The Prayer Waltz by K.Z. Snow

Author:K.Z. Snow [Snow, K. Z.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: m/m romance, comtemporary
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2010-03-09T16:00:00+00:00

LEO FELSICKER was a surprisingly large, hale man, even taller than Evan, and looked to be in his sixties. His gray mane didn’t seem to have thinned by a single hair. Maybe in deference to the reason for my visit, he didn’t make me face him across a desk. I sat on a loveseat; he, in a chair on my right. He drank tea. I had ice water, just to keep my throat lubricated.

“I hope you realize,” he said after we’d introduced ourselves, “I can’t divulge the content of any official records or private conversations. That’s all confidential information.”

“Yes, I understand.” And I’m beginning to see this was a wasted trip. “But you do know Frank left the priesthood.”

Felsicker blinked at me. His neatly folded hands rested on his lap above his neatly folded legs. He was wearing a black suit and Roman collar—not “civvies,” as Evan called a priest’s street clothes. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the circumstances surrounding Frank Connor’s departure from St. Jerome’s,” he said conclusively, but in a gracious way.

“Oh, that’s right.” Fuck. So much for trying to sneak in the backdoor. “Well, in case you’re wondering, I do know. We were quite close. There isn’t much you could say, confidential or not, that would startle me.”

Felsicker stiffened almost imperceptibly. His gaze got a bit chillier. “Nevertheless….”

“Yes, all right. Can you tell me this: do you know if Frank had an interest in antique guns, if he was a collector?”

“Priests aren’t generally too fond of firearms,” he said dryly, as if I were a dumb shit for asking. “And most of us aren’t inclined to collect things. We try to lead simple lives and spend our leisure time, what little there is of it, in social situations with the people we serve.”

He elaborated. When I asked him to, he gave me a précis of Frank’s daily life at St. Jerome’s, sprinkling it with wholesome personal anecdotes. Father Leo seemed fond of his younger associate, in a regretful kind of way, but he skirted the central issue: Frank’s struggle, which had largely defined his tenure at the church.

The picture he painted made me wistful. I compared it with the Frank Connor I knew and found surprisingly few discrepancies—except for The One That Could Not Be Named.

When he finished speaking, I lowered my head. I felt heartsick. Frank Connor’s homosexuality, an essential part of his birthright and his being, was being treated as a dirty little secret.

Felsicker’s fingers curled over my wrist. “I’m really, truly sorry for your loss,” he said with quiet sincerity.

I lifted my head and felt the defiance in my face. “Are you? Then why did you say it was for the best?”

The reminder rocked his equilibrium a little. Implying someone’s death was a positive turn didn’t reflect too well on a priest. “He was a troubled man, Steven. It grieved me. I hope and pray he took the right steps to secure his everlasting peace.”

I didn’t bother asking what the “right steps” were—repentance and celibacy, probably—and Felsicker didn’t bother explaining.

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