Текст книги "Priest"

Автор книги: Sierra Simone

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“So I’ll see you at Mass tomorrow?” she said.

“Poppy—”

“I know, I know,” she said with a sad smile. “Tomorrow, we’ll start fresh. Chaste. Clean.”

“Good, but that’s not what I was going to say.”

Her brows furrowed. “What were you going to say?”

I leaned in and brushed my lips against hers. Last time. Last kiss. “I wanted to say thank you. For the Scotch and for…what just happened.”

She blinked up at me and then her eyes fluttered closed as I deepened our kiss, tasting every inch of her mouth, licking into her as gently and lovingly as I had done ferociously earlier. I never wanted to move from this spot, I only wanted to taste her and breathe the air that we were sharing and feel her body warm against mine—and also pretend that I wasn’t waiting for a tsunami of guilt and a lifetime of penance.

“Goodnight,” she said against my mouth.

“Goodnight, little lamb,” I said.

Stepping away felt like stepping onto shards of glass, and I couldn’t help myself, she was so wide-eyed and so open to my love, and it was instinct more than anything else that led to trace a small cross on her forehead.

A blessing.

And hopefully a promise to do better.

My phone buzzed violently on my counter.

It was Monday, two days post-not-really-sex, and I was thinking about how I was meeting Poppy in just a few minutes for lunch. I was cleaning the counter and remembering what the view had been from this exact location two nights ago.

I didn’t even try to puzzle out what the text said. It was from Bishop Bove, and my boss was not only terrible at texting but also really insecure about his terrible texting, so I knew he would call right after he sent the text to make sure I got it (and then translate it for me.)

Sure enough, my phone rang a moment later, The Walking Dead theme song echoing in my kitchen. Normally I would hum a couple of bars, normally I would be more than happy to talk to the gruff, principled man who was reforming our diocese and fighting for reform alongside me, but today, I only felt a prickling trepidation, as if he knew somehow what I had done last night. As if he would guess it the minute he heard my voice. “Hello?”

“Are you going to the Mid-America Clergy Convention next year?” Bishop Bove asked, skipping straight to business. “I want to put a panel together. And I want you on it.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I said, and I realized my palms were actually getting sweaty, like I’d been called to the principal’s office or pulled over or something. Shit. If I felt this nervous on the phone with him, what would I do when I saw him in person?

“I think this is finally the year we’ll get the panel we want in there,” the bishop said. “You know how long I’ve pushed for it.”

The panel we want…the panel on abuse. Bishop Bove had submitted proposals to the continuing clergy education organization for the last four years and had been shot down every time. But the leadership within the organization had shifted, younger organizers were in charge, and I knew that Bove had been told privately that he would finally get his controversial panel.

But how was I going to sit in a hotel ballroom staring at a sea of priests and presume to lecture them on the perils of errant priest sexuality? I glanced down at my countertop, where I’d slipped inside Poppy. Not all the way. Not all the way, but enough to come. Enough to make her come. I rubbed my eyes, trying to block out the sight.

Could a vow be not all the way broken? Could a sin be not all the way committed?

Of course not. And even if no one ever knew about it, I realized that I’d destroyed my legitimacy with myself, and maybe that was worse than my public legitimacy being destroyed. What had I gotten myself into? Was I ever going to be able to let myself speak about—preach about—the things I cared the most for again?

“Tyler?”

“If you get the panel, I’ll be there,” I mumbled, still rubbing my eyes. I was seeing sparks.

Better than seeing my sins.

“I knew you would. How’s St. Margaret’s? How’s Millie? She gave the diocesan bookkeeper hell last week for misplacing your quarterly tithe reports. I heard she reduced the poor man to tears.”

“Everything’s good here, everything is going really well,” I lied. “Just gearing up for all the fall youth stuff.”

And you know, halfway fucking hopeful converts.

“Good. I’m proud of you, Tyler. I don’t say that often enough, but the work you’ve done in that town has been nothing short of a miracle.”

Stop, I begged him silently. Please stop.

“You are doing Christ’s work, Tyler. You are such an example.”

Please, please stop.

“Well, I’ll let you go. And the panel—I’ll text you the moment I hear.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Fine, I’ll call. Goodbye, Tyler.”

