Easter Break

Easter break lasted but a week. With her newfound freedom – Matthew used to take a lot of her time – Frances enjoyed it thoroughly, playing tennis with her brothers, hiking in the backcountry and visiting her best friend in the city. Yet, her mind always returned to the little church where father Tristan was probably praying, or preaching, or tackling paper work.

The book he had offered her – Knowing God – always sat in her enormous handbag. She never dared opening it in public, what would her parents say? Her best friend, who jumped from boyfriend to boyfriend and smoked pot in soirées? Despite the secrecy, Frances devoured it with frightening concentration. Those words could have come out of Tristan’s mouth.

Sometimes, she found it reductive, or plain naïve. But other chapters brought her such inspiration that is sometimes overwhelmed her senses. Out of the scientist, a spiritual woman was hatching. One that was more grounded in life. Joys, sorrows, gentleness overtook the sense of achievement and the need to compete. What was a career in front of the highest values of life?

Little by little, Frances dug deeper into Tristan’s fundamentals; she couldn’t wait to dissect the book in his company. What fantastic debates they would share, now that she knew a little theology. How many other books awaited her? Would he be amenable for her to borrow those she’d seen in his library? Perhaps not; she could always buy some.

This spiritual food filled her so much better than any class she’d ever taken … astronomy aside. Days passed, and she read at night, so late that waking up in the morning became difficult. But she couldn’t tear herself from those revelations. They hummed, in her body, like light from the almighty. Every day, a new piece of the puzzle uncovered. It became a great painting, like an impressionist, with paintbrush strokes that appeared as she understood the concepts.

Oh, she didn’t agree with it all. She even had a few grievances. Faith, she could relate. But all those Catholics rules were far too restrictive, and encouraged fundamentalism too much for her taste. Especially about the idea that matter – earthbound needs – were too low to consider. Humans were animals, after all, even with the consciousness of God. A simple hug, a touch, a hand-held could convey much love without turning to lust. And father Tristan was rather fond of his food anyway … so she knew he had taken some distance with the teachings.

It didn’t matter much, for the strength of the material, the faith that resided within still resonated in her cells. She saw them in everything she did. God, first, and father Tristan. One messenger, the angel, a humble servant of the higher power. Was it wrong to count the days before they could discuss again? Now that her mind was free of Matthew, she realised that home didn’t feel the same. Home … might have shifted to another place altogether.

Frances fell asleep upon her book this very night, too engrossed to switch the light off.

**All it took was a dream, to shatter it all.**

The sound of boiling water echoed in the kitchen, lulling Frances out of her dreams. But she wasn’t ready to awake yet, and slumbered for a moment more. Then another. Until probably thirty minutes had passed, and she kicked herself out of bed with a mighty yawn. The scent of her favourite tea – a girl’s tea with wild strawberry that made her boyfriend laugh – reached her nose, and Frances slid into her pants and t-shirt to join him in the kitchen.

Bypassing the counter, she found him cooking on the stove. Strange, he seemed taller than she remembered, and his hair lighter than it used to be. Was she dreaming? When had she got back to her flat?

Frances couldn’t see the saucepan; eggs, probably, if her nose wasn’t mistaken. She didn’t mind much that he would awaken before she did for his cooking was always welcome. Smiling groggily, the young woman approached her boyfriend to circle his waist with her arms. She locked her hands in front of his stomach, inhaling the perfect scent of him, melting upon his back with delight. At once, one of his hands came to rest upon hers.

Frances sighed, her heart expanded, her chest filling with love. She was at peace. At home. Safe and happy, her whole being bursting with joy. And she never wanted to let go. For a moment, he didn’t move; the eggs probably didn’t need that much attention. Then, at last, she felt his right arm extend to put out the stove. Frances tightened her grip, burying her nose in his plain t-shirt. How she loved that smell. Masculine and faint at the same time, devoid of any perfume. Something purely him … the same smell that lingered on Father Tristan’s frock…

Shock.

Frances opened her eyes, allowing the man to turn around.

She didn’t even have to look at his face. The height, the colour of his hair, his smell. It was … him. Tristan.

How …?

Frances gasped, opening her eyes once more, alone in her bed. At home, in her childhood’s room. A dream, just a dream. But a dream that conveyed a very impossible, chilling truth.

Shit.

Returning proved more difficult than expected. Frances was literally pacing in her flat, everything called her back to church to see him. But every time her feet passed the threshold, she remembered her dream. Impure thoughts, that would taint him. She couldn’t go, couldn’t look at him the same way as before. Her heart was set, and her mind knew it.

