Men of Smithfield: Sam and Aaron by L.B. Gregg

Author:L.B. Gregg [Gregg, L.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Carina Press
Published: 2014-06-15T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

I left the coffeehouse with Wynne’s order placed for the week. The rain had moved east, but the waning moon still hid behind a dense ceiling of clouds. Drizzle glistened on the windowpanes. Mist softened the streetlight. I took a bracing swallow of steaming Japanese maccha tea, as Aaron, dressed in his favorite monochromatic attire, crossed the intersection.

I blinked.

Hands buried in his jacket pockets, head down, he floated above St. Joe’s fog-covered lawn, feet pedaling into the white oblivion. Silver droplets sparkled in the lamplight on his black-knit hat and he sailed through the mist, until finally sinking into the blackened doorway on the side of the church.

Son of a bitch. He’d acted perfectly normal during lunch, but in the interim, the Hamburglar had returned.

South Street looked empty at eight o’clock, not a big surprise, but how come no one ever saw him lurking except me? Where were the busybodies gazing from behind the curtains? The snoops speed-dialing each other? The priest? Hell, where were the reporters from The Gazette?

Everything about Aaron screamed unprecedented, so how could they fail to notice him slinking across the grass? Was he invisible?

I tossed my cup into the trash and zipped to the church, passing the mourning statues in the memorial garden, and entered St. Joe’s the same way I’d exited on Friday with Tony—appalled over my actions. What the hell was I doing? I had no control. I should have taken that bitter maccha back to the house and worked on the new pricing list. I needed to stick to the to-do list.

But I could hear Tony and Wynne and Aaron and Claire all calling me dull and boring and old, so I kept moving. Aaron lurked inside St. Joe’s, somewhere, and God only knew what he was up to. I intended to find out.

My shoes squelched as I tiptoed toward the sanctuary’s arched passage. Chilled air clung to the century-old stone and the tortured faces of martyrs and saints gazed disdainfully from niches and stained-glass windows. The sound of voices echoing through the vaulted transept froze me in place.

“How can I help you?” Father David’s authoritative baritone scared the hell out of me. Years had passed since I’d filched the lion’s share of holy wine from the lockbox and the priest had never forgiven me—although that might have been because of my sexuality. Bent and thin, the priest had the clear eyes of a zealot, a neck like a pencil and zero tolerance for my brand of sinner. He hadn’t really rolled with the times.

My eyes adjusted to the flickering candles burning soft and low and perpetual on the altar. Aaron and the ancient clergyman perched on the wide steps that led to the chancel, silhouetted in a scene so private, had it been anyone other than our intrepid boarder, I would’ve cleared my throat and made my presence known. But no.

Sweater zipped to his neck, the priest shivered against the damp air. “If you’d rather save this for the confessional?”

I glanced at the confessional ten feet from my spot and crossed my fingers.

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