I hung up and stared at my phone a minute. I had woken up telling myself that yesterday was my starting over day. My being chaste day. And that today would be even easier. So why did I feel like my sins were still haunting me? Still dogging my steps?

Because you haven’t confessed them, Tyler.

I was an idiot. I should have done this at the very beginning. I sat on one side of the booth every week—why hadn’t it occurred to me to seek out the other side? To seek out the absolution and accountability that every person needed?

Next week. I would go down to Kansas City next Thursday to visit my confessor—a man I went to seminary with—and then I would have dinner with Mom and Dad and everything would be so much better.

I felt a little swell of relief at this plan. It was all going to be okay.

Poppy had come to Mass yesterday morning and sought me out afterwards to arrange our lunch plans for today. I’d wanted to have lunch with her right then—or have her for lunch, I hadn’t been sure—but she’d ducked away the moment our plans were figured out, and then I’d been swarmed by the usual crowd of after-service lingerers. Was she trying to keep her distance? And if so, was it because she wanted to? Or as a perceived favor to me?

The thought that this would be how we would behave around each other from now on—businesslike and abrupt—made me acutely miserable.

Which was stupid, because it was what I had wanted—no, what I should want—but I didn’t. I wanted both lives—the life where we were believer and priest and the life where we were man and woman—and every moment that passed without my mouth on Poppy’s skin, more and more of my willpower bled away, until I was left with the uncomfortable knowledge that I would endure whatever guilt or punishment I had to in order to touch her again.

Today these thoughts still clouded my head when I gathered my things and walked the two blocks to the nearest winery. I had expected to see Poppy by herself but was pleasantly surprised to see her chatting animatedly with Millie in the wine garden, an open bottle of something white and chilled on the table.

Poppy waved me over. “I invited Millie—I hope that’s okay?”

“Of course, it’s okay,” Millie interrupted before I could answer. “This boy can barely tell time, let alone budget for a major project.”

I mock-frowned at her. “I’ll have you know that I’ve got a very organized pile of Post-It Notes and bar napkins in this bag.”

Millie huffed, as if I’d confirmed every one of her darkest fears. I glanced over to Poppy, some immature part of me wanting to make sure that she had laughed and then wishing I hadn’t once I took in how marvelous she looked. She wore turquoise skinny jeans and a nowhere-near-loose enough t-shirt, a soft thin cotton that reminded me of the shirt she wore Saturday night…the shirt I’d sucked her nipples through. Her hair was in a messy braid thrown over one shoulder, and her eyes were more green than brown in the sunlight filtering in through the vines covering the pergola, and her lips were back in their trademark red, and why did she have to be so fucking sexy all the damn time?

“Sit, my boy, before the Riesling gets warm,” Millie told me. “Now, Poppy, tell Father Bell what you just told me.”

I pulled out a wrought iron chair and settled in, already sweating in the early September heat. Millie poured a third glass of cool wine and I accepted it, grateful to have something I could stare at other than Poppy.

“Well,” Poppy started, “to start off, I’m not familiar with what you guys are doing for fundraising or what you have done in the past, so I don’t want to step on any toes or anything.”

“You won’t,” I promised.

“But tell me if I do. This is your project after all.”

“It’s the church’s project,” I said. “And since you’ve been coming to St. Margaret’s, I’d say that makes it your project too.”

She flushed a happy little flush, as if this pleased her, tracing circles around the edge of her iPad as she talked. I remembered my thoughts about her during our meeting, that she was a born volunteer, someone who loved to help. I saw it in her eyes as she talked, the excitement and the purpose. “I’ve noticed that Weston has a huge number of seasonal festivals, which isn’t unusual for a bed and breakfast town,” she was saying. “And I noticed on the church website that you advertise that you keep your doors open for visitors during these festivals—have you ever done more?”

“Not really,” Millie said.

“And how many visitors do you usually get?”

I tried to remember. “Three? Four?”

Poppy nodded, as if I’d proved her point. “I think a festival is a perfect opportunity to bring in more donors, if we take advantage of it the right way. This building is over one hundred and fifty years old—and that kind of old charm is exactly what people are coming for. That and booze. So you set up on the sidewalk, you give away local wine and whiskey from the distillery, but you stay away from the usual church sale fare. They’re not coming in to buy recipe books or rosaries—they are coming in to see. And you give them the booze for free, so they feel unconsciously obligated to you.”