Lying would only hurt Tristan.

So she was stuck, in her terrace, thinking about the man she could never have. And despite the dull ache that constricted her chest, the memories of their friendship always called a smile to her lips. His voice, so smooth, his long, assessing looks, his frock billowing around his long legs.

She missed him. By now, he was probably worried about her. Damn.

Avoidance only dug her hole further.

One week passed. One week sitting in class, trying to keep her train of thoughts canalised into work … and failing miserably. Maëlle had decided to stop asking questions altogether; Frances only answered half truths anyway. As for Thomas, he was his usual self; he just didn’t pry and trusted her to talk if she wanted to. The best of friends.

Saturday came, and Frances decided to brace herself. That was it, the moment where courage overwhelmed her fears. Or was it her dependence to the man talking? Telling him the truth would probably shatter their friendship, but she couldn’t leave him in the dark like this. It was unfair to him. Unfair to both of them.

Call it Murphy’s law, or the will of the Lord, when she arrived in church that day, Tristan was performing a wedding. Convenient and frustrating at the same time. For, hidden behind a pillar, she could observe him to her heart’s content. Yet, he was unattainable. Dedicated to his cause.

Father Tristan beamed, up there, before the altar. Leading choruses, speaking of the Christ’s sacrifice, of tolerance and love. His smooth voice filled the church, like a caress to one’s soul. They all felt it, she the most keenly; his immense love for all good things in the world, seeping into her inner self. And those two people, standing before the altar, hand in hand didn’t know how lucky they were to bask in his presence.

Frances bit her lip, her eyes captured by the sight of Tristan – father Tristan, damn! – clad in white. His smile was so genuine when he blessed the newlyweds. Inspiring! And her heart ached all the same, because she so badly wanted to be that woman at the altar … with him by her side, holding her hand. Swearing to love and protect, to cherish and care.

A tear slid down her cheek. It would be a shame to lead him astray, he that inspired such faith, such love in his preaching. And while she cried behind the pillar, careful not to be spotted by the assistance, a ray of sunlight hit father Tristan from the coloured windows.

It wasn’t the bride’s white gown, now, that illuminated the church. No. It was he, and his love, bestowed to anyone.

The love of God, the love for humanity.

How selfish of her, to want to trap him only for her pleasure. To deprive those people of his light. She’d fallen in love with an angel … so be her fate. How could he even accomplish himself if he left the institution? Would he even consider it? She probably was just a friend…

No, she couldn’t take him away from his parishioners, away from people who love him, and a calling that he fulfilled so beautifully.

Frances retreated to the shadows with a shudder. She couldn’t.

Tristan lowered the cup of wine to the altar, and watched those happy faces with joy. The bride’s tears touched him deeply; tears of happiness, tears of emotion just as well, for the beautiful ceremony he was performing in their honour.

Baptisms and weddings always filled his heart; it was so beautiful to watch the love in their eyes.

But today, another feeling settled in his chest. Some sort of longing, a pang of loss in his chest. And he pushed it away mercilessly; it shouldn’t stain the ceremony.

As he spoke of love, of the trials of life, he realised he would never experience it.

Would Frances be able to keep her couple strong, no matter what? Would she still tell him, in detail. Confess all her doubts on the phone maybe, giving him more insight? For the first time, Tristan deplored that he could not understand what it really meant to be a couple. To fill in the shoes of a husband.

Any minute now, that man was going to leave church and walk down the aisle, his wife upon his arm. The last prayed was said, and the couple thanked him profusely. They signed the register, took a few pictures, and walked away to be greeted by friends and family in their new life.

Tristan watched them, the hem of the bride swishing on the polished stone floor, the man’s footsteps echoing. Together, walking to the light that flooded the church though the doors, opened wide.

And his little redhead, where was she now?

Three weeks already. He missed her. Her wit, her smiles, her quiet presence, her angst, sometimes, her energy, her questionings. Her. He sent a quick prayed to the almighty; that she would be alright. No call from her; it must mean she was fine?

Cheers greeted the newly married couple outside, and Tristan revelled in their joy as if it was the last time. The nostalgia he felt made no sense, no more than the eagerness to do something new. How badly he wanted to open his wings and fly. He knew this feeling; he’d felt it on top of the cliff with Frances. In her absence, he had returned to her favourite spot and built a fire.

He had found solace, up there, sitting atop rocks formed millions of years ago.