Father Briar and The Angel (17 page)

She wanted to look into
his eyes, to drink him in with her mouth, to devour him with her
vagina. By bucking her hips, she could control his strokes, making
them longer and shorter, sensuous or pounding, sweet or nasty. They
stayed in that magical, chemical connection of bodies touching all
the way from their heads to their toes, all the tips, for long, hot
minutes.

“You’re
so sexy, so perfect, so mine, so Julianna.” He kissed her. She
kissed him back. They both knew they had to quit soon, that doing
it back here in the tool shed, next to the blessed shovels and the
holy hoes, was dangerous and silly.

Now he
was close enough to be frantic. There were no passionate pauses, no
loving lingering, only strong, solid thrusting. He felt like he’d
grown to twice or three times his normal size inside her! There was
athleticism in his sexuality; he had, after all, been a star
quarterback in high school and a lot of that youthful vigor
remained in this still-young man. All they could do was gasp for
breath, hoping there was still enough oxygen left in the little
shed to fuel them.

Julianna’s buttocks were
taut and firm from all of the arching and thrusting. That was where
her sexual power came from; those lean and elegant muscles in her
backside. She squeezed, then released, squeezed, the released,
matching his rhythm. She did that same clenching and unclenching
movement with the inner walls of her pussy, driving him wild with
the sensation of her around his cock.

Cedric kissed a path from
the delicious spot at the nape of her neck, then down around her
breasts. He kissed and stroked faster and faster and she arched her
back and came for the first time that night and only the fifth time
in her life, then for the sixth, and finally the
seventh.

He was sure the whole town
could hear her passionate screaming. It sounded like she was
changing into a werewolf. Cedric wasn’t sure he’d mind. Her pussy
was on him like a vice grip. Her strong pulses and contractions and
tiny circular hip movements astounded him as she rode out her
orgasms. He was thrilled to have the power to make her feel so
good.

It was this rush of power
that made him come, hard and loud and long. He didn’t quite pass
out, didn’t quite fall asleep, but drifted into a spot near those
two things, in an inexplicable state of love and
release.

Julianna’s delicate and
considerate kisses brought him back around.

“Sweetheart, we’ve got to
get up and get dressed. As much as I’d love to lie here all
day…”

He bolted upright,
suddenly clearheaded, as though he was a hockey player who’d been
checked into the boards and needed revival by smelling
salts.

“Oh my
God! We’ve got to get out of here,” he shouted, suddenly panicked.
“Bishop Mueller will be here shortly.”

The Bishop of the Diocese,
Dale Mueller was indeed to arrive within a few moments; and he was
already inclined to be displeased with Cedric. He had received word
from Gosha that he was not fulfilling his religious
duties.

“
This man is not a priest,
he is a fornicator. I am convinced of it. We cannot have such a man
as one of Christ’s disciples,” were the words he had heard from the
old Pole. Armed with such a scandalous, serious and sexy piece of
information, Bishop Mueller had made plans to visit him and inquire
after the spiritual health of the congregation.

His suspicions were almost
confirmed, had he arrived thirty seconds earlier, Cedric’s world
would have come crashing down. He would have been defrocked, for he
was engaged in a prolonged, post-coital, goodbye kiss with Julianna
in a confessional booth.

Yes, they had chosen it for
the exciting, kinky thrill of making out in the confessional. Some
may call it sacrilegious, and that is fine. It was also wicked
hot.

Julianna heard the huge
engine of Mueller’s Lincoln Coupe pull up outside, so she made for
the back entrance. Cedric tidied up his appearance, for his hair
was ruffled and he had lipstick on his face. He’d had a member of
his flock, a sweet and gentle farmer named Ernest who lived a
couple of miles north of town, who liked to lounge about his house
in lipstick and a slip; he hoped the Bishop thought nothing like
that was going on with him! So he wiped his already chapped and
winter-dry lips repeatedly until he was sure all traces of
Julianna’s love were gone.

