so I can ferry myself to shore. I put in a call to Eulalia yesterday and she’s sending Robert to fetch me for church. Or, us, if you’d like to join.”
“I’ll come.”
He could have worn shorts to church and no one on this little island would have blinked, but as Keane motors us to shore two hours later, he is clad in his Sunday best. The slim-fitting black pants are a bit wrinkled, but paired with a pale green button-down shirt that pulls out the green in his eyes, it is impossible not to notice how beautiful he is. I can’t even look at him for fear he’ll be able to see through my sunglasses and read my mind. I don’t want him. I don’t. But Jesus Christ, he’s breathtaking.
“Pretty dress,” he says over the rumble of the outboard, eyes hidden behind his aviators.
I’m wearing a golden-yellow wrap dress with a pair of leather flip-flops. Yet I feel like a beach bum compared to Keane. “Thank you.”
Robert is waiting for us at the Deveaux mansion. He’s less talkative than his wife but navigates better around the potholes. He drops us off at Holy Redeemer Church, a whitewashed stone building that resembles the Hermitage.
“It was built by Father Jerome,” Robert says when I mention it.
The inside is also painted white, with hard wooden benches and windows that capture the sunshine and throw it over us. The congregation, made up of Black and white families, is sparse and Keane chooses a pew near the middle.
I attempt to do what everyone else does. I sit when they sit, stand when they stand. I even kneel when they kneel, but I’m half a beat behind, and I feel like an imposter. My family only attends church on Christmas and Easter, and I’m not exactly on the best terms with God right now anyway. Beside me, Keane is solemn. He knows the proper responses and doesn’t mumble his way through the songs. His voice is clear and strong.
I zone out during the deacon’s sermon, watching the clouds slide past the windows and thinking about Ben. His family is Presbyterian, but he considered himself an atheist and didn’t believe in heaven or hell. As I sit in this beautiful place, with a man whose faith is big enough to ferry him across the bay and up a bumpy road to be here, I wonder if Ben might have been wrong. If he’d been a believer, would God have saved him?
Ben’s absence cuts clean through me and a tear slips from the corner of my eye. I catch it with the flutter sleeve of my dress. I take in a deep breath, and Keane reaches over, threading his fingers through mine. His hand feels big and safe, and he doesn’t let go until he has to walk up the aisle to receive communion.
The deacon stands at the back of the church after services, bidding the parishioners farewell and saying hello to visitors. Keane lags behind until we’re the only two remaining and, after we introduce ourselves, he asks the deacon for a private word. They step out of earshot and I watch Keane talk, his eyes worried and his hands busy. The deacon nods as he listens, then says something as he makes a cross in the air above Keane’s forehead, a blessing.
“Confessing your sins?” I tease as Keane rejoins me.
He grins. “I doubt the good deacon has that much time to spare. Not to mention that, since he’s not a priest, it wouldn’t be official.”
Despite the casual way he throws off the question, I suspect he really did make a confession, unofficial or otherwise, but I don’t press the subject. It’s none of my business.
“Thanks for…” I lift my upturned palm to indicate the way he held my hand during the liturgy. “I was thinking about Ben.”
“I figured as much,” he says as we walk from the church to the taxi van.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about him.”
“Don’t know why you would,” Keane says. “Eventually—and I say this from experience—you’ll start building a new house beside the ruins of the old. When you’re ready, you’ll know.”
Back aboard the boat, we change into sailing clothes. Keane pulls the dinghy out of the water and lashes it to the deck for the next leg of the trip, while I close all the hatches and put on some music. There’s a lightness to our movements and moods. Maybe it’s because Eulalia gave me a healthy dose