BLESS ME, FATHER (2)

CHAPTER 2

The days after Father Rossi’s arrival settled into a new rhythm, one I hadn’t anticipated. The convent continues its quiet turning prayers, chores, meals in silence but now there is an undercurrent, a subtle vibration that hums beneath every task. His presence changes the light in the chapel, makes the stone walls feel closer, the air thicker. I tell myself it is imagination. I tell myself to focus on God.

But God feels distant this week.

On Monday morning Mother Superior summons me to her small office after terce. The room smells of old books and lavender, her desk neat as a soldier’s kit. She regards me over half-moon spectacles, hands folded.

“Sister Celeste,” she begins, voice measured, “Father Rossi has requested assistance during confession hours. The village penitents have begun to come more regularly since his arrival. He needs someone reliable to manage the flow—lighting candles, offering prayer cards, ensuring order.”

My stomach dips, a slow, rolling sensation. “Me, Mother?”

“You are diligent. Discreet. And you have a calm presence.” She pauses, studying me. “Is there a reason you would prefer not to serve?”

“No, Mother.” The words come out too quickly. I lower my eyes. “I am honored.”

She nods once. “Very well. You begin this afternoon. Compline will be led by Sister Beatrice in your stead tonight.”

Dismissed, I step into the corridor, heart beating too loud in my ears. The stone is cold under my sandals. I press a hand to my chest, willing the flutter to slow. It is only duty. Only duty.

Afternoon confession begins at three. The chapel doors are propped open to let in the pale winter light. A handful of villagers wait on the wooden benches old Signora Rossi (no relation, she insists every time), young Marco with his guilty blush, a farmer whose wife died last spring. They rise as Father Rossi enters from the sacristy, cassock brushing the floor.

He nods to them, then to me where I stand near the side altar, arranging prayer cards in neat stacks. Our eyes meet. He doesn’t smile, but something flickers in his expression recognition, perhaps, or satisfaction.

“Sister Celeste,” he says quietly, just loud enough for me to hear. “Thank you for coming.”

I incline my head. “It is my privilege, Father.”

He moves to the confessional, the carved wooden screen dividing the sinner from the priest. I take my place on a low stool in the corner, half-hidden by a pillar. From here I can see the penitents approach, hear the murmur of voices without catching every word. It is meant to preserve privacy. It also means I am close enough to feel the weight of his presence across the chapel.

The first hour passes in fragments.

Signora Rossi kneels first. Her voice trembles as she begins. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

I light a fresh votive candle for her intentions, the match flaring bright. The flame steadies, and I glance toward the screen. Father Rossi’s silhouette is motionless, head inclined, listening. His voice when he responds is low, almost tender. “Go on, my child.”

I turn away, cheeks warm. Why does the gentleness in his tone make my pulse stutter?

Marco next. His confession is halting, full of stammers about a girl in the village, promises broken. Father Rossi interrupts once, softly. “Take your time. There is no rush before God.”

I hand Marco a prayer card as he leaves Our Lady of Sorrows, eyes downcast. His fingers shake. Mine do too, just a little.

The farmer is the last of the outsiders. His grief is quieter, a steady murmur about loneliness, about nights too empty. Father Rossi’s replies are brief, firm. “The Lord sees your sorrow. He weeps with you.”

When the man rises, I offer him holy water from the front near the door. Our eyes meet briefly his red-rimmed, grateful. I feel a pang of something like envy. He has spoken about his pain aloud. I carry mine in silence.

The villagers gone, the chapel falls quiet. Only the soft crackle of candles and the distant toll of a bell in the village.

I expect him to leave. Instead he steps out from the confessional, stretching slightly, shoulders rolling under the black fabric. He looks toward me.

“Sister.”

I stand quickly, smoothing my habit. “Yes, Father?”

He crosses the aisle in long, unhurried strides. Stops a respectful distance away—close enough that I catch the faint scent of incense and something warmer, like cedar or skin.

“You were very efficient,” he says. “The penitents seemed at ease.”

“I only lit candles and handed cards,” I reply, keeping my voice even.

His mouth quirks, the smallest movement. “Sometimes that is enough. Presence matters.”

I don’t know how to answer. My gaze drops to the floor, to the worn stones between us.

He shifts his weight. “May I ask you something?”

I lift my eyes. His are steady, searching. “Of course.”

“How long have you been at St. Agnes?”

“Ten years. Since I was sixteen.”

He nods slowly. “And before that?”

“Orphaned. The sisters took me in.” The words come automatically, practiced.

His expression softens, just a fraction. “A hard beginning.”

“God provided.”

“He did.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Do you ever miss… the world outside?”

The question catches me off guard. My breath hitches. “Sometimes,” I admit, barely above a whisper. “The sounds. The colors. But this is my home.”

He studies me for a long moment. Tension coils between us silent, electric. His hand flexes at his side, as though he wants to reach out, then stops.

“I understand,” he says at last. “More than you might think.”

I swallow. “You… you were in Rome before this?”

His jaw tightens briefly. “Yes. A larger parish. More eyes. More expectations.”

“And now you are here.”

“Now I am here.” His voice drops lower, intimate. “With you.”

My heart slams against my ribs. I glance toward the open door empty corridor beyond. We are alone.

“Father—” I begin, uncertain what I mean to say.

He interrupts gently. “You needn’t fear me, Celeste.”

The use of my name without the “Sister”lands like a touch. My breath shallows.

“I don’t,” I whisper.

His eyes darken. “Good.”

A beat of silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. Then he steps back, breaking the spell.

“Tomorrow, at the same time,” he says, tone returning to something closer to priestly calm. “I’ll need your help again.”

“Yes, Father.”

He turns toward the sacristy. Pauses at the threshold. Looks back over his shoulder.

“And Celeste?”

I meet his gaze.

“Bring your rosary tomorrow. You might need it.”

He disappears through the door before I can respond.

I stand frozen for several heartbeats, fingers curled around the edge of the prayer-card table. The chapel feels smaller now, the air heavier. My skin prickles where his eyes had lingered—cheek, throat, collarbone.

I finish tidying in a daze, snuffing candles one by one until only the sanctuary lamp remains, a single red glow. Then I slip out into the cloister, the evening air sharp against my heated face.

Dinner passes in a blur. I sit at the long table, spooning vegetable broth, barely tasting it. Sister Maria tries to catch my eye, mouthing questions I ignore. My thoughts are elsewhere on green eyes, scarred hands, a voice that feels like it could unravel me thread by thread.

After compline—led by Sister Beatrice, her voice thinner than his I return to my cell. The candle flickers as I undress, shadows dancing across the whitewashed walls. I kneel by the bed, rosary in hand, the beads cool and familiar.

I begin the prayers. Hail Mary, full of grace…

But the words falter.

Instead I see him—head bent in the confessional, listening. His voice murmuring absolution. His question: Do you ever miss the world outside?

My free hand presses against my stomach, low, where warmth has gathered and refuses to fade. I close my eyes, trying to banish the image.

It only sharpens.

The bell tolls for lights-out. I blow out the candle, slip beneath the blanket. Darkness wraps around me, intimate as a whisper.

I lie still, listening to my own breathing quick, uneven.

His name rises unbidden to my lips.

“Luca,” I breathe into the dark.

The sound of it shocks me. I clamp a hand over my mouth, horrified, exhilarated.

Sleep comes slowly, fitful. When dreams arrive, they are not of faceless figures anymore.

They are of him.