Every Sunday morning had felt like an eternity in this seat, and she’d winced through every moment, hyperaware of Victor’s incredulous expression and barely concealed scoffing at some of the priest’s claims. It was now clear that she had wasted that time.
“I miss you, Mama, Papa,” she said to the empty seats beside her. “I should have known that sitting with you regularly was my privilege.” She whispered to herself now, “Typical Angelika. You’ve got to start noticing moments with other people, because they do not last forever.”
“Miss . . . Annnnnn . . . gelika . . . Fran . . . ken . . . stein,” an elderly man said, scaring her silly.
She tried not to gape, but Father Porter looked like he’d been buried six feet under since she saw him last. He was nothing but bone and blue-veined skin, and cloaked in robes fit for royalty. How he had the strength to bear that thick gold rope around his neck was anybody’s guess.
She heard herself ask: “How old are you?”
“The good Lord has given me my ninetieth birthday,” Father Porter replied.
“NINETY?” Her horror echoed around them like ninety-inety-inety-inety. She hurriedly got to her feet. “What I mean to say is, congratulations, and nice to see you again.”
He bore that same shrewd smile she remembered. “You have not changed one bit.”
“Thank you. I am here on business, to arrange wedding services.”
He blinked. “Congratulations are due in return, then.”
“For my brother, Victor.”
“Ah. Victor. The young man who told me I was never welcome to call upon him again. The young man who I hear such strange, unnatural things about.” Father Porter’s stare was difficult not to squirm beneath. He finished coolly, “I would ask you to speak to an aide. But we are fully booked.”
“This is a special request. Victor has a deep attachment to our family chapel. We wish for the service to take place there. If you could make one of your more—ah—nimble associates available, we will pay handsomely for the convenience. It is a fair hike, all uphill.”
Serene, he replied, “There is only myself, my child.”
“Oh. What about in neighboring parishes? Could a colleague be arranged?” She was beginning to feel panicked. Could he ride a mule? “Whatever will we do?”
“A donation may help bygones be bygones.” Father Porter’s rheumy eyes had a new gleam. “He may marry here, should that donation be sufficient. I will ensure he can pick his date, depending on the size of the affair.”
He folded his hands on his midsection. As imaginary Victor had predicted, Father Porter wore a ruby that could have fit in a nutcracker. It was a stunning stone, but the memory of children swarming in the dirt for coins was too fresh to admire it.
Angelika forced a pleasant smile. “The ceremony we have in mind will be five guests and will probably take five minutes. But we really are set on him marrying at home.”
“You have avoided this place a long time. Come.” Father Porter was apparently tired out by simply standing there, and he gestured for her to follow.
They took a door to the left, then walked to a vestry office. It was one short hallway, but by the time he took his seat at his desk, Angelika was sweating from witnessing his arduous journey. He appeared close to falling several times, and she had taken his arm out of necessity. She collapsed into the seat opposite his own, so thirsty she’d willingly drink from the vase of roses behind him.
He let her sit for a long time in silence before saying, “You think me quite ancient, don’t you, my child? I suppose you have not known anyone who has grown old. I still pray for your dear parents.”
She masked her flare of temper. “I confess I did not think you would still be working at your fine age.”
“I cannot retire.”
“Oh, is that against the rules?”
“I cannot retire,” he repeated with increased enunciation, making it clear she had interrupted, “until my replacement is sent.”
“He’d jolly well better hurry up,” Angelika said, then sank two inches in her seat when his lips thinned. “I’m sorry.”
“Every thought comes out of your mouth. You really have not changed.” Fingers creaking into a steeple below his chin, he stared at her. “You do not visit your parents’ graves.”
“We pay to have them maintained.”
“It is not the same thing.” He continued his staring.
She remembered how she’d strode toward the man in the forest with her eyes on his ring. Diplomacy, Angelika. Tread carefully.