I could see the Business Poppy right now as she layered through her points efficiently and easily, rolling her stylus through her fingers as she talked. I saw the wealthy boarding school girl, the Dartmouth grad, the woman engineered for large boardrooms and corporate victories.

“So anyway, you make the church a destination for the people wandering around. That’s step one. But more importantly, you reach out to the local newspapers and the Kansas City television stations. You turn St. Margaret’s into a local interest news story, the kind that goes viral on Twitter and Facebook. The church is about preserving Midwestern tradition—you emphasize the things Millie says you are planning to do—keeping the original windows, restoring the original hardwood floors and repairing the old stonework. People love that stuff. And then, step three, which is really step zero because you do this part before you do anything else, you make a Kickstarter for the renovation, so that when the stories air and the posts get reposted, there’s an easy link for people to follow. You’ll increase your fundraising footprint from the Weston area to the entire Kansas City Metro—and possibly even farther out than that.”

This woman was so damn smart. “So why not just do the Kickstarter and the news thing?”

“Because,” Poppy said, leaning forward, “you need to bring a crowd of people into the church, to see it with their own eyes, to learn about its history and potential restoration. You need them to go back to wherever they came from and seed the push. They’re the ones who will be the most likely to start sharing and tweeting, they’re the ones who will help you overcome that first clutch of inertia, because they are invested now, they’ve spent time and energy in St. Margaret’s. They are your disciples. You teach them, and then you say, ‘Go thou and do likewise.’”

“You’ve been reading up on your Bible,” I said approvingly.

She smiled. “Just a little. Millie invited me to the Come and See meeting next week. That verse was on the back of the brochure.”

The Come and See meetings were for people interested into joining the Church, and now it was my turn to hide my happy reaction. Despite everything that had gone wrong between us, she was still sincerely interested in exploring the faith.

“I think your idea sounds fantastic,” I said. “We’ve pretty much exhausted all of the usual means, and I think our own parish is tapped dry of funds. You make it sound so easy though—how expensive will it be to offer free wine? How do I even get in touch with the news people?”

Poppy tugged the cap off her stylus with her teeth and starting jotting notes onto her iPad. “I’ll take care of it. The wineries here will donate the wine—that’s easy. And the news stations are always looking for stuff like this, it’ll be little more than sending an email, which I’ll do this week. And I’ll set up the Kickstarter too. You will see—it’s not that much work.”

“It feels like a lot of work,” I admitted. “I mean, I think you’re right and I want to do this, but it does feel like a lot.”

“Okay, it does look like a lot, but really, I promise it won’t be. Especially with me doing the setup—all you’ll have to do is be charming and square-jawed for the cameras.”

Millie patted my arm appreciatively. “He’s good at that. He’s our secret weapon.”

Poppy’s eyes flicked to mine. “Yes, he is.”

We spent the rest of the hour planning, deciding on what festival made the most sense for our fundraiser (Irish Fest) and who would do what (Poppy would do mostly everything, but Millie and I agreed to be conscripted wherever we were needed, giving Poppy our personal email addresses and phone numbers.) And then Millie climbed in her gold Buick sedan and drove the two streets over to her house while Poppy and I walked back in the direction of the church.

“I won’t be able to come to confession today,” she said out of nowhere. “I have a conference call. I hope that’s okay.”

“Most Catholics only go to confession once a year. You’re fine.” But I was a little disappointed. (And of course for all the wrong reasons.)

“I was wondering…”

“Yes?” I asked hopefully.

“This is going to sound stupid. Never mind.”

We were crossing the main street now, from shady sidewalk to even shadier sidewalk, and all around us was the noise of the breeze in the leaves and the birds and the faint roll of cars far away. I wanted to tell her that right now I’d give her anything, I’d give her everything, so long as we could stay in this peaceful bubble of early autumn forever, just the two of us and the leaves and the green warmth that made it so easy to feel loved by God.

But I couldn’t tell her that. So instead, I said, “I don’t think you’re capable of asking a stupid question, Ms. Danforth.”

“You should reserve judgment until I ask, Father,” she said in a voice that was half laugh, half sigh.

“I’m Catholic. Judging is my thing.”

