Lessons in Love by Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman

Author:Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman [Radclyffe & Seaman, Stacia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781933110394
Amazon: 1933110392
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2006-05-02T00:00:00+00:00

ou're out of your mind!" Stunned, Jo gaped at me. "You

can’t be. Not her. It's...It's..."

Y "It's what? A sin?" I had to laugh. I had just told my

longtime friend and colleague that I was in love. Well, in serious lust. I had to tell somebody, and she was really the only one I dared confide in.

Because the woman I thought about day and night, especially night, was

a nun.

"Well no, but... How could you let that happen? Robin, it's not

right. For God's sake—so to speak." She snickered at that.

We were sitting in my office in the hall attached to the church. Not

the Catholic Church, nothing to do with nuns. Jo and I did outreach work

with street kids for our church. We had just finished writing up a report

about sponsoring a halfway house.

I sighed, closing my laptop. "I didn't let it happen. It just did. I can't get her out of my mind."

"After all the women I've been trying to fix you up with." She

looked at me accusingly.

"Well, nobody was as gorgeous as she is."

"Yeah, she's pretty hot all right. If you don't think of her as a nun."

"I don't." That wasn't quite true. I couldn't forget what Antonia—

Sister Antonio—was, and that was why I hadn't made any real moves.

Yet. That had to change soon or I was going to lose it. Or go blind. I had to do something, and I intended to at a retreat that weekend. The theme

was Women's Spirituality in World Religions, with workshops, panels,

and meditation sessions. Antonia was the organizer.

After Jo left, more preoccupied than I'd ever seen her, I was free to

think about strategy.

In case you're imagining the object of my fixation concealed in a

black habit and veil, hands and generic face the only proof of a body

underneath, you can stop. Antonia was a modern nun in regular

clothes—trousers, even—if a little subdued and conservatively styled.

And she didn't live in a convent but in a very large brick Victorian house with other nuns downtown near the cathedral. Technically, they weren't

called nuns—as in cloistered—but sisters.

She and her housemates worked in the community. That's how we

had come to know her. She was a social worker, and we often attended

the same meetings and events related to youth welfare.

The first time I saw her she was sitting halfway down the table

from me at a meeting. As I sat down she looked over at me with the

clearest, lightest gray eyes I'd ever seen. I didn't separate out the other details till later: full red lips, straight nose, and dark lashes and brows beneath an unruly lock of straight black hair falling over her forehead. I was undone. By the time I found out she was a nun it was too late.

I think that she knew from the beginning how she affected me. She

must have seen it when our eyes first met because immediately her color

had risen, the kind of delicate blush you see only on very pale,

translucent skin. I wanted her and she knew it. My eyes said so. It was a

tacit

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