daisies, tulips, long stemmed roses

Isabel began to pack her things into her bag - a laptop, her phone, an agenda book. Sometimes she still felt she played a part here, unfit and not use to life with a job. She squinted as she thought about how to answer Lotta’s question. “American, I guess.” Her arms stopped moving as she spoke, then continued when her words paused. Isabel finished putting everything away, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she stood. “It’s one of those places that has everything, even though they shouldn’t.” She shrugged. “I guess I’m not really selling it.” Isabel loved authentic food if she could get her hands on it, but Salem seemed to lack in that. She found a new love for cheap food that somehow hit the spot. 

.

Lotta wasn’t sure if American food was specifically a category of cuisine, but she was British, so she didn’t feel qualified to comment on that. She nodded, once, locking the cabinet after she’d finished filing. She and Isabel were more colleagues than friends, certainly, but as much as the thought of spending extended time to a person she wasn’t related to was difficult, if Ed was here, he’d be yelling at her to do so. “Okay. Did you- want to go straight from her, or?”

She was talking and he took it as a good sign. Maintaining a respectful distance between them, he took a seat on the same pew. There was a heaviness in the room, in the space between them, and it beckoned for silence. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing here because the moment felt so delicate that most anything could shatter it. 

Instead, he simply looked forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands steepled. Smiling softly, almost to himself, he said, “There’s no such thing as a bad Christian. There are fake Christians, sure. People that lie to themselves and use God as a way to hurt people. But bad Christians?” He shook his head. “Nah.” He let his eyes trail to her, then, the cracks in her armor so obvious in that single glance that he could feel the slice of them in his own. “Can I let you in on a secret, Charlotte Wrenn? This place isn’t for put together people.”

He shifted his attention back to the cross and the St. Augustine painting, silently praying for their guidance. This felt like one of those moments he’d come here for, the reason he’d given his life over to God and his parishioners, and he was terrified to mess it up. He thought maybe a simple question– just one small step forward– would be the way to go. “Do you live around here?”

.

Somehow, even though he was sat far from her, as the man sat down, she felt her own heart speed up. He hadn’t intended to, Lotta was sure, but now she was trapped in the middle of the pew. She tried not to let the panic show. She was bad with feeling trapped.

“There is definitely such a thing as a bad Christian. Isn’t there a whole thing in the book about that? Following the teachings wrong, and all that? Not on purpose just- misguided?” It felt like an odd thing to get hung up on, especially arguing with somebody who arguably an actual God-expert. Still, his next words made her pause, and though she had finally turned to look at him, she turned away once more. “I’m not good at being not put together. But it seems it’s all I am.” Immediately, she bit her own lip to stop herself from continuing. She didn’t mean to be telling this stranger so much of anything. 

The question surprised her, but she nodded. “In town, yes. I’m new, though. If it wasn’t obvious.” Gesturing to her own mouth as an indication of accent, she added, her tone somehow joking, even as her voice quivers, “From San Francisco.”

who : @charlottewrenn​

where : work

She closed her laptop, done with work for the day - not because she wanted to be, but because there was nothing else for her to do. At this stage, everything existed in the category of preparation.  She set up meetings with contractors and architects. She sent in permits to the town. At a certain point, everyone else went home, leaving her with nothing to do. Her eyes scanned the time on her phone rested against the top of the table. With Haz still not going to work, Is knew if she went home now he’d be awake. Ever since the other night, she’d been avoiding him. Her eyes traveled up to Lotta. “Hey, would you want to grab dinner?” She found solace in the new people in her life, the ones that didn’t know her story fully. The pity in people’s eyes grew tiring.  “There is this little restaurant that stays open late around the corner.”

.

There were very few people that Lotta could consider friends in this town. This was entirely her fault, and her own inability to do anything that wasn’t work or being at home, alone. There had been a brief stint with a church, but it had achieved very little. This wasn’t specific to Salem, though, as she could name very few people who would want to grab coffee with her even in the city she’d just left. And so, a suggestion of going out for dinner with a colleague felt strange. But in a good way. A new way. “That would be- nice.” She said, voice slow as she slipped the final sheet of paper into the file she had been organising. “Yes, of course, what kind of restaurant is it?”

location: anywhere that fits 

status: open ( @srphq-starters ) 

“if i don’t take ollie to watch the lion king i don’t think she will ever forgive me.” for a six year old his daughter could be very persuasive when she wanted to be, he was sure it was something she had gotten from her mother without ever really knowing her. “i’m going to try and catch as many as possible though.” how many he would actually be able to make it to with his working hours he wasn’t sure, but even he got a night off he supposed, he’d just feel bad making others work if he was out having a good time. “and i’m definitely making it to the blair witch project, can you believe i’ve never seen it?” 

“I haven’t, either,” she admitted. “Although I have definitely heard better reviews for The Lion King than I have Blair Witch. Maybe Ollie just has good taste?” Lotta was terrible when it came to films, much more likely to read the synopsis on Wikipedia than actually watch the full thing. She was the same with books, and TV shows. “The Wizard of Oz is fantastic, though.”

Jack remained where he was, sure if he took even a single step closer, she’d be out the door before he could even have a chance to help. “No, please. That doesn’t matter,” he told her solemnly, voice soft in the vast, empty sanctuary. “This place,” his head moved to take in the wood paneled walls, the stone altar, the portrait of St. Augustine that he would swear was watching him no matter where he was, and returned his gaze to her, “is whatever you need it to be. And the doors are always open for anyone who might need it.” 

There was a shadow of pain in her eyes, one he thought he recognized himself, and while he knew you could only help someone that wanted to be helped, he also knew that if she walked out that door right now, he would likely never see her again. He would stack up another what-if, and wonder if he could have done something differently, something better. 

The rosary in his pocket felt heavy, urging him to do something. Maybe she wasn’t religious, but she’d sought this place out. So, was it guidance she was after? An affirmation that she was making a right choice? A sign she was making a wrong one? “Really, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. My name is Jack, I’m the priest here, and I live in the rectory just behind the church, so I’m here if you ever need to talk. I’m not in the business of trying to convert people, so you don’t have to worry about that.” 

.

She hated to admit it, and she never would out loud, but she felt fragile. Both her and the ( Priest? Reverend? Was there a difference? ) seemed to know it. His voice was soft, as if talking to a frightened animal, and it usually would have made her annoyed. Her back would have straightened; her voice grown clipped. But, instead, it soothed her. She didn’t have it in her to hate it. Not when her hands were shaking so severely. 

The words he said stayed in that calm tone, and she lowered her hands to grip the bench to stop them from jittering. She followed his gaze around the room, strangely beautiful in its simplicity. “Thank you,” was all she could manage. 

Priest, okay, noted. “My family were Christian,” she said, unsure why she was offering a stranger such information. “But it’s- we didn’t go to church very often. Probably bad Christians.” They had certainly stopped after Jonathan. “I’m Charlotte. Wrenn. I’m sorry that I’m not more put together.”

WHERE: st. margaret’s church sanctuary. WHO: jack & @charlottewrenn​.

Technically speaking, the church was closed, but Jack tended to have an open door policy when he was hanging around the rectory because the need for guidance didn’t care about office hours. He wanted to be available, wanted this place to be available, so he stuck close and did his rounds– just in case. 

Hands fisted into his pockets