Jackie Turov mumbled the words to the liturgy. It wasn’t so much she couldn’t remember them after staying away from church for six years; it was David, the young seminarian, who tripped her up.
She gazed dreamily at him while he read the Epistle, at his prominent cheekbones, like deft brushstrokes beneath his mesmerizing eyes. And when he carried the candle in the procession through the congregation, her heart swelled as smoke from the deacon’s censer billowed about his smoking hot body—okay, so he was dressed in a liturgical robe. Even so, the memory of yesterday afternoon crept into her thoughts and consumed her: meeting him in secret in the hospital garden, his hand cupping her jaw as he wet her mouth with passionate kisses…
Ugh! He was driving her absolutely insane!
She realized that the emotions she picked up from people and objects often overwhelmed her, but she was logical and sensible, and Madam Sophie, the local psychic, had taught her how to handle the emotions she absorbed, especially the negative ones that made her sick. Yet she couldn’t expel the passionate energy she picked up from David, and this empath was losing ground.
Coming out of her fantasy fog, she noticed the congregation had formed two lines for Communion, one before Father Gabriel, the jovial soul who had taken Father Dmitriev’s place, and the other before the deacon. David and an altar boy stood on each side of Father Gabriel, holding a red cloth beneath the chins of the parishioners as they received Communion.
Her stomach twisted as she was suddenly goosed by the thought that she wasn’t quite ready to come back to the flock.
It’s going to work itself out, she told herself, because love overcomes all things… so they say.
She was going to take this relationship one day at a time and not worry about the impending deadline of David finishing his internship in May and becoming ordained—that he either entered the priesthood married or unmarried, never ever to wed at all as a priest.
Good Lord, it was already March!