The Water Keeper(9)

“Yes.”

She looked around as if she was afraid somebody was listening to our conversation. “They allow that around here?”

I laughed. “Yes.”

“What are you?”

“Just a guy.”

“So you’re married?”

“I was.”

“Was?” More of a statement than a question.

“For a short while.”

“So . . .” She smiled. “It’s been a while since you been kissed?”

“Yep.”

“Then you could probably use a good kisssssing.”

I didn’t disagree with her.

She puckered her lips and closed her eyes. Held that pose for several seconds. “You sure you don’t want to kiss me? I’m pretty good at it.”

“I believe you.”

She unpuckered, then puckered again. Doing so made her look like a fish. If she wasn’t so high, it would have been comical. “You’re missing out.”

“I can see that.”

She opened both eyes, but the space between them narrowed. “How old are you?”

“Forty-nine. How old are you?”

She responded without thinking. “Sixteen.” She leaned her head against the pew and closed her eyes again. “If you weren’t, you know, stuck in here with God breathing down your back, I’d introduce you to my mom—although we’re not on the best of terms right now, so you might neeeeed”—she raised a finger in the air to add emphasis—“to take a rain check on that.” She opened her eyes. “You like to dance, Padre?”

It wasn’t worth the effort to correct her. I shook my head. “Not much.”

She attempted to point at me but her finger missed again. This time by a couple of feet. “You’d like my mom. She’s one helluva—” She covered her mouth again and began crawling toward the door. “I need to get out of here.” She held her hand close to her face and began counting out loud, touching her fingers with each count. “Thirty-two, thirty-three . . .” She stopped and looked at me. “You’re old enough to be my dad. You should meet my mom.”

“Technically, I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re pretty good looking for a grandpa.” She pushed off her knees, climbing up the pew one hand over another. Now standing, eyes closed and legs wobbly, she tugged on her bikini top, which came off rather easily. Chest bare and sunburned, she stood with her eyes closed, lips puckered, and waited for me to accept her invitation. A girl trying ever so hard to become a woman when being a girl was what she needed. A silver Jerusalem cross hung in the space between her breasts. Whenever she moved, it bounced off her skin and spun slightly, exposing the honeycomb engraving. She noticed me eyeing it.

“You like my cross?”

“I do.”

“You take it off me and you can have it.”

I pulled a robe off the hook on the back wall and hung it across her shoulders. Draped in white, she looked disappointed. “Not pretty enough for you?”

“You’re plenty beautiful.”

Twirling her bikini top, she was playing with me now. “Too dirty?”

“Nope.”

Suddenly, her eyebrows lifted and her eyes grew large, followed by a sly smile. “Oh . . .” Another point. Another miss by several feet. “This is one of those churches. You’re gay? I’m sorry . . .” She fumbled with her bikini top but got nowhere. “Here I am coming on to a—”

“Not gay.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

The space between her eyes narrowed and she held her chin in her hand. “Too young?”

I relented. “Something like that.”

Her nose caught scent of the puddle on the floor that separated us. Her lip curled. “You sure you don’t want some help with that?”

“You sure you want to go back to that boat?”

She closed her eyes and puckered her lips, holding the position several seconds. “I’m a good kisser, Padre. You should get it now while the getting’s good. You worried I’ll tell?”

“Not really.”

“I won’t tell a soul. It’ll be our secret.”

“You good at keeping secrets?”

She smiled knowingly. “I’m fr-fri-fricking Fort Knox.” She eyed the confessional again. “Can you call maybe a fill-in priest?” She pointed at the kneeler. “Anybody will do. I wanted to, uh—”

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“This is a weird fri-fricking church.”

I laughed out loud.

The words she spoke circled her fuzzy and incoherent mind and settled somewhere near her understanding. When the reality of what she said sank in, she covered her mouth again. “Oh, I’m sorry. I need to shut my—”

“Will you let me give you my phone number?”

“What, you gonna have the priest call me?”

“No, I’m giving you my number. Not the other way around.”

She waved me off. “Padre, I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t ever give my number on the first date.”