Natasha choked off her laughter, pursing her lips once Sorina’s presence got too hot for her. How Natasha Felix had not been struck by lightning was beyond me. If anyone deserved a good smiting, it was that slag.
Marilla continued, unaffected, “Let’s start here, in the chapel.”
We followed her down the carpeted aisle as she spoke softly, gesturing to the sweeping ceiling of white, the rib vaulted ceiling joined by blood-red keystones carved with ivory designs, no two alike. She told us of the stained glass and how the collection was extensive and made all around the world, many from master crafters in France.
I listened only on the fringes, having heard the details a dozen times. Instead, I marveled over the architecture, feeling small and humbled, as I supposed was appropriate for a place of worship. She walked us through the broad strokes of a wedding ceremony, told us the story of the bells and listed their names, all nineteen of them. Even the cameraman was drooping by the time we made it to the pulpit. Sorina had a placid smile on her face, her eyes distant. The other sisters were on their phones, and my eyes lingered on Natasha, leaving me wondering if it was Brock she was texting with that vicious smile on her face. And Angelika was …
Missing.
Angelika was missing, as were Jordan and one of the cameramen.
My eyes widened, heart lurching. I melted back, putting myself behind the Femmes, my head swiveling as I looked for the other cameraman, my only clue as to where they were.
I found him perched outside a confessional booth, lens pointed smack at one of the carved wooden doors, and I swore under my breath, palms blossoming with sweat. Because I knew exactly what they were doing in there, and if one of the clergy found them defiling the hallowed space, the venue was off. And if the venue was off, I would be the one to take the fall, guaranteed.
The Felix Femmes were, quite literally, the fucking worst. And their indecency, irreverence, and utter disregard for anyone but themselves was likely to get me fired over something so stupid as a stunt for their reality show.
But not today.
I clipped across the church and to the niche where confessional booths stood. The cameraman politely backed up to get me in the shot, then stepped behind me. Placing my body where I could shield the view of the box’s contents, I took a painful breath, held it, and opened the door.
A giggling tangle of limbs greeted me, a flash of nipple, Angelika’s naked ass, dress hitched up to her waist and G-string held aside by Jordan’s broad hand.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed, closing the door but for a crack, camera lens over my shoulder.
“What … the fuck … do you think?” Angelika breathed between humping.
“Put your clothes on and get out.”
“One … second … oh!” she squealed before moaning into his mouth to the soft pat of skin on skin.
I closed the door with a snick and put my back against it, palms flat and damp against the wood, my mind flashing with solutions. It was one of the many moments when I’d regretted all the waivers and contracts I’d signed making me an accessory to such indignities, and the butt of jokes for their show to boot.
What I wanted to do was fling open the door, grab those walking publicity stunts by their entitled, disrespectful ears, and throw them half-naked into the cars outside. What I wanted was to dress them down, not that they had many clothes on to start. What I wanted—
Didn’t matter because before I could figure out what to do, a nun approached, brows quirked and eyes suspicious.
I flashed my most charismatic smile. “Hello, Sister,” I said overly loud, stepping away from the booth to greet her in the hopes that she wouldn’t hear the fornication happening right there in the sacred place of her home. “I was just wondering, what time is confession?”
Relief smoothed the lines in her forehead. “After every mass and most afternoons. Are you with the Felixes?” She glanced at the cameraman.
“I am. Lila Parker, their wedding planner.” I thrust my hand in her direction, speaking before she even took my hand when I heard a thump from the booth behind me. “We are just so pleased you found time for us in your calendar at such short notice.”
Her eyes shifted behind me, but at the tangential mention of the outrageous donation that had made the booking possible, she settled her full attention on me. “Well, we seem to always find room for our most valued parishioners.”
“And aren’t we fortunate for that?” Another thump, and I scooped the nun’s shoulders under my arm and turned her in the opposite direction. “I wanted to light a candle while I’m here. Could you show me where I can do that, Sister …”
“Eleanor. Yes, certainly, child,” she answered gently.
“My sister, she’s having a baby soon,” I started, following her lead.
“What a gift,” Sister Eleanor cooed. “The welcoming of a child is a joyous thing indeed. If you just go past here and turn, you’ll see the candles there. I’ll say a prayer of my own for your sister and her baby. May God bless them and keep them.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning to face her so I could sneak a look back at the confession booth just as the door opened.
Angelika slinked out, adjusting her skirt, followed by Jordan, hands adjusting his pants. In the midst of rehearsing the brimstone speech I was about to lash them with—I mean, serious, scorched earth, end of days tongue lashing—she reached back for his hand with the deepest affection in her eyes. And he returned it with adoration, the connection between them visible, palpable, even from across the room.
Stunt or no stunt, sinners or snakes, those assholes had found love. Real, honest love. A deep thrum of longing plucked in my chest. I sighed, the sound heavy with dreams lost and wishes I’d never have fulfilled.
Sister Eleanor watched me, worried. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I will be. Thank you, Sister.”
She patted my arm. “Of course,” she said before shuffling away.
Angelika and Jordan stepped up to the back of the Femmes, their absence unnoticed by everyone, except Natasha, who wore a look of disdain. She had something equally disdainful to say, judging by Angelika’s reaction to whatever she muttered. Sister Marilla was still going on—if I had to guess, about the organ. And with a quick moment to spare and the sense that I needed a beat, I ducked into the nook where the candles waited, glimmering in the dark.
Flickering flames in amber glass, a vision from a dream, the quiet to calm my screaming nerves. It took only a second, maybe two, before calm washed over me.
An absent hand slipped into my purse, returning with a bill I folded and slid into the donation box. A taper in my fingers, I stepped to the row, finding an unlit candle. I wasn’t a religious woman, ruled more by logic than anything, and faith seemed far away, a fanciful feeling. But there in reverent silence, I lit a candle, watched the wick catch fire, felt the tranquility of intention as I wished for peace of my own. And then, I placed the taper where it belonged, smoking in wait for the next soul who needed saving.
10
Sausage, Please
LILA
My sigh weighed a thousand pounds as I paid the cabbie and stepped onto Bleecker. The day had been eternal, the fiasco at St. Patrick’s exhausting. We’d made it out of the church without further incident, and no one was the wiser. The priest had given his blessing, just like we’d known he would, and I’d parted ways with the Felix Femmes with plans to meet for lunch in a few days to go over finishing touches on Natasha’s birthday party.