Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Me too actually. I haven’t been sleeping.”
“May I ask why?”
“I don’t really know. Weird dreams keeping me up.”
Or nightmares, which was what Danesha was suffering from. She’d confessed before she left me alone earlier that Joanna’s behavior probably wouldn’t have annoyed her quite so much if she wasn’t so sleep-deprived.
“I’m sorry. The good news is that it’s Friday, so you can have a restful weekend.”
“I’ll try.”
“Take care of yourself,” I urged her.
“You too, love, and say hello to Lorne for me.”
“I certainly will,” I said and hung up.
Since there was nothing else to do, I decided to take a walk. I wasn’t interested in the carnival, never had been. There weren’t enough kinds of junk food to excite me, and Jill was not wrong about the rides. I did not need to take my life in my hands by riding a Ferris wheel made in the fifties. Passing by St. Theresa’s, one of the three places of worship in town, I was surprised to hear my name called.
When I turned, I saw Father Dennis Balfour, whom everyone called Father Dennis, coming down the stairs.
“Evening, Father,” I greeted him.
“A good evening to you as well, Xander,” he replied with a smile. “This is excellent timing, as this way I’ll have conversation on my way to the carnival.”
“Oh, I’m not going.”
“Would you deprive me of your company?” he asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“That’s terrible,” I assured him.
He chuckled. “Don’t make me guilt you. Just come with me.”
I shook my head at him. “Is that a good idea?”
He stopped moving and glared at me. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
Clearing my throat, I said, “I heard you’re not supposed to eat any junk food.”
“Blasphemy,” he pronounced. “Who told you that?”
“Apparently, from what I’ve heard, Sister Andrea announced it at service last Sunday, and everyone who was there told everyone else, and c’mon, Father, this town is only so big.”
He threw up his hands. “I told Sister Andrea I’d rather die eating things I love than with all this plant-based nonsense she wants me to make a habit of.”
I cackled. “Habit. Good one.”
“Oh dear Lord,” he moaned.
“Because she’s a nun and they wear habits.”
“Please stop.”
“Do you get it? Do you? Habits?”
“Desist with your terrible jokes.”
“Then no bad food for you.”
“Fake bacon is not in the Bible.”
“But real bacon is, and you’re not supposed to eat it,” I said.
“Jesus said nothing about pork,” he argued.
“I see, so we’re picking and choosing from the good book now. Is that it?”
“Heathen.”
My shrug made him chuckle.
“Listen, I’m not going to the carnival to eat. I just like to see people enjoying themselves.”
“That’s really nice.”
“Well, I’m really nice,” he teased as he continued down the stairs.
When he reached me, I had to look up a bit as he was taller than me. If you imagined what a Catholic priest looked like, Father Dennis was what most would conjure. He was in his early sixties, tall, handsome, with silver at his temples and a few streaks in his dark-brown hair. There were deep laugh lines in the corners of his light sepia eyes, and he was tanned from all the time he spent in the church’s massive gardens. He was one of the nicest men I knew, always with a kind word for me and encouragement for all the young people in town without ever a judgment. I appreciated the Transgender Support Day he and Rabbi Katz had put together last fall, and that the local youth center—sponsored by St. Theresa’s, the Shul of Osprey, and the Zen Buddhist Temple of Osprey—welcomed all.
“Really nice and really fake,” I let him know. “With all due respect, you’re hoping to grab a churro.”
“Fine,” he grumbled as we started walking together. “Don’t look so smug.”
“Where’s the rest of your posse tonight?”
“Rabbi Katz is detained again with Mrs. Colman, who’s certain she’s seen ghosts on the moor behind her house,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “And Abbot Leung is counseling several couples at the high school this evening.”
I squinted at him.
“What do you have against couples’ counseling?”
“Nothing. It’s the first thing you said I have an issue with.”
Instant glare. “I can call it a moor.”
Funny that he knew his use of the term was what prompted my look. Spirits were fine, but something out of Wuthering Heights was ridiculous. “They’re hills.”
“I’ve spent time in Scotland, young man, unlike you,” he informed me. “I know a moor when I see one.”
It was one of many pieces of uncultivated land in and around Osprey that was, after hundreds of years of the town’s establishment, still wild. There were trees, bushes, grass, and, according to Mrs. Colman, entities. At night she kept her curtains drawn as she didn’t want to look up from watching TV or knitting and find a face at her window.