Page 4 of Sinner
“You’ve been a godsend today,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “I don’t know how we managed these events before you started volunteering.”
“I’m sure you managed just fine,” I reply, but pleasure blooms in my chest at his words.
Mrs. Abernathy, a widow in her seventies with bright eyes and a sharper tongue, leans across the table toward us. “My goodness, Father, I haven’t seen you smile this much since Easter Mass.” She winks at me. “This young lady’s working miracles on our serious priest.”
I laugh, a nervous sound that feels too high in my throat. “Mrs. Abernathy, you’re seeing things.”
“Oh, I may be old, but my eyes work just fine.” She taps the side of her nose. “Father, this young lady’s going to make you forget your vows if you’re not careful.”
The kitchen falls silent. Someone coughs.
Father Moretti’s laugh breaks the tension—a rich, warm sound that seems to come from deep in his chest. “I think myvows are safe, Mrs. Abernathy, but I appreciate your concern for my immortal soul.”
Everyone laughs then, the moment passing into just another joke at the priest’s expense. But beneath the table, my hands are trembling. And when I glance at Father Moretti, the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
We return to work, but something has shifted. Each time we pass each other, each accidental brush of hands as we both reach for the same box carries the weight of Mrs. Abernathy’s words. What had been unspoken now hangs in the air between us, acknowledged even in its denial.
“Can you help me in the storage room?” he asks late in the afternoon, when most of the volunteers have gone and the last of the recipients are filing out with their boxes of food.
I follow him down the narrow hallway to the same room where we worked together in the rain-soaked darkness days ago. Now, in the harsh fluorescent light, it feels both more intimate and more exposed.
“We need to inventory what’s left,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes. “For next month’s drive.”
“Of course.”
We count cans and boxes in silence, my pen scratching against paper as I record numbers. The space between us feels charged, dangerous.
“About what Mrs. Abernathy said—” he begins.
“She’s just a lonely old woman who watches too many soap operas,” I interrupt, forcing lightness into my voice. “No one took her seriously.”
He nods, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes that seem to see straight through me—tell a different story. “Still, I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“I don’t,” I lie.
“Good.” He returns to counting pasta boxes, his shoulders rigid beneath his t-shirt. “Because your help here is invaluable. To the parish, I mean.”
“I’m happy to help.” I hesitate, then add, “The church feels like... home, somehow.”
Something in his expression softens. “I understand that feeling.”
We finish the inventory in silence, but it’s a different kind of silence now—contemplative rather than tense. When we emerge from the storage room, the sun is beginning to set, casting long shadows across the empty parish hall.
“I should go,” I say, gathering my purse. “Papa expects me for dinner.”
Father Moretti nods. “Of course. Please give your parents my regards.”
I almost laugh at the thought of delivering a priest’s blessing to my father, whose hands have spilled more blood than holy water. Instead, I nod and turn to leave.
“Caterina,” he calls after me, his voice echoing in the empty hall.
I turn back.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “For everything today.”
There are layers to his words, meanings I both long to understand and fear to acknowledge. I offer a small smile and slip out into the gathering dusk, feeling his eyes on me long after the church doors close behind me.
In the quiet of the car, I press my forehead against the steering wheel and whisper a prayer—not for strength or guidance or forgiveness, but for understanding of this thing growing between us, this dangerous, impossible thing that feels more like fate than sin.