“
What on God’s Earth could
he be doing here? I can deal with Gosha’s incessant whining about
matters of liturgy but this, oh my, this is a most unexpected
visit.”

Cedric opened the door not
knowing quite what to expect.

The Bishop looked more
stern than usual. This was something serious.

“
Bishop Mueller!” Cedric
forced a smile. “This is a most unexpected and welcome visit.
Please inform me. What brings you to these parts?”

“
Matters of faith, our
church and,” Bishop Dale paused, “…personal inquiries,” he looked
at Cedric, who pretended that he didn’t know what he was talking
about.

“
By all means,
Bishop.”

The men convened at a table
at Bjorn’s cafe, Cedric had driven the Bishop there in haste after
he’d professed hunger for the Norwegian cook’s blueberry
flapjacks.

Cedric poured tea into his
superior’s mug as they ordered. Father Briar thought the older
man’s fondness for whipped cream (he always ordered extra on his
pancakes) comical but said nothing, of course.

“
Why are you here? Other
than the delicious griddle cakes, of course.”

“
Father Briar, as you are
no doubt aware there has been much scandal in the church of late. I
however am not here to discuss about such things, no, the purpose
of my visit is much more personal.”

“
Please continue,” said
Cedric. The Bishop sighed in between sipping his brew before he
continued.

“
This little town seems
consumed with sex and who is and isn’t having it.”

“
People are prurient by
nature,” Father Briar said, non-committal, blowing on his coffee
and fogging up his glasses.

“
That I well know. Decades
in this job have taught me that it is often less about theology and
more about keeping discipline within the congregation.”

“
The parish here in
Brannaska isn’t lacking in discipline, spiritual or otherwise,”
Cedric said, frost creeping in around the edges of his
voice.

“
Some of the members
doesn’t seem to think so.”

“
Some of the members, or
just one?” Father Briar pressed.

“
Well, there has been a
single critic who is most vocal.”

“
Surely you don’t put too
much stock in one woman’s complaints?”

“
What makes you so sure
it’s a woman?” The bishop was surprised that Father Briar had
figured him out so quickly.

“
Most of my flock is quite
fond of me,” Cedric said, although he was careful not to let on
just how fond.

“
I know that to be true,
as well. You have been an excellent servant of the Lord
and…”

He was cut off by Bjorn
sliding steaming plates of pancakes in front of them. The frothy
whipped cream dripped over the edge and onto the
counter.

The stacks were so tall and
smelled so good that all conversation was tabled and by the time he
was finished eating, Bishop Mueller had long forgotten the reason
for his visit.

Love was saved, yet again,
by pancakes.

Chapter Eighteen:
Francisco Makes a New Friend.

Francisco had come down to
Bjorn’s after he’d finished his chores around the farm. Now, on
route to polishing off his second plate of fried pork chops, boiled
potatoes, and honey carrots, he wanted someone to chat
with.

Usually, Bjorn was behind
the counter and a reliable source of unreliable gossip. Such was
true today. “Have you heard about Trigger Olsen?” he
asked.

Mr. Montana had, in fact,
heard about Trigger. He’d heard so many things that he didn’t know
which rumor the coffee pouring proprietor was referring
to.

“No,” he lied, “I
haven’t.”

“He
might skip college altogether, go to the pros. Maybe junior hockey
up in Winnipeg, first, before trying to make it in the National
Hockey League.” He pronounced ‘hockey’ without the ‘h’ so it
sounded like ‘ah-key.’

“They
say he has a shot at being the next Rocket Richard.” Despite his
accent, Bjorn pronounced the legendary player’s last name properly,
Ree-shard, like a real French Canadian. These were people who took
their puck seriously.

“Why might he be skipping
college?” Mr. Montana asked, always looking for a bit of juicy
insider information.

“Something to do with a
girl, I’ve heard.”

“He is quite serious with
young Ramona Herbertson.”

