Chapter 10: The Sermon Dispute
The sacristy was quiet, a pocket of dusty, colored light. Paul leaned against the heavy oak desk, a notepad blank before him. A dull ache pulsed low in his back, a constant companion now. He could feel the firm curve of his stomach pressing against the button of his black trousers, a sensation that still pulled him up short some mornings. He was tired. The baby had been active all night, a fluttering, restless presence that felt like hope itself made physical.
The door swung open without a knock.
Bev Keane stood there, a stack of hymnals in her arms like a weapon. Her smile was thin, a practiced slash of piety. “Father. Preparing your sermon?”
Paul straightened, subtly shifting his weight off his lower back. “Trying to, Bev.”
“I had a thought for you.” She set the books down with a thud that echoed in the small room. “Given the… unique circumstances of our congregation’s rejuvenation. A sermon on purity. On the separation of the faithful from the corrupting influences of the world.” Her eyes, sharp as flint, flickered over him. “We must tend our garden, mustn’t we? Weed out the unworthy.”
The old language, the familiar, venomous certainty of it, was a cold breath down his neck. Paul took a slow breath, the scent of aged wax and incense filling his lungs. “I was considering the Good Samaritan, actually. Kindness to strangers.”
Bev’s smile tightened, her lips bleaching white. “How predictable. People don’t need soft platitudes, Father. They need structure. Fire. Clarity.” Her gaze dropped, deliberate and demeaning, to his midsection. “You’re looking a bit round these days. Must be all that rich home cooking. Riley’s mother’s pies, I suppose.”
A current of anger, hot and clean, cut through Paul’s fatigue. He met her stare. “It’s not cooking, Bev. You know exactly what it is.”
She snorted, a dry, ugly sound. “Oh, I know. A vessel carrying a question mark. It’s a wonder the foundations haven’t cracked. You stand where Monsignor Pruitt stood, where I served, and you’ve turned it into a… a brothel. A sideshow.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “You’re a freak, Paul. A pregnant freak. And he’s the town drunk you spread your legs for. It’s a miracle anyone still comes to hear you, though I suppose the novelty’s like a car wreck. Hard to look away.”
Paul’s hands clenched on the edge of the desk. The wood bit into his palms. “You locked children in a burning rec center, Bev. You fed people to a monster and called it communion. You have no right to speak to me about purity or corruption. You have no right to even breathe in this church.”
Her face contorted, the mask of civility shattering. “At least I acted on conviction! You act on… on feeling. On a sickening physical whim. You think he’ll stay? A man like that? Once he’s got what he wanted from your… unusual plumbing?” Her eyes raked him up and down with monstrous contempt. “You’re lucky he’s willing to marry you. It’s the only shred of decency left in this fiasco.”
Paul’s breath caught. His hand moved instinctively, spreading over the firm dome of his stomach, a protective barrier against her words. The baby turned, a soft roll beneath his palm.
The door opened.
Riley stepped in, holding a paper bag from the mainland bakery. The sight of him—his tired eyes, the simple, solid fact of him—was like a rope thrown into a storm. “Hey, brought you a—” He stopped. His eyes scanned Paul’s pale face, the tremble in his hand on his stomach, then locked onto Bev. The warmth in his expression died, replaced by a flat, dangerous calm. “What’s going on?”
Bev didn’t flinch. She turned a sickly-sweet smile on Riley. “Just discussing theology with the father, Riley. Congratulations are in order, I hear. You’ve made an honest woman of him.”
Riley ignored her. He walked to Paul, placing the bag on the desk and brushing his fingers over Paul’s wrist. “You okay?”
Paul nodded, but couldn’t speak.
Riley finally turned to Bev. He didn’t raise his voice. It was low, measured, and carried the full weight of the man he’d become—sober, grounded, and fiercely protective. “Get out.”
“This is church business.”
“It’s my fiancé’s place of work,” Riley said, the word ‘fiancé’ hanging, solid and defiant, in the air. “And you’re upsetting him. And our child. So get the fuck out.”
Bev’s eyes widened at the profanity in the sacristy. She drew herself up. “The bishop will hear about this.”
“Mail him a letter,” Riley said, taking a step toward her. He wasn’t a tall man, but his presence filled the small room, quiet and immovable. “You don’t talk to him again. You don’t look at him. You don’t come near us. The things you did… you should be in a cell. The only reason you’re not is because this island tries to forget. But I don’t forget. Now leave.”
For a moment, pure, unadulterated hatred burned in Bev Keane’s eyes. It was the same look she’d given him when he’d questioned the angel’s blood, the same look she’d given anyone who stood in the way of her cruel gospel. Then it was gone, shuttered behind a pinched, righteous mask. She swept past him, her shoulder brushing the doorframe.
Silence pooled back into the room, thicker now, charged.
Riley let out a long breath. He turned, framing Paul’s face with his hands. His thumbs brushed under Paul’s eyes, catching the moisture there. “Hey.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered, leaning into his touch.
“For what? Existing?” Riley’s voice was rough with emotion. “She’s a poisoned well. Everything from her is poison.” He slid his hands down, over Paul’s shoulders, his arms, coming to rest where Paul’s hand still lay on his stomach. He covered it with his own. “Did she… did she hurt you?”
“No,” Paul said, and it was mostly true. The physical ache was nothing. The old shame, the grotesque mirror she’d tried to hold up—that had rattled him. He looked down at their joined hands. “She just knows where to press. All the old bruises.”
Riley leaned his forehead against Paul’s. “You’re not a freak. You’re my future. This,” he pressed his hand more firmly against Paul’s stomach, “is my future. The only fucking miracle on this island is that I get to have this with you.”
A real sob escaped Paul then, a release of the tension Bev had coiled inside him. He clung to Riley, his face buried in the warm, worn cotton of his shirt, breathing in the scent of salt air and diesel fuel from the boat.
They stood like that for a long time, in the fractured, colored light. The baby moved again, a distinct, rolling push against both their palms.
Riley grinned, a sudden, bright thing against the dark mood. “Kid’s putting in their two cents. Telling Bev to piss off, too.”
Paul laughed, a wet, shaking sound. “They’re active today.”
“Good.” Riley kissed him, slow and deep, a claiming of the space, a cleansing of it. When he pulled back, he nodded to the bag. “Got you that lemon poppy seed muffin you’ve been craving. Decaf tea in the thermos.”
The normalcy of it, the tender, mundane care, was Paul’s real salvation. He wiped his eyes. “I need to finish that sermon.”
“Kindness to strangers, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Riley smiled. “Sounds perfect.” He didn’t leave. He pulled a chair over and sat, opening the bag and handing Paul the muffin. “I’ll just be here. In case any other weeds try to sprout.”
Paul took a bite, the sweet tang filling his mouth. He looked at his notepad, then at the man he loved, solid and unwavering beside him. The words, when they finally came, flowed not from fear or a need to prove anything, but from a simple, defiant truth. He began to write about kindness, about seeing the worth in the broken and the different, about love as the ultimate, unassailable sanctuary.
Outside, the morning light grew stronger, bleaching the stained-glass colors to pale pastels. The island hummed its ordinary hum. And inside, guarded by a quiet man with tired, kind eyes, a pregnant priest wrote about love, his left hand occasionally drifting from the page to rest on the firm, living proof of it.