A Beautiful Sin by A. M. Hargrove, Terri E. Laine Page B

contemporary Masses at Notre Dame.
    Participation was excellent and my introductory homily went smoothly. I saw the interest in the faces of the congregation. It was the same on Sunday. Mom and Dad stopped by the rectory early Sunday afternoon and brought us dinner, including dessert.
    As I settled into my new role, the rest of the week was without incident. Or so I thought. It was Saturday afternoon, and I had just wrapped up listening to the good people of Holy Cross confess their sins to me. Over half of them were young kids whose parents had brought them in, I was sure, and they confessed silly things that made me smile. Arguments between siblings were probably at the top of the list, then came lying, followed by disobedience. I absolved them of their sins, doled out the usual Hail Marys and Our Fathers for penance, and sent them on their way.
    As I left the confessional, I caught a glimpse of blond hair out of the corner of my eye. The fact that it was blond wasn’t what I noticed. It was that it was the palest of blondes I’d ever seen. Then I realized from her profile it was the young woman who’d come to the sacristy door on the first day I was there with Bill—on the day I ran out because I was ill. A shadow of a memory passed through my mind, but fled quicker than I could put a finger on it. I watched her as she carefully lit a vigil light and then prayed for a moment. When she finished, she stood and turned.
    It’s been said that priests are immune to beauty. I say whoever came up with that statement was a blind fool. The woman possessed the rare type of beauty that one never forgets, and I’d come across attractive people throughout my life, but never one that gave me pause. Not noticing her that day was proof of how affected I’d been by a return to that room. I shook myself out of those thoughts as God was the only beauty I could allow myself to admire. Instead, I went to speak to her, to apologize for my rapid departure, only I never got the chance.
    “It is you. You’re Canaan Sullivan, aren’t you?”
    Smiling, I said, “Yes,” as I reached out to shake her hand.
    She ignored it and unleashed a fury I’d never experienced before.
    “How dare you call yourself a priest? A man of God?”
    Her disdain for me made me hesitate, as I was confused by her ire. Words I wondered myself a million times made me unable to hold her glare. I glanced about in search of an escape or to see if anyone had witnessed the exchange. Only I found we were alone as embarrassment infused me with heat.
    “No one is perfect, but I’ve given my life in service of our Lord.”
    Her expressive eyes narrowed. “Of course you did, with your holier than thou attitude.”
    I’d been accused of things before, but never that. My competence wasn’t in question. So what had her spitting mad?
    “I’m terribly sorry. You have me at a loss.”
    She barked out a mirthless laugh, which only added to my confusion. Her eyes, beautiful ice blue, were shooting sparks. And the golden skin of her cheeks was dotted with two bright spots of crimson. What in the world could I have possibly done to anger her so?
    Shaking her head, she said, “Unbelievable. But why would you ever remember? Let me clue you in, Father .” She said the last like it was a curse. “When I was twelve, I came to the sacristy looking for help…and you”—she pointed a long, slender finger in my direction—“sent me away. You told me Father O’Brien didn’t have time for anyone like me. That he was too busy. So I left. I was twelve fucking years old.”
    As flabbergasted as I was, I needed to calm her down.
    “You have a right to your anger, but this is the house of the Lord,” I told her. She was practically shouting now and cursing in this most sacred place and that was completely unacceptable. I made a quick decision. Even though it filled me with dread, I reached for her wrist and moved toward that room of torture, the only place that would afford us