Crossed: Chapter 7

FATHER JEREMIAH IS A RECENTLY ORDAINED PRIEST in his early twenties. He’s youthful and eager to learn. His eyes still sparkle with mirth, and there’s hope and innocence weaved into his gaze, the kind that only exists when you haven’t experienced heavy things like grief spawned from trauma. He was the apprentice of my predecessor, Father Clark, so when Clark was pushed out and I was brought in, Jeremiah stayed on to ease the transition.

A twinge of guilt hits me when I think about how it’s been days and we’re just now meeting. He should have been the first one I sought out, but distractions seem to latch on extra tight here in Festivalé. Jeremiah doesn’t seem to mind though. Within the first ten minutes of being together, he’s at my heels like a dog eager for a bone, which is just fine by me. He’ll be beneficial to have at my back.

We’re driving to the monastery today in the thick of the Green Mountains. It’s about an hour away from town, and the second Jeremiah mentioned it to me, I decided it was imperative to visit. Apparently, it’s a well-kept secret, one that’s attached to the local church but kept away from the people of Festivalé and surrounding areas. It’s reserved solely for the Carmelite nuns who vow a life of solitude. And I’m always looking for a quiet spot when I need to get away. Sometimes, a silent mind and a place to recover from my nights of self-inflicted wounds are the only things I want.

“Have you lived in Festivalé your entire life?” I ask him.

“Yep, born and raised,” he replies.

“And you like it?”

He shrugs. “As much as anyone does. My mom runs the café down on Champagne Street, so this town and its people are all I’ve ever known.”

My fingers tap against the car door as I take him in. “And what made you want to be a priest, Jeremiah?”

He grins, his teeth bright white and sparkly against the deep brown of his skin. “It was either that or become a tour guide.”

I laugh. “Not much to tour in Festivalé outside the town square, is there?”

He shakes his head. “I suppose not. But there’s history in everything. Most of these buildings have been around since the 1700s, you know? Great Britain won the territory in the Seven Years’ War, but our French roots are strong.”

“I think you would have made a wonderful tour guide, Jeremiah.”

He laughs. “The church is my calling, Father. Same as you, I’m sure.”

Doubtful.

I nod instead of voicing my thoughts.

“I’ve never wanted to do anything else,” he continues.

“You’re young,” I state.

“So are you.”

“Thirty- six isn’t that young.” A grin tugs at my lips. “So besides the history of Festivalé, what is it you love about the town?”

“It’s just home.”

Envy hits me hard, because I can’t relate. I’ve never had a home. Not really anyway.

“Mr. Errien seems to think the people are straying too far from God.” I look over at Jeremiah as I say this, gauging his reaction. I don’t really need to hear his answer. I’ve already come to the conclusion that Parker just wanted me here to have another person in his pocket, but I’m curious about what Jeremiah thinks of him.

“Well, he’d probably know,” Jeremiah says.

“Would he?”

“People don’t come to Mass the way they used to. They don’t seek confession. Things are…quiet.”

“Hmm.” I’m not surprised to hear him say it. “And you trust Parker?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “He’s never given me a reason not to. He does a lot for the town. Got his own best friend the mayor gig, I’m sure of it.”

“And do you not think that’s wrong? To use your money and influence to ensure certain people end up in office?”

Jeremiah purses his lips. “With all due respect, Parker’s untouchable in this town. He funds the city programs and preserves the history by buying up the buildings instead of letting others tear them down. If he sent for you, it’s because over the past few years, we’ve seen the drug epidemic bleeding onto the streets. Poor people panhandling at car windows. Father Clark didn’t care to help his own parish when they were in need.”

I quirk a brow. “So why doesn’t Parker handle it himself with his massive wealth and endless reach?”

“Well…” Jeremiah’s head tilts. “That’s why he called you here, isn’t it? To help.”

“Hmm, perhaps so.” I turn to stare out the window, letting silence envelop the car.

The seasons are on the cusp of changing, the icy blue sky like a painted canvas against the leafless branches and dark green pines. It’s different from what I’m used to, and the peace that comes with untouched nature skates over the tree line and paints itself on my soul. I sink into the feeling, knowing it’s a temporary respite from the constant battle I’m waging inside.

The tires of our car crunch over loose gravel as we turn off the mountain road and trek up a long, winding driveway, stopping in front of a cabin.

It’s an older building with a faded red roof. A- frame peaks jut out, shading the arched windows underneath. I wouldn’t say it’s an expansive place but large enough to comfortably house a handful of rooms and a small place to worship, and there’s a definite woodsy vibe that complements the atmosphere.

I get why the Carmelite nuns stay here. Solitude doesn’t sound so bad when this is what you’re existing in.

“How many people live here?” I ask, unbuckling my seat belt and opening the door to step out.

Jeremiah’s car door slams after mine, and he stretches, his back popping as he flips the car keys on his forefinger. “Sister

Genevieve.”

I lift a brow. “And?”

“That’s it right now.”

“She lives here alone?” I twist toward the building, staring up at the second- story windows.

