Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I had never wanted to roll my eyes more in my life.
“I understand this might be hard for you, sweetheart,” she said, patting my hand condescendingly. “But I think doing this in your mother’s name might help you heal.”
She had a point.
Maybe doing this, in my mother’s name or whatever, would help make up for the fact that I’d had a hand in her death. I wasn’t expecting it to cleanse my soul or erase my sins, but maybe it was a start?
“Besides,” Mrs. Donahue said, interrupting my thoughts. “I simply just don’t have the time right now. There are so many galas and other things that require my full attention, and even if I had the time, I’m afraid I’m unable to read your mother’s handwriting.”
She pulled out another envelope with the church basement blueprints and an outline of where specific tables and set ups were supposed to go. My mother’s distinct chicken scratch in her favorite fountain pen ink, Herbin Emerald of Chivor, feathered on the cheap paper she had written on.
I never understood why she insisted on writing with a fountain pen on paper that wasn’t fountain pen friendly, leaving her writing nearly impossible to decipher.
Montblanc made rollerballs too.
I pushed that annoyance aside, realizing that because of her terrible handwriting, the bleeding of the ink, and the feathering on the cheap paper, I really was the only one who could decipher the notes my mother had all but scribbled. Even then, it was because she had trained me to know what she wanted, more than any ability to read her handwriting.
My refusal was on my lips when Mrs. Donahue kept talking.
“I’m afraid that if we don’t get your help, the Christmas bazaar may not happen at all. Father Manwarring was the one in charge of seeing us through and doing the day to day, but he got called away on some type of assignment, and I don’t even think he’s in the city anymore.”
“Father Manwarring won’t be there?” I asked a little too quickly. If Mrs. Donahue noticed, she said nothing.
“He won’t be, which is really just putting us out so much. Between losing your mother and now losing him, the other volunteers simply don’t have the required breeding and taste to truly make this event something your mother would have been proud to have her name on. Not to mention the charities that count on this—”
“What do you need me to do?” I interrupted with a defeated sigh.
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” She clapped her hands as she stood, gathering her purse and brushing the wrinkles from her pantsuit. “I’ll tell the church’s secretary now. Really, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
She pulled out a few more files and left them for me to figure out on my own as she rushed out.
That lying bitch.
When I got to the church, I headed down to the basement where the bazaar would be held, expecting to see a room with bored-looking teenagers and boxes of things that needed to be sorted and organized. Instead, when I got there, the room was already full of energy and people were running around getting things arranged.
And none other than the devil himself, Father Manwarring, standing in the middle of it all, directing a kid holding a Tiffany-blue Christmas tree that by the end of the day would be decorated with both contemporary and antique ornaments that the jewelry store had donated.
I refused to think of him as Thomas anymore. He was a priest. Even though his actions were as far from godly as anyone could get.
He must have felt my gaze on his back because when he turned and saw me, he didn’t look surprised. He looked like he had been waiting for me.
I hated how even in this crowded room, surrounded by people, my body still responded to his presence.
No.
I could not let that happen.
Quickly, I turned and headed to the far side of the room, where others were unboxing the donations for the silent auction. If only he could take a hint.
“We need to talk,” Father Manwarring said, his hand brushing mine as he placed an 18k gold plated manger scene on one of the snow-white tablecloths.
“No,” I said. “We don’t.”
“Where does the Waterford crystal go?” one volunteer asked.
I turned my back on Father Manwarring, so grateful for this little high school freshman I could kiss her.
“The Winter Wonders baubles should go on the sales table over there. They should have tags that say five hundred dollars each. The smaller crystal ornaments need to be hung from the gold tree when they get here, and they should be marked at two hundred dollars each. The gold ones should be hung too. They are one hundred each. The rest of the boxes should be drinkware sets, barware sets, things like that. Those should be placed on the silent auction table with the clipboards in front of them.”