“You wanna shake for
coffee?”

“You betcha,” Bjorn said,
using a bit of local slang that was particularly on the nose for
this occasion. Minnesotans, however, said “you bet you” as only two
words and as an affirmative to something they wanted to
do.

As in
“would you like to go ice fishing tomorrow if I bring a bottle of
brandy?”

“You
betcha!”

The cook stopped in her
tracks, convinced she’d heard him wrong.

Bjorn rarely “shook” for
coffee. Why was he humoring Francisco today?

He was humoring Francisco
because he wanted the man around. Julianna was coming in for her
shift soon, and, ever the meddler, he was going to try to “set them
up.” If he didn’t shake he feared the man might get bored and set
off.

That was unlikely. Mr.
Montana knew she was set to work that night as well and had put on
his finest blue jeans and even ironed his flannel. His usual hip
flask was gone, replaced with Tic Tacs. He loved those little
buggers. They were so cute! He cherished every one he sucked until
it disappeared.

He was not a man without
his charms, Francisco Montana. In his outgoing and gregarious way,
he’d tried to get everybody in town to call him “Frank” but it
hadn’t stuck. He was always Francisco or worse, Mr. Montana. Frank
had never even been anywhere near that vast, lonely, and empty
state. He’d never been further west than Fargo. And he’d hated
that.

Mr. Montana’s hair was
thick and black and wavy; strong and a little too much, like
Bjorn’s coffee. It was only now being streaked with flashes of gray
in his fifty third year. Although he possessed a big belly now, it
matched the rest of him; a thick fellow with legs like telephone
poles and forearms like Armor brand canned hams, he carried his
weight well.

Unlike some of the
fellows, he was careful with his hygiene and usually showered
before coming to the café from the barn or the pigsty. He rarely
cleaned his fingernails at the table with his pocketknife, which
was always kept in the top front pocket of his denim overalls. The
amount of stuff that he kept up there always amused Bjorn, who’d
once seen a picture of a kangaroo in National Geographic Magazine
and couldn’t help but compare the marsupial with Mr.
Montana.

“Their
pouches sag in the same way,” he’d laugh and tell his wife, the
cook.

Mr. Montana considered
himself lucky. His unusual name had given him an exotic air even
though he hadn’t earned it. So ladies were interested in him, even
if he was just another bachelor farmer, if a slightly wealthier
than average one. The local single ladies speculated about his
sexual prowess and the advanced and foreign techniques he might
use.

“Quite frankly, I find
such speculation filthy,” the cook had remarked, “people everywhere
do it the same way.”

Bjorn found that unlikely
but didn’t dare contradict her.

Frankly, he didn’t know
why he felt the compulsive need to fix Julianna up. She was a nice
girl and all, but it was more than altruistic kindness at work, it
was something deeper within him. He didn’t like loose ends, he
didn’t like odd numbers, he didn’t like issues unresolved. Single
women were a problem to be solved, an opportunity to demonstrate
his knowledge of the community and its residents, and to show off a
little.

It is interesting, then,
that he didn’t feel the same obsessive desire to fix up the single
men in town, and there were many of those. He’d never really
considering firing her after last Sunday’s smorgasbord disaster;
heck, he blamed Mr. Olsen and Mr. Montana for that. And a little
trouble and controversy never hurt business. The more people
talking about Bjorn’s, Bjorn figured, the better.

The doorframe rattled and
an assault of cold air stormed through, followed by Julianna.
Barely recognizable under multiple layers of sweaters, coats and
hats, she was ten minutes early, which pleased both Bjorn and the
cook to no end. She’d had to catch a ride into town with Gosha,
whose truck was warm and always easy to start. The number of
work-hours the café lost due to engines not firing up in the cold
weather was enormous. Gosha’s truck and the skill with which she
trove it seemed almost magical to Julianna and she’d gotten into
town and to work much faster than she’d anticipated. This made her
happy.