“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I was waiting to talk with Father Patrick.”
“Father Patrick is otherwise engaged tonight. If you have specific needs to discuss, I’m available, but unfortunately, he’s not.”
I thought I’d have the courage to tell Father Ignatius about the article, but I don’t. It’s none of his business, anyway. I’m sure Father Patrick will be in enough hot water as it is; he doesn’t need more judgment.
“I can wait,” I say, ready to return to my kneeling position, hoping Ignatius will walk away and give me privacy. But he calls my bluff and remains in the same spot, unmoved. Stagnant and complacent.
“I’m sorry, Miss Branson. He cannot meet with you tonight. If it’s something of import, we can speak in my office . . .”
“I really need to speak with Father Patrick specifically. There’s been a”—I search for the right words to convey gravity without giving away all the details—“development with the documentary, and we’ll be leaving immediately. He’s been a significant part of the film. It’s important we speak.”
He holds his ground, hands clasped on the curve of his belly. “You’re in luck. We are well aware of your so-called ‘development,’ so you’re free to go.”
“You know?” I’m clearly too late. They know.
“Yes, Miss Branson. We know. Now, I think you’ve done enough. If you’d please leave.”
I look over to Patrick. He’s still talking to the man, but I’m sure he must notice the conversation between me and Father Ignatius. He’s not blind, and he’s not hard of hearing, so that means he’s made the choice to leave my pesky interruption to his colleague. Father Ignatius is right—I’ve done enough.
“I’ll go. But if you need any help here”—I gesture at the structure, but I mean the church in general, as though the ancient religion needs anything from little ole me—“I can reach out to my team. We’re developing a strategic response, and I promise to protect him.” I gesture at Patrick protectively. “He did nothing wrong. If you need me to testify or however things go with priests—I will.”
“That will not be necessary,” he says.
“All right.” I check around my seat for my belongings, but I brought nothing other than the clothes on my back and my turned-off phone, so my hands are as empty as my heart. I take in the church one last time. Until two hours ago, I thought I’d be getting married here. God, till two hours ago, I still thought I’d be getting married, period. But everything’s changed.
My mother betrayed me; my fiancé manipulated me; and I’ve irrevocably damaged my career. I’ve been humiliated in the press. And on top of that, my grandmother is not who she led me to believe—a salacious affair, a love child, a rogue husband, and too many lies to count.
There’s only one person I want to talk to about all of it, and I’m being cast out from his presence. Is this why people crave a god so much—so when all else is lost, at least they still have one being that won’t reject them?
Perhaps. But that’s not where I can find my comfort, not today at least. Father Ignatius shuffles in place like he’s dying to usher this sinner out of his holy home. I have no desire to be escorted out, so I leave, watching my feet with each step, head bowed low. Father Ignatius follows behind me to the end of the pew and then keeps watch as I travel the last few feet alone.
Once outside, I glance around, sure I will see a familiar car or Hunter with a bouquet of flowers, looking for me, but as far as I can tell in the pale moonlight and the muted shine of the streetlamps, no one’s come to find me. I walk to the landing above the bottom steps and sit, turning on my phone. It erupts with buzzes, and color badges fill my screen. My mom called seventeen times and left six voice mails. Hunter sent one text saying that I seemed upset, and he’d let me have my space. He’s getting his own room, and he suggests we talk in the morning. How cute—he thinks I’ll still be here in the morning.
There are missed calls from contacts at various publications and more than one from Toffee Co. agents. My voice mail must be full at this point. The shock has worn off, and now I’m left with numbness. Usually, I’m a forward thinker, ten moves ahead of the game, but right now, I’m going one teeny tiny wobbly step at a time.
I open my Uber app and order a car. It’ll be here in thirty minutes, faster than I anticipated. Then I open my travel app to find the next ticket out of here and hit the purchase button. I won’t spend one more night in Edinburgh, Indiana.
“Excuse me.” The man who was counseling with Father Patrick steps by me as he leaves the church.
Well, confession must be over. The rectory is in a house on the other side of the church through a rear exit, so at least I don’t have to worry about either clergyman happening upon me while I wait for my ride. But just in case, I fold myself in tighter and lean against the metal railing, hoping I’ll blend into the background.
Then I close my phone, wrap my arms around my upper body, and watch my breath mist up into the air, beneath the yellow glow of the streetlights. From here on the hill, I can see the town laid out in lines of illuminated streets, dots of light where uncovered windows project ambient warmth into the inky blue-black of the night. The evening air is cold and the sky cloudless. I shiver, the sweat on my neck and back having soaked into my long-sleeved shirt.
I feel cast out, and I think about the Bible story of the woman “taken in adultery” who was to be stoned by a group of men filled with righteous indignation. Jesus stepped in; I remember that part. He stepped in and said something about not casting stones if you live in glass houses, or something like that. Even though I can’t remember the exact story, I do remember how I felt hearing it years ago. First, I thought, Where’s the guy she was cheating with? How come he’s not being stoned? And then I thought, Why did all the people rushing toward the trembling woman care so damn much about what she did that they were ready to kill her?
No one’s about to stone me. But I still feel as if I were that woman cowering on the ground, preparing to be pelted by strangers, while the people I love most have abandoned me.
I hear the loud slapping footfalls of a runner heading in my direction—someone out for a late jog, I guess. I put my chin on my knees and hold my breath so the frozen water vapor of my exhalations in the air doesn’t give me away.
“Elise, there you are!” Father Patrick comes to a halt at the bottom of the steps, out of breath, hands on his hips. He’s removed his stole and white vestment. His collar is open without the white insert. I’ve never seen him like this—so . . . normal. “I thought I missed you.”
I blink and shake my head, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. It took a lot of restraint to leave him alone and not make a scene with Father Ignatius, but now he’s here, outside, underdressed, and looking for me. I’m overcome with gratitude. Even if he’s here to tell me he never wants to see me again and that I ruined his life—it’s better than the stonewalling.
“I’m waiting for my Uber. Father Ignatius passed on your message.”