He continued speaking with an edge of nostalgia in his voice. “My mom loved this kind of stuff, so it seemed like I should be here.”
I sat forward, wishing I knew what I was supposed to do in such a moment. It wasn’t his fault his mom was dead and his dad wanted nothing to do with him. It wasn’t even his fault he passed out at the inn and believed it was because he could feel evil. None of that was his fault, I decided.
The bluegrass music quickened, making the awkwardness of the moment stand out even more.
“What was she like?” I asked, deciding to forgive him for being so weird.
He rubbed his right hand against his short hair. “Sort of hard to describe, I guess. Some days I understood her. A lot of days I didn’t,” he said pensively.
“I’m sure she had her reasons,” I said, trying to be comforting.
He nodded silently. “Sam said you made all the signs for the festival.”
“I did,” I said proudly.
“They’re good. Very pretty, really,” he added thoughtfully. “It’s a shame they aren’t made on something stronger than poster board, so you can keep using them.”
“Then I couldn’t make new ones every year,” I said with delight. “People often have reasons for doing things, even if they don’t make sense to others. Maybe your mom was the same way,” I said.
His face softened. “Maybe,” he said.
I looked at my phone. It was later than I realized. “I need to get going,” I said. “My break will be over soon and I haven’t stopped by my favorite booths.”
“Which ones are those?” he asked.
It was a legitimate question. There were more than eighty, selling practically every homemade thing you could think of: quilts, woodwork, pies, candles, lotions, toys, oven mitts, you name it. All was here.
“I have a few favorites that sell soaps and candles. I buy from them every year,” I said as I rocked forward to a standing position.
Luca gazed up at me, holding his hand up to block the sun. “That’s what my mom would buy if she were here.” He lowered his hand and leaned back against the hill, watching the musician.
I slowly left him, wondering if I should have said anything more, or not.
I wandered through the booths until I found my favorite one. I spent far too long sniffing; ultimately I decided on rosemary-mint and lavender-vanilla soaps. The candle I chose was beeswax mixed with mint.
I carried the bag past the church, to my dad’s parked car. I opened the passenger side and placed the package on the floorboard. From the looks of the other bags strewn about the car, I wasn’t the only one who went shopping today. I shut the door and glimpsed Luca from the corner of my eye. He was standing at the entrance of the church; he hesitated and then opened the door.
Sam and Jason were not religious people, or at least not the type of religious people who went to church. I’d assumed the same about Luca, and maybe even more than that. It would not shock me for Sam or Jason to go into a church or even attend a service every once in a while. As I thought it about, I realized it would shock me if Luca did any of those things.
I checked my phone. I had ten minutes before I said I’d be back at the cantina. I went to the front of the church, opened the door, and then gently closed it behind me. I stepped lightly through the narthex and into the nave, and saw Luca. He didn’t hear me. The room was dimly lit by sunlight and the red candle burning by the tabernacle near the altar. Luca moved forward, stopped at a pew a few rows from the front, and sat down. He waited, looking from side to side. He stood and moved cautiously to the front pew. He slid into the pew, facing the front of the church. He was still unaware of my presence.
I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Should I go toward him, should I sit in the back, or should I leave?
Without my fully deciding what to do, my body began moving forward. I was suddenly beside the pew he was sitting in. I genuflected and sat down beside him. He turned to me in understandable surprise. I wasn’t sure why I was there, either. I sat back and stared at the tabernacle—the music and laughter from outside was loud in the sanctuary.
“Did you follow me here?” he asked.
“No!” I said, embarrassed it must have appeared that way. “I saw you come in. Why did you?”
“So, you followed me here,” he said with the slightest hint of amusement.
“No, I was curious why you were coming in here,” I said, keeping my voice a low whisper. “You don’t strike me as someone who goes to church.”
“If that wasn’t true, I’d be offended,” he said, also in a whisper. “But you aren’t wrong. I was outside and I felt something. It made me curious, so I came inside.”
“Something evil?” I asked.
“No,” he said with force. “Evil makes me feel sick and repulses me. This makes me feel good and my instinct was to come closer.”
“So, it’s good?”
He paused as if focusing on what he was feeling. “Yes.” He inhaled peacefully, as if smelling something sweet. “It’s good.”
“Have you been in a church before?” I asked. “Churches have a nice feeling to them.”
“I’ve been in a few. My mom would take me, sometimes, when I was little. None of them felt like this. This isn’t a good vibe, this is … a presence of some sort.”
“A presence?”
“Like someone is here, someone is good. It isn’t the building. It’s like a person or something.”
“I’m here,” I said.
He laughed out loud. “It isn’t you, though I’m glad you don’t suffer from low self-esteem. I felt it from outside, before you were in here.”
“What do you think it is?”
He shook his head slowly, studying his feelings. “It’s coming from up there,” he said, bending his head toward the altar. “Can I go up there?”
I hesitated. Was he allowed? He wasn’t Catholic, and even most Catholics didn’t go onto the altar. Not because we weren’t allowed, because we wanted to be respectful. It was a sacred space.
He was leaning forward, intensely interested in what was in front of us.
“Yeah, I guess. Just be reverent and bow before you go up the steps—and don’t touch anything.”
“I’m not a child. I’m not going to break anything,” he said, standing.
“Don’t touch anything,” I reiterated, feeling like I was going to get in trouble for his being in here. Not that there was even a reason to think he shouldn’t be, but it seemed odd that someone who didn’t go to our church was now stepping up to our altar. Maybe it happened all the time, but I’d never seen it.
He went forward, bowed awkwardly from the waist, and went up the steps. He paused, then moved to the side, stopped, then moved forward. He repeated the process, as if he was figuring out which way to go. Finally, he stopped hesitating and began moving forward. He stood in front of the tabernacle, reaching a hand toward it.
I practically jumped from the pew, did a quick half bow, and ran to him. “I told you not to touch,” I whispered. Not whispering at the altar would feel wrong.
“I didn’t touch it. I wanted to,” he acknowledged, “but I didn’t.”