“HOLY CRAP.” GYPSY GLANCED OUT the passenger window with wide eyes. “You’re taking me to church?”
I glanced at her face in profile, the beaming sunlight highlighting her coppery skin. She had the cheekbones of a woman, but her animated expressions often exposed her youth. I wondered what was going through her mind when she pressed her fingertips against the door and leaned forward. Did she recall how many times she came here on her own to confess her sins, or would she even admit to me that she had?
She opted for silence, even as I opened the door and helped her from the car. I’d given her a new dress for the occasion—one I hoped would be modest—but it occurred to me there was no such piece of clothing for Gypsy. Her legs went on for miles, and it didn’t matter what material she wrapped herself in, she was the Christmas present every man wanted.
At that moment, I was one of them. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Without all the makeup and the invisible armor, she looked like she might have belonged here, even if she didn’t feel like it.
She smoothed some imaginary wrinkles from the material around her waist. “Is this some sort of an exorcism? Is that why you brought me here?”
“No,” I answered. “We’re here for Sunday service.”
Her eyes drifted toward the entrance of Saint Vincent’s, a place she’d come to know well. I waited again for her to acknowledge it, but she didn’t.
“I have something else for you,” I said.
She turned to see what it was, and her arm brushed against mine. Her skin was soft, and it had the immediate effect of making me feel as if this was the last place I belonged because all I wanted to do at that moment was touch her again.
I retrieved the delicate gold rosary necklace from my pocket. It was expensive and rare, a one-of-a-kind piece I’d purchased on a whim after the first night I saw her. I’d waited for months to drape the chain around her neck, and when I did, the moment lived up to all my expectations. It was the perfect complement to her skin tone, and it brought out a sweetness in her temperament, but more than that, it gave me a sense of relief.
“It’s beautiful.” Gypsy ran her fingers along the tiny pearls. “But I don’t know the rosary.”
My lips tilted at the corners. “I know. But I couldn’t imagine it belonging to anyone else.”
My palm found the small of her back, and I escorted her inside the church. She shivered, and it reminded me of the first time I’d stepped foot in here. It was a time when I didn’t have faith in my life, and if you’d asked me if I was a believer, I’d have told you to go to hell.
I didn’t know what Gypsy’s belief systems were. I only knew that, on some level, she felt safe here. She often stole in here secretly, confessing her darkest secrets, only to flee as though she’d never spoken them aloud at all. It was the reason that even though she represented everything I loathed, I wanted to believe there was redemption for her.
She trailed along beside me, pausing to observe the water inside the baptismal font. I dipped my fingers into the liquid while she watched, making the sign of the cross on myself. Then, against my better judgment, I wet my fingers again. I met her eyes, and she sucked in a breath, and everything else around us seemed to slip away. With scrupulous care, I anointed her forehead and sternum before dragging my fingers across the sensitive flesh of her collarbone to finish on her right.
She trembled, and it triggered an image of me baptizing her naked form in this holy water, only to desecrate her afterward like the true heathen I was. My eyes closed on a sigh, and I tried to gain control of my body and thoughts before they ventured into darker territory. I wanted to protect this girl, but I couldn’t deny the urge inside me that wanted to ruin her too.
We took a seat in the outer pews, and she seemed relieved that I didn’t make her sit up front. I wasn’t certain what to expect when the priest and his attendants took their places for the service. Part of me suspected she would throw a fit and demand to leave, but she didn’t.
Instead, she listened raptly throughout the service as if she were trying to decipher the true meanings behind the hymns. Catholicism was, in essence, a series of rituals. And while I didn’t necessarily consider myself a devout Catholic, I respected the rituals. They gave order to the chaos inside my head at a time when I needed it the most.
After the darkest chapter of my life, I’d found peace in this place, and I brought Gypsy here with the hope that someday she might too.
The service finished without delay, and she remained quiet on the drive home. I didn’t intrude on that silence. I felt it best to let her digest it on her own. At times, I could teach her, but there would be moments she’d have to learn on her own.