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next to her and took my hand,
squeezing it with a smile so wide and proud .
    “Your voice is
such a blessing. You need to praise Him with it.”
    “I haven’t sung in
a long time, Mom,” I said.
    “I know. Not since
his funeral.”
    I flinched. Mom
had a tendency to over-share, especially since the program encouraged her to
expose, reveal, and accept all that had happened prior to her recovery. She gripped
my hand. The wedding ring pressed into my knuckle. It wasn’t hers. She’d sold her
jewelry to buy the pills she used to make it through his funeral.
    Now she wore Dad’s
ring, fitted to her finger by wrapping string around the base. The twine was
dirty and tattered, but Dad’s ring shined bright and gold. I’d kept it hidden
in my room until Mom was sober enough to realize that it was the last treasure
of his we had and couldn’t be pawned.
    “My little Honor
couldn’t finish the song during his service.” She explained the situation to
the group, though no one had asked about anything so personal. So painful. “But
I know her daddy would have been pleased to hear her sing.”
    I doubted she
remembered the day. Other people must have told her what happened when I ran
from the dais mid-song.  Father Falconi tended to me then—cold, informal, and
offering platitudes that didn’t ease the pain of watching strangers take my
father’s casket away because Mom’s addiction had alienated most of our friends
and family. At least Dad had us at the gravesite, even if I couldn’t
finish the hymn.
    “Join the choir.
It’d be good for you.” Mom stroked a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s a fresh,
new start for both of us here, back home where we belong.”
    “Right,” I
whispered.
    I gracefully
ducked away as Judy cleared her throat. Again. Alyssa and Samantha took the
seats next to me. The older women frowned as they crossed their legs at the
knees and adjusted their skirts so just enough of their thighs showed.
    “Well, it is nice
to see a new face in our little group.” Judy tilted her head, though the motion
was lost amid the waves of her scarlet hair. “Honor, welcome back to the St.
Cecilia’s Women’s Group. Second week in a row.”
    Mom beamed,
wrapping me in a hug. “She is thrilled to be a permanent member.”
    I nodded, accepting
the well-wishing from the others in the group, from the elderly to the newly married
and freshly pregnant. They thanked me for the cookies—chocolate chip and shame did
pair well together.
    “I do apologize,”
Judy said. “We didn’t get to talk to you last time, what with that crisis with
the pierogi freezer. We’ll take the opportunity to get to know you now, Honor
Thomas.”
    I didn’t speak.
    His voice struck
through the meeting room, a low hum of absolute confidence, authority, and
warmth. I stiffened, drawing my gaze to the priest poised in the doorway.
    “That’s a
wonderful idea.” Father Raphael’s presence filled the room. The women greeted
him with beaming smiles. “I know Honor is a woman of many virtues. She should
share them with our parish.”
    Did he do it to be
cruel?
    To watch me
stiffen, shudder, and silence before him?
    Father Raphael
didn’t need the white collar or black cassock. When he spoke, he earned
respect. When he listened, he honored those speaking.
    And when his dark
eyes narrowed upon me and the curl of his lips pressed into a secret smile, he
controlled me in a way I should have feared.
    Why was it so
exciting?
    And why couldn’t I
catch my breath?
    I didn’t look away
from him, trapped in the intensity of his gaze—so unrelenting it’d have seemed
inappropriate if it weren’t a holy man studying my every quiver. “There’s not
much to talk about.”
    “That’s not true.”
Mom was the first to rescue me, except she popped me in the spotlight instead
of allowing me a graceful escape. “Honor is an absolute dream. She’s a stellar
student. Always helps her community. She’s studying to be a social worker,