This earned me a real laugh. She squinted up at the brick edifice of the church as we approached and then squared her shoulders, as if deciding to go for it. “Here’s the thing. I want to do this…this God stuff. I think maybe it’s the first choice that’s felt right since I walked off that stage at Dartmouth. But I have no framework for even thinking about living a religious life. I know I’m supposed to show up at Mass and I’m supposed to read the Bible and that all seems straightforward enough. But praying…I feel foolish. I feel clumsy. I’ve never really done it before and I’m not sure I’m doing it right.” She turned to me. “So I guess I wanted to know if you can help me with that. With the praying.”

I meant to tell her that prayer wasn’t a test, that God wasn’t grading her on how well or how eloquently she prayed, that even sitting in silence counted. That we Catholics had prescribed prayers to circumvent exactly this kind of crisis. But then the breeze blew a strand of hair across her face, and I without thinking reached up and brushed it back behind her ear, and her eyes drifted closed at my touch, and fuck fuck fuck, what had I been about to say?

“Tonight,” I said. “After the men’s group. Come find me and we’ll work on it.”

After men’s group, I stopped by my office to grab a rosary and a small pamphlet containing some basic prayers and walked into the sanctuary, knowing that Poppy would probably be there early.

What I didn’t know was that she’d be standing directly in front of the altar, staring at the cross, the late-dusk light pouring through the windows and staining her in dark jewel tones, sapphire and crimson and emerald. I didn’t know that her shoulders would be shaking ever so slightly, as if she were crying, and I didn’t know that all the doors and windows would be closed, trapping the lush, incense-scented air inside.

I stopped, the greeting on my lips stalled by the stillness, by the heavy weight of the quiet.

God was here.

God was here, and He was talking to Poppy.

I felt every kiss of air across my skin as I walked closer to her, heard her every exhale, and when I reached her, I saw how goose bumps peppered her arms, how tears ran silently down her cheeks.

There were a thousand things I should say, but I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt whatever moment this was. Except that it wasn’t truly interrupting, because I felt invited into it, like I was supposed to be part of it, and I did what felt right: I wrapped my arms around her.

She leaned back into me, her eyes still pinned to the cross, and I just held her as we both let the moment wash over us, bathe us in the dying light and the silence. Shadows crept along the floor and pooled around our feet, and the seconds ticked into minutes, and slowly, slowly, we drew incrementally closer, until every inch of her back was pressed against me, until my nose was in her hair and her hands were twined through mine.

The closeness of her and the closeness of the divine all at the same time was euphoria, bliss, and I was almost dizzy with it, feeling both at once, intoxicated by her and intoxicated by my God. And in the face of this numinous encounter, there was no room for guilt, no room for critical self-analysis and recrimination. There was only room to be present, be there, and then she turned in my arms, tilting her face up to mine.

“You feel it too?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it always like this for you?”

I shook my head. “Once a week, maybe. Sometimes twice. I know people like my confessor who feel it every moment and people like my bishop who feel it never.”

“It’s beautiful.”

It was full dark now, and there was nothing but different shadows, but even in the shadows, the tear tracks on her face glistened. “You’re beautiful,” I whispered.

We were talking in hushed voices; the air was still heavy with holiness and presence. And I should have felt wicked for holding Poppy like this in the face of God, but our burning bush of a silent room somehow made everything seem more right, like it was the most perfect thing to do, holding her in my arms and staring down at her face.

I slid my fingers under her chin, keeping her face angled to mine, and leaned down just enough so that our noses brushed together. I could kiss her right now. Maybe I should kiss her right now. Maybe it was God’s plan all along for us to end up here, alone in this sanctuary, and forced to face the truth, that this was more than friendship, this was more than lust. This was something raw and real and undeniable and it was not going to go away.

She was trembling against me now, her lips parted and waiting, and I allowed myself a narrower margin now, lowering my mouth to a mere fraction of an inch above hers, tightening my arm around her lower back. We were so close that we were sharing breath, literally, our hearts beating in the same dizzy rhythm.

In spite of everything that had happened between us, this moment somehow felt more intimate, more vulnerable, than anything we’d yet shared. Everything else had happened while I pretended God wasn’t watching, but this—there was no pretending now. Sacred and profane were blending and blurring together, fusing and welding themselves into something new and whole and singular, and if this was what love was, then I didn’t know how anyone could bear the weight of it.

