Sinful Purity (Sinful Series) Read Online Free Page A

and tell you to go in peace. That was your cue to kiss his ring. Kelly thought it was crazy because he wasn’t the pope, or even a mob boss for that matter. It was just his way. It had always been his way ever since I could remember, and who was going to argue with a priest’s traditions?
    I remember when I was younger, I loved watching Father Brennigan give his homily during Mass because he always talked with his hands. The light from the altar candles would catch his big gold ring and inevitably shoot a beam of light onto one of his unsuspecting parishioners. I would imagine the light as a sniper’s laser targeting its next victim—or in this case, sinner. Father Brennigan wore the ring all the time. I don’t think he ever took it off. It was only during confession that you were really able to get a close look at it, though. To me it resembled a men’s class ring, large and masculine with an oversized red stone on top. After many years of closer inspection I can tell you it was really much more detailed than that. The red stone had been carved in bas-relief style to reveal understatedly a lamb standing in front of a cross. I thought the ring beautiful and priceless. It looked extremely old and historic, fitting for the pastor of the esteemed St. Matthew Cathedral. I must admit, I spent more time fixated on his ring than on my sins during confession. I suppose I should have confessed that also.
    I don’t know about the other kids, but I never had much to confess. I usually departed with only a few Hail Marys and a couple Our Fathers as my penance. I was all too aware of the lack of depravity at MIQ and just assumed that everyone else had as few indiscretions to confess as I did. Also, the line moved very quickly, thus strengthening my perception and leaving me hardly any scandals to imagine. Even with my barely tarnished soul and being accustomed to weekly confession, I never cared for the practice much.
    Father Brennigan was very old-fashioned and insisted that all inhabitants of MIQ give their confession face to face. “No veil of anonymity here,” he’d say. Everyone in connection with MIQ, from the groundskeepersand cooks to the sisters and each of us orphans, all had to abide by Father Brennigan’s request. Only Mother Superior, Sister Christine, bucked Father Brennigan on this issue. I just figured she liked being difficult; it was her nature to be so. Believe me, I could tell you better than anyone—we had a history together, after all. Sister Christine was the only one who went to the private confessional. I honestly thought it was ridiculous. After all, we were the only ones in the church. Father Brennigan knew it was Sister Christine because he’d have to get up and leave the face-to-face confessional and go into the private confessional the next door over. It just seemed so silly to me. On the bright side, every week the monotony was broken by Father Brennigan’s musical chairs, or “musical confessionals,” as Kelly would say. I would chuckle under my breath and then Kelly would whisper, “Sister Christine, stubborn as mule and just as attractive.”
    After all the confessions were made and penances satisfied, we would sit quietly in our pews, waiting for Mass to begin. The Mass at St. Matthew’s ran exactly sixty minutes, regardless of audience size or subject matter. Like I mentioned before, Father Brennigan was very traditional, and the only aspect of the Mass that had changed since its modern conception more than several hundred years ago was the translation from its original Latin to English. Personally, I think Father Brennigan regretted even that small alteration, even though he was barely old enough to remember anything different. Each Mass was concluded with Father’s immortal words, “go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” That was our cue to stand, genuflect as we left the pew, and start our brief but dreaded walk home. The silence was deafening on the way back. No one wanted to