I look quite unmistakably German—very fine blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and fair skin. Not to mention, I have a rather prominent nose, about which I'm somewhat self-conscious. There's not much else remarkable about me.
Julie, on the other hand, is drop-dead gorgeous. She's about my height—around 5'8"—and very slim, maybe 140 pounds soaking wet. She has deep caramel skin, curly mocha-brown hair, and very large hazel eyes laced with flecks of amber. She knows how to play up her best features with just the right amount of makeup, and her elbow-length ringlets are always flawless. She isn't vain by any stretch of the imagination, but she's always well-dressed and well-put-together.
Her parents, she told me, are as white and as blonde as I am, but she herself was adopted from Brazil as a toddler. I met Julie when she began her freshman year of college, which was about 6 months after I arrived at St. Mary's. Julie was already a devout Episcopalian when she joined us, and immediately began seizing every possible opportunity to serve. She quickly integrated herself into the life of the parish by her genuine desire to help out wherever she was needed.
And, dear God, she's stunning. She's the type of woman whom perfect strangers approach to compliment on her beauty. She modestly brushes it off, of course, but it couldn't be more true. Although I would never admit this to another living soul, I can't help but have the tiniest bit of a crush on her, despite the fact that she's younger than my daughters. To be fair, I think most everyone at St. Mary's has at least a little crush on her. No one is disrespectful or inappropriate toward her, of course, but her beauty doesn't go unnoticed.
"Thank you," I muttered clumsily. "Are you... are you ready to go?" She nodded, excited at the prospect of beginning worship. She grabbed the processional cross and we made our way into the narthex, getting ready to process into the church.
Two services later, we were once again in the vesting room. Father Michael, who had joined us for the second service, and six other acolytes were milling about, hanging up vestments and chatting about their plans for the rest of the day. Julie supervised the younger acolytes, making sure they hung their albs up properly and didn't leave their cinctures dangling down to the floor.
"Bye, Father Michael. Bye, Mother Leah." The young acolytes left one by one. Father Michael had to be on his way too; he had five children under the age of twelve and a wife who would be rather unhappy with him if he didn't hurry home. That left only Julie and me.
"Did you lose power after the storm last night?" I asked, trying to make conversation.
"Only for a few minutes. You?"
"Yeah. A huge tree fell on my street, right on the power line. As far as I know, the power at my house is still out."
"Oh," she said. "Well, come eat lunch at my apartment, then."
"Hmm?"
"Yeah! I'll cook for you, and you can hang out for a bit. You can take a shower, too, if you want. Maybe your power will have come back on in time for you to eat dinner at home."
No part of that invitation was even remotely appropriate for me to accept. And yet...
"That sounds great. Thank you so much," I blurted out, before my mouth had time to check in with my brain. "Where are you parked?"
What the hell, Leah? I silently barked at myself. She's a junior in college and you're her priest, for heaven's sake. Do you want to be defrocked? Even though nothing unseemly is actually going to happen, nothing about this looks right, and nothing good will come of it.
We pulled up to her apartment building in her old Range Rover and climbed a few flights of stairs. Her apartment was about like I had imagined—a modest but sufficient one-bedroom affair with a small balcony.
