was.
“And you could sit with me if you’re nervous about it. Tomorrow is Palm Sunday. It is a little more elaborate than most Sundays.”
I was assuming she didn’t mean they read palms at Mass. That would be pagan. But what the heck was Palm Sunday?
“Well, I…” I had no idea.
Part of me wanted to see Father Jude in action, and another part thought seeing him in his robe thing, reading the Bible or whatever they did, would make it real—that he was off-limits.
“Are you thinking of attending Mass?” he asked me.
That Texas drawl came out thick with his question. I’d noticed it before too. Sometimes, it wasn’t as strong.
“I don’t know,” I replied, flicking a quick peek at him, then reaching for my lemonade.
“I’m working on her, Father,” Mary explained as if it were her new calling to save my soul. Or at least convert me.
“What are we working on?”
Sibby’s voice made me flinch. She sat down on the other side of Father Jude.
Great.
Four
Jude
I realized now that I had taken something for granted—the ability to focus on each person in a group, comprehend the words coming out of their mouth. Actively try to help them open up, find a way to heal. What I was meant to be doing.
Tonight, however, I was keenly aware of the hot-pink nail polish on perfect, dainty feet that were attached to long, shapely, tanned legs. The more Saylor let one of those strappy heeled sandals dangle from her foot as her calf muscle flexed, the more preoccupied with her crossed legs I became.
At least right now, Sibby was going on and on about her stepsister who had been killed falling from a cliff while hiking five years ago. Who, according to Lora Gail—who was also her aunt—Sibby had hated.
Blinking, I jerked my eyes back to the Bible in my lap. I had to stop this. Someone was going to notice. Sibby finally shut up, and I cleared my throat as I looked over at her, forcing a smile. She was a lot to deal with on any given day, but tonight, she’d been smothering. Her see me, pick me personality had been on overdrive.
“Thank you for sharing, Sibby,” I said, then shifted my focus to Aaron Drummond, who sat beside her.
Aaron was the oldest of our men in the group, and he was one of the reasons I’d started bringing in those who had been divorced into the loss group. His story was unique. He wasn’t divorced, and his wife wasn’t dead exactly. She was missing and had been for four years now.
He gave a small shake of his head. That was normal for him. He didn’t share often, and I didn’t push. I let my gaze move over the group, not allowing it to stop on Saylor, which wasn’t easy. The girl had a face that was hard to look past.
“I’d love to hear from Saylor,” Sibby said, making me want to throw the Bible in my lap at her to shut her up.
I hadn’t invited Saylor here to make her feel exposed and pressured. I wanted to help her. She had been so lost and struggling with all her bottled-up emotions.
“Let’s not make our new guest uncomfortable, Sibby.” Lora Gail suggested firmly, giving her a pointed look.
Thank you, Lora Gail.
I’d already been friendly enough with Saylor tonight. Even now, I could feel Crow’s eyes on me. As if he wanted me to know he had seen it. My inability to keep from looking at her.
“It’s fine,” Saylor said.
My gaze was right back on her. She shifted in her seat, and the hem of her sundress inched up just a touch more.