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accepted the glass. “Go on.”
     
    “I give the top-level executives a bunch of suggestions about what they can do to improve their company and they give me a big check,” he explained, taking a swig of his beer and tipping it toward me with that sardonic little smile of his. “Not exactly the vows of poverty and chastity.”
     
    I waited for a smart-ass remark about St. Peter's Basilica and plenary indulgences. Not that it would be either unwarranted or untrue. The Church's material opulence and its monumental moral hypocrisy provided fertile potting soil for my doubts to grow.
     
    “You should read a history of the Vatican Bank. You think Enron and Jack Abramoff are bad? It makes those shenanigans look like Amateur Night at the Apollo.”
     
    “And Sister Sarah with the sick burn. Nice.” He put up his palm for a high-five.
     
    I actually obliged and he laughed
     
    “Can I get one of those beers?” I asked, nodding toward his as put my empty wine glass down on the coffee table.
     
    “Slippery slope.” He got up from his black leather chair to fetch one out of the fridge.
     
    “Although monks have a long history of brewing beer,” I called. “Why don’t you bring that bottle of wine too?”
     
    “Thirsty?” Miles brought me an open bottle of beer and the open bottle of wine too. He put the wine on the coffee table and handed me the beer bottle. “Got that wine as a gift last year. Been meaning to open it. A client of mine. Long story. Pretty boring, it involves ledgers and accounting.”
     
    “Thank you,” I said, taking a gulp of beer and putting it on the table before pouring myself more wine. My head was already swimming, and that was good. Miles watched me sip more wine, eyebrows slightly raised, but he didn’t comment. “Wow, this is strong stuff.”
     
    “Only the best for my Clarice.”
     
    My Clarice. My face felt hot and I fanned myself with my hand.
     
    “Forgot how much I liked wine.”
     
    “Don't you, with the Communion and all?” That smirk. That sexy, sacrilegious little smirk.
     
    Miles didn't shy away from his open atheism and his hatred of the Catholic Church. Like me, he went through CCD and Catholic Sunday School, memorized important saints, martyrs, and popes, and went to regular confession. At least until college. We diverged when I went off to the convent and he went to state college. A couple years older than me, Miles kept his infidel status a secret until he graduated.
     
    “True,” I admitted. “But only in tiny thimblefuls. The priest gets to finish the rest after we get our ration. At least they use real wine still. Some churches use grape juice.”
     
    “Blasphemy.”
     
    “That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” I murmured from behind the rim of my wine glass.
     
    “Blasphemy?” Miles tilted his head, offering me a half, puzzled smile.
     
    “Sort of.” I sighed, taking another gulp of wine. “I’ve… I guess I’ve been… having doubts .”
     
    The last word fell from my mouth like a brick.
     
    “Doubts?” No more smirk. His chocolate brown eyes searched my face. “What kind of doubts? You don’t mean… doubts of faith?”
     
    “Yes.” I nodded, swallowing more wine. Second glass gone. It really was strong. I felt warm all over, in spite of the air conditioning. So I picked up the beer instead. “Lately I’ve been questioning… everything.”
     
    “Everything?” He blinked. “That’s quite a scope.”
     
    “Some things more than others, I suppose.” I sighed, leaning back on the sofa and cradling my beer. “It’s been going on a while.”
     
    “I assume you’ve… you know, prayed about it?” He leaned his elbow on the back of the sofa, his chin on his fist. “And… all the rest?”
     
    “All the rest.” I smiled, licking a bead of liquid off the rim of my beer. Miles watched me, his gaze moving from my mouth back up to meet my eyes. “Yes. Let’s just say, I’ve availed myself of all my