Bad Habits: A Dark Anthology - Yolanda Olson Page 0,33

dinner before that, nor did he come to my room after everyone had gone to bed. Later that night in my own bed, I laid there in the dark, waiting to hear Solomon’s voice, but the room was pregnant with silence.

It was on my third day at the parish that he summoned me to his office.

Sister Beady-eyes gave me the message while I was stapling little ziplock bags of treats for the children of Trevorstone under the ever-watchful eye of Sister Diane, a nun who I was tempted to slap whenever she corrected me on some stupid little thing I was doing wrong. I’d been tasked with making the giftbags for the Blessings of Hope, which started tomorrow.

Already, the parish had an undercurrent of anticipation for the event. Last night, two priests from Anderson County had arrived. Supposedly, they were volunteering their time as well and would be staying with us the rest of the week. Sister Hazel had appointed them the first two rooms in the resident hall, kicking out the two Sisters that occupied it.

I kept waiting to hear some type of gossip—nuns were notorious for the juice—but this place was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. These people, even the new arrivals, were too sedate. It was like the time we novitiates visited the seniors at Gladberry Center: a gaggle of constipated, frowning old biddies who knitted and complained all damn day.

Putting down my stapler and ignoring the distaste on Sister Diane’s face, I gladly left the room and headed for the breeze way exit for Father Kent’s office.

It was going on lunchtime, so I assumed his appointments or whatever it was small-time clergy did during the morning was done. Which meant we’d be alone, no doubt.

I was nervous, my hands sweating, as I walked dutifully to his door, past the church entrance whose doors stood closed to the public at this time of day.

With a deep breath, I opened the office door. “Father Kent?”

“In here, child.”

Solomon’s voice. I closed my eyes in sadness and longing, just standing there holding the doorjamb to support my weight

It was the first time since I’d arrived that I actually longed for home. To Mother Mary Margret, to my closet and trapped souls. To Hannah and Jack and even old Sister Bethany’s food.

Since I’d been here, I’d been… good. No tricks or pranks, my kite retired and dejected. There simply was no wind for it to rise, and no one I cared about to summon an ounce of enthusiasm for.

“Constance?” Father Kent inquired from the back somewhere.

“Ye—” I cleared my throat, finding my voice. “Yes, Father. I’m here.” Shutting the door, I looked around the room, taking in the small but clean layout. A coffee table, two decent sofas, and a standing shelf of books decorated the room. A perfect waiting area for engaged couples or parishioners waiting to meet their representative of God.

I passed through the waiting area and into a backroom, where an open doorway showed me Father Kent’s profile. He was sitting at his desk, and when he saw me, he turned his head and waved me in, standing up.

“Please, come in and have a seat.” He put his hand on my shoulder for a second, then must have thought better of it as he looked behind me toward the waiting area. I took a seat in the chair closest to the door. My heart skipped a beat when I heard him shut the door, giving us privacy.

My eyes were heavy with on-coming tears, and I curled my hands into fists at my sides, shutting my stupid eyes until my temples screamed. What was wrong with me? There was no way I was going to cry in front of this man.

“Constance, look at me.” He placed his hands on my knees. The breadth and warmth of his touch both anchored and jolted me.

I opened my eyes to find him squatting down in front of me, his beautiful face filled with concern.

“I have not abandoned you,” he said, determined.

I turned away from him and looked over my shoulder. I couldn’t bear his words, his eyes.

He took my chin and turned me gently back to face him. “In fact, this is where you’re meant to be, child. My Constant Star.” When my lips trembled, he traced them with his thumb. “You are my Beloved, and you are home. You are mine.”

My hand flew to his and pushed him away. “What game are you playing, Father? How cruel can you be? I