“I can’t stop myself, I’m sorry,” I said at the same time she said, “I tried to stay away from you.”

And then I kissed her.

I brushed my lips against hers once, just to feel the softness of her skin glancing past mine, and then pressed my mouth to hers in earnest, tasting her in the slowest, deepest way possible, until I felt her knees weaken and she made little noises in the back of her throat.

I kissed her until I saw static at the edges of my vision, until I couldn’t remember a time when we hadn’t been kissing, until I couldn’t feel where my mouth ended and hers began. I kissed her until it felt like we’d exchanged something—a promise maybe or a covenant or a piece of our souls. And when I finally pulled away, it was as if I pulled away reborn, a new man. A baptism by kiss rather than a baptism by water.

“More,” she begged. “More.”

I kissed her again, this time with hunger, with need, and I could tell by the way she made little sighs into my mouth, the way her fingers twisted in the fabric of my shirt, that she was as far gone for me as I was for her, and I never wanted to stop, never wanted this to end.

But it had to.

When we broke apart, she stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering a little in the blast of the air conditioning. The clouds outside had parted, sending a shaft of silver through the windows, and we were in a fairy pool of glowing moonlight. The God feeling was still there, but rather than a weight from the outside, it felt like sparks on the inside, as if the divine had seeped into my blood. I felt light-headed and drunk with it.

“I’m tired,” Poppy said, though she didn’t sound tired so much as dazed. “I think that I should go home.”

“I’ll walk you,” I offered. She nodded, and together we left the mystery behind, as if by walking to the sanctuary doors, we were walking away from what had just happened.

“That was incredible,” she murmured.

“I’ve been told I’m a good kisser.”

She bumped my shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

We were in the narthex now, but I couldn’t shake the image of her standing in front of the cross, so open and receptive to an experience that most people would dismiss outright. “Poppy, I have to ask. Did something happen to draw you to the church? Did you go as a child and now you’re circling back?”

“Why?”

“It seems like…” I searched for the right phrasing, wanting to express how much a good thing I thought her interest was. “I think it’s marvelous that you’re jumping in feet first. It’s just not the way a lot of people do it.”

“It feels a lot more gradual on my end,” she said as we walked outside. I kept a careful space between us as we took the stone stairs down the hill the church was perched on. “My family isn’t religious—in fact, no one we knew was religious. I think they were always suspicious of it, like anything that that could inspire such fervor in people was gauche, at best. Dangerous, at worst. I guess I was always a bit more open to it. In college, I went with a friend to her Buddhist temple almost every week and in Haiti, I was working side by side with missionaries. But it wasn’t until the day I came in for confession that I’d ever sought it out on my own.”

“What made you come back after that?”

She paused. “You.”

I processed this as we hit the bottom of the stairs and walked into the wooded park between the church and her house. It was bright with closely spaced lamps and moonlight. I cleared my throat, wondering if my question ultimately made a difference, but deciding to ask anyway. “Was it me as a priest? Or me as a man?”

“Both. I think that’s what is so confusing.”

We walked in silence now, together but not together, our minds on the beauty of that moment in the sanctuary, on the way it felt to kiss when our souls were on fire.

Fuck. It was all so confusing to me too, except that parts of the confusion were starting to fall away, which should have been clarifying, but I worried that it was actually the opposite, that I was forgetting things I was supposed to remember.

Like my promise to be better.

“I want to hold your hand right now,” I said abruptly. “I want to wrap my arm around your waist and pull you close.”

“But you can’t,” she replied softly. “Someone could be watching.”

We were at the garden behind her house now.

“I don’t know what to do next,” I said honestly. “I just…”

I had literally nothing else to say. I didn’t know what I could do to explain how I felt about her, and also how I felt about my vocation and my responsibilities, and about how I was so ready to abandon them all because I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to hold her fucking hand in the park at night.

She peered up at the stars. “I wish you could hold my hand too.” She shivered again and I could see that her nipples had pebbled in the slight evening chill, hard little furls just begging to be sucked.

The sweet feelings of a few minutes ago were starting to fuse with other, baser feelings that crowded up from my pelvis. It took every ounce of my self-control not to pin her up against the fence and kiss her again, not to yank down her pants and fuck her right here, outside, where anyone could see.

