Chapter 9: The Pastor’s Secret

I knocked several times before a little altar boy came out. He looked only five or six, adorable and fair. Seeing me, he pressed his hands together: “If you want to pray or light a candle, please come back on Sunday.”

His cheeks were rosy, his blond hair sticking up in back. He squinted up at me. “You got any gum?”

He was so cute I wanted to ruffle his hair, but I wasn’t sure if that was okay. I took two pine nut candies from my pocket—the kind I used to coax Pearl.

I knelt down to his level, holding the candies out. “These are for you and your sister, if you have one,” I said, trying to sound friendly.

He pursed his lips, hesitated, but wouldn’t take them. I gently opened his hand and put them in his palm.

He looked at me like I’d just handed him gold, fingers curling around the treats.

“I’m not here to pray or light a candle. Go tell your pastor his daughter from the outside world has come to see him.”

I lowered my voice, hoping he wouldn’t be afraid. My heart pounded—lying to a child felt wrong, but I had no choice.

I knew it was wrong to lie, but what else could I do?

I told myself it was for a good cause, but the guilt still crept in.

If I hadn’t heard some gossip on the boat, I’d never have thought of this.

People on the river always talked. Some stories sounded wild, but sometimes, wild stories were the only truth that mattered.

Pastor Franklin, before he became a minister, had been a senator’s son. The current governor still calls him Uncle.

His name was famous in these parts. People whispered about his past, how he went from politics to the pulpit after tragedy struck.

When the fifth district rebelled, the pastor was ordered to help restore order. The rebels took his family hostage, threatening his life to force him back. His wife, afraid she’d be used against him, set fire to the house with the kids inside. When he took the city and returned, there were only charred remains.

The story gave me chills every time I heard it. In a world full of secrets, his was the darkest.

It was said a nanny escaped with the little girl, but no one knew where. After years of fruitless searching, the pastor became a minister at St. Mark’s on Lincoln Hill.

Folks said he never smiled again after that—except with the children at church.

If the little girl survived, she’d be fifteen or sixteen by now.

I wondered if she was somewhere out there, starting over, her past erased like mine.

The altar boy was too young to know the pastor’s story, but he went to fetch someone.

He scurried down the hall, candies clenched tight, a look of pride on his little face.

Since I’d come this far, I wasn’t afraid. As for pretending to be the girl, I’d heard plenty of families tried to claim kin, but none were arrested for it.

If anything, they got a warm meal and a blessing. I figured the worst that could happen was being turned away.

The senator’s son was a pastor now—he wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore.

His reputation was spotless; people said he’d given away more than he’d ever asked for.

Soon a chubby minister waddled out, his belly round, nose red, cheeks plump. On anyone else, it would be odd, but on him, it was just endearing.

He wore a brown cardigan over his robe and smiled like we were old friends meeting at a picnic.

He looked me up and down, smiling. “How can you be sure you’re the pastor’s daughter?”

He cocked his head, eyes twinkling with mischief, like he already knew I was bluffing.

I wasn’t, so I dared not claim it.

My cheeks burned. I just shrugged, unsure what else to do.

“I’m just guessing. If the rumors are true, I fit the bill. Whether it’s true, only the pastor knows—he alone knows his own daughter.”

I tried to sound confident, but my voice shook. Still, it was enough to buy me a few more minutes.

I just needed to see the man.

This was the part of the plan I hadn’t figured out. I just hoped my luck would hold.

When a lie sounds true, the chubby minister cocked his head, looked at the altar boy’s puffed cheeks, and asked to see his hand. The altar boy, all innocence, opened his palm. The minister pinched the leftover candy and popped it in his own mouth, then waddled away.

I bit back a laugh as the altar boy stared in disbelief. He looked ready to cry, so I ruffled his hair and whispered, “Don’t worry, you’ll get more next time.”

The altar boy was stunned. Seeing him like that, I patted his small shoulder, helpless.

His big eyes filled with unshed tears, but he stood a little taller, as if remembering he was on church duty.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael.”

He looked so wronged, he was about to cry.

His lower lip wobbled. I knelt down, trying to cheer him up.

“Michael, listen to your sister. Every time your pastor steals your food, scratch his door while he’s sleeping. If that doesn’t work, spit in your food before you eat—see if he dares take it again. This time, let him off easy. Next time I come, I’ll bring more candy for you.”

I winked at him, hoping my mischief would distract him from his troubles.

I squatted down and coaxed him.

He sniffled, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. I could tell he’d never heard advice like mine in church before.

Michael had never heard such sneaky advice and stared at me, wide-eyed.

He nodded solemnly, as if committing my words to memory.

His pastor soon returned, led me in, Michael trailing behind, wanting to speak but holding back. I grinned at him; maybe he thought I was something else.

He stuck close, eyes darting between me and the pastor, probably wondering if I was a spy or a saint.

Pastor Franklin had just finished his sermon and waited for me under the old oak tree in the backyard. Though it was winter, the tree was as green as ever.

The yard was quiet, the ground covered in frost. The pastor looked out of place among the bare branches, his face calm but tired.

If not for his collar and robes, who would think him a minister?

He had the kind of face you’d trust—a kind of gentle sadness that made you want to tell him all your secrets.

He was too refined. Though he’d seen hard times, there was no trace of bitterness—only wisdom and serenity, his age hard to guess.

His hands were folded, rosary beads sliding through his fingers like he’d been born with them.

Everyone else withdrew. He stood beneath the tree, turning his rosary beads. From afar, he looked like a painting.

His breath puffed in the cold, but his eyes were warm. I felt safe, somehow.

“I have sinned, pastor. Please forgive me. I had no choice but to lie today.”

I ducked my head, like a kid caught sneaking cookies, voice trembling. I felt small under his gaze, but also strangely brave.

I handed him the bundle from my shoulder. He opened it, glanced at the contents, and closed it again.

His eyes flickered with recognition, but he said nothing, slipping the bundle into his coat pocket.

“What sin is there? For a young girl to have such courage and cleverness is rare. Did Richard leave any message?”

His voice was kind, with just a hint of curiosity. I realized then that he must have known Richard—the oldest Westfield—well.

His voice was clear and pleasant, unhurried, making one want to listen.

I relaxed a little, letting myself trust him.

“No.” Richard must be the real name of the oldest Westfield son.

I said it quietly, glancing at the ground, not wanting to give away more than I should.

“If he came to me, he must be desperate. If you ever need help, come to me. What’s your name, miss? What do you do?”

He looked at me with genuine concern, as if he could see the whole story in my face.

“Bonnie Chen. I sell wine as a boatwoman on the river.”

He smiled, as if pleased by my answer. I felt a strange pride.

“Good child, you may go.”

He nodded, dismissing me with a blessing. I left with my head held high, feeling lighter than I had in months.

After that day, several months passed. The river thawed, and business picked up even more.

Boats crowded the docks, laughter and music drifting over the water. I felt hope stirring in my chest, timid but real.