He nods as we make our way up the small pathway to the front steps. “Not many people know of this place. And she prefers solitude.”

Despite the barren feel of the upcoming winter, this is a lush land, teeming with life. The smell of pine is strong, and there’s a small creek running along the left side of the driveway and disappearing beyond the monastery, the water gleaming with patches of thin ice, teasing the change of seasons.

The double front doors have intricate carvings, large crosses smack- dab in the center, and when we open them and step inside, the heat blasts against my face, making the tips of my ears burn from the change in temperature.

I pull off my gloves slowly as I glance around.

It’s a comfortable cabin with deep cream couches in the small, quaint living room, a wood fireplace crackling in the corner and a Bible on the end table next to a reading chair with a plaid throw. There’s a small sanctuary off to the left with three rows of old wooden pews and a staircase directly in front of us that I assume leads to the bedrooms.

“Sister Genevieve will be around here somewhere,” Jeremiah murmurs as he walks farther into the room.

There’s a creak of wood and then a woman appears from around the corner, dressed in a simple black habit.

“Here she is.” Jeremiah grins.

She’s different than I expected.

Her eyes are striking, a bright green that accents the deep bronze of her skin, spearing wherever she gazes, and she’s much younger than I pictured, although the lines around her face carve out a story of a rough life. She’s small in stature, but there’s an energy that whips around her, one that tells me there’s darkness within her just as there is within me.

I imagine she locks away her demons, whereas I let mine out to play.

And those eyes…there’s something almost haunting about them. Like déjà vu or a memory that I can’t quite grasp.

“You must be Father Frédéric,” she says with a small tilt of her lips.

“Father Cade is fine.” I incline my head. “Sister Genevieve, I’m guessing?”

“That’s right,” she replies. “Please, both of you come inside and get warm.”

She whisks us away quickly, leading us to the small living area and then disappearing into the kitchen.

The warmth of the wood fire is strong against my side as I settle into the couch and wait. Jeremiah sits across from me, his ankle crossed over the opposite knee while he lounges comfortably as though he’s been here a thousand times. Maybe he has.

Before long, Sister Genevieve is back, setting down a tray of small pastries before perching on the reading chair next to the fire. “Sorry I don’t have anything better to offer. I didn’t know you’d be making the trip.”

“We won’t keep you,” I promise. “Just making the rounds. You know how it goes.”

“Hmm,” she hums.

“How long have you lived here?”

“A few years,” she replies. “I was in a novitiate here with Sister Anna.”

I lift my brows. “Novitiate? You’re still in training?”

It surprises me because she seems practiced, refined in a way that newer nuns normally aren’t. And she’s a little older than most of the novitiates I’ve seen. Usually, they take their vows young.

I can’t help but wonder what type of life she must have lived before and what turned her toward Christ.

She shakes her head. “Not anymore. I took my final vows last year shortly after Anna passed.”

I nod slowly, cataloging the way her body shifts uncomfortably, tightening with each of my questions. She’s on guard, and I want to know why.

Unfortunately, I don’t find out. While we do speak for a few more minutes, we’re simply filling the air with inane chatter, and I couldn’t tell you what was said. I’m too busy watching her body cues. The way her eyes flick behind us to the staircase like she can’t wait to be done entertaining our presence and how every so often, her fingers twine together and squeeze, blanching her skin.

Normally, it would draw my attention to the point of me not being able to focus on anything else. But even now, even when I’m here, my mind drifts to a sinful woman who’s entirely out-of- bounds and definitely someone I shouldn’t be thinking of at all. The same way she’s been filtering into my thoughts since the moment I met her. The urge to go to where she lives and perch outside her window just to sate this need is strong.

“Are we interrupting something, Sister?” I finally ask, unable to take the tension wringing her body tight.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to having people here. I like my solitude. Guests make me nervous.”

I nod and stand, gesturing for Jeremiah to do the same. “Then by all means, let us get out of your way.”

She smiles tightly, following as we head toward the door.

When we reach it, I look down at Genevieve, fastening my peacoat and donning my gloves while Jeremiah holds open the front door. “Will you be present for the Holy Mass?” I already know the answer.

She laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “Oh no, Father. I don’t leave the monastery.”

My eyes flick over the lines of her face. “Pity.”

“You know how to reach me.” She inclines her head and I smile, enjoying the subtle show of subservience, even when I know I shouldn’t. “But just a gentle reminder, this place is a private sanctuary away from all the noise. We like to keep quiet about its whereabouts.”

“I understand.”

Once we’re back in the car and I’m not hurling questions at Jeremiah, he’s quiet, almost pensive, and I wonder if he’s always this subdued or if it’s because of me. I can’t find the will to care either way, my mind already drifting off to places it shouldn’t, wondering if I’ll be able to slip away without anyone noticing who I am or that I’ve gone.

Even if they did notice, I hardly doubt it would stop me. And now that I’ve been to the Green Mountain Monastery, I have a place to hide away and heal if the whip cuts too deep.

Whether Sister Genevieve wants me there or not.