“I want to see you again,” I said in a low voice. There was no mistaking my meaning and she shifted, rubbing her thighs together.

“Is that…I mean, should we…”

“I don’t think I care anymore,” I said.

“Neither do I,” she whispered.

“Tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “I have to go to Kansas City for some club stuff—we’re switching over to new accounting software. But I’ll be back Thursday night.”

I wanted to groan out loud, but I managed to stop myself. “That’s three days from now,” I said.

She put her fingers on the latch to her back gate. “Come inside,” she said. “Let’s hang out tonight.”

“It’s late,” I said. “And I want plenty of time for what I have in mind.”

She exhaled slowly and her red lips parted, showing me those two front teeth, the tiniest glimpse of tongue.

I looked around to make sure we were truly alone, and then I grabbed her hand, opened the latch and tugged her inside the garden. I pulled her under the overgrown trellis, and then I spun her around so that her ass was pressed against me—pressed against my erection. I put one hand over her mouth and then unfastened her jeans with the other.

“Three days is a long time from now,” I said in her ear. “I just want to make sure that you’re taken care of until then.”

And then I slid my fingers down her stomach, slipping under her silk panties. She moaned against my hand.

“Shhh,” I said. “Be a good girl and I’ll give you what you want.”

She whimpered in response.

God, I loved her pussy. I’d never felt anything softer than the skin between her legs—and fuck she was wet. So wet that I really could pull these jeans down and take what I wanted, right here, right now. But no. She deserved better than that.

Not that I wouldn’t fantasize about it as I got her off.

I started in on her clit in earnest now, circling it hard and fast, loving the way she bucked against my hand. I knew it was more pressure and speed than was comfortable, but I also knew that she would like it that way, savor that tiny, tiny bite of pain with her pleasure.

“I could do this all day, little lamb,” I told her. “I love reaching down the front of your jeans, playing with your cunt, making you come. Do you like it?”

She nodded, her breathing jagged against my hand. She was getting close.

“Thursday night,” I said, and I almost felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, listening to myself say these words. But I was beyond caring, or more accurately, beyond the place where the rules I cared about mattered. “I want to be with you. I want to fuck you. But only if it’s what you want.”

She nodded again, eagerly, desperately.

“I can’t wait,” and my voice was hoarse now. “I can’t wait to be inside you. Feel me. Feel how hard I am just thinking about it.” I ground my cock into her ass, and she shuddered against me, my words and my hard dick pushing her over the edge. She made a tiny cry that was muffled by my hand, quaked under my touch for a long minute, and finally came down, sagging against me.

I kept my hand in her panties for a minute or two longer, loving the way it looked, loving the way it felt, and then I reluctantly withdrew, zipping and buttoning her back up. I sucked on my fingers as she turned to face me, eyes bright and cheeks clearly flushed even in the dark.

“Go to bed, Poppy,” I said when I could see that she would protest me leaving. “I’ll see you Thursday night.”

It hit me like a ton of obvious, kiss-sized bricks as I recited Mass the next morning: I was falling in love with Poppy Danforth.

I wasn’t just desperate to fuck her. I wasn’t just happy to help her find faith. I was well and truly on my way to being in love with her.

After a month.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And now that she wasn’t here, not anywhere near here, I found my obsession spiraling out of control, like a drug addiction that demanded to be fed.

I imagined her voice filling the sanctuary after Rowan and the grandmothers left morning Mass. I pictured her face and her messy braid as I ran off copies of the Bible study worksheet for the next men’s group. I found myself googling pictures of Dartmouth and Newport instead of trawling through The Walking Dead forums. I even (creepily, I know) googled her family, scrolling through pictures of polished people at polished charity events, finally finding an old picture of her at what looked to be some sort of fundraiser for a politician. Her and a cluster of attractive people who were obviously her parents and siblings—her father, silver-haired and broad-shouldered, and her mother, svelte and elegant. A brother and a sister with the same expensive clothes and expensive, high-cheekboned faces.

I clicked the picture to see the image on its own, see a larger version of Poppy’s face. She was clearly younger, though not too young—in her early twenties maybe, and she was clearly unhappy. While everyone else flashed their wealthy, happy smiles at the camera, Poppy had only managed a firm press of her lips, her eyes directed somewhere behind the cameraman, as if absorbed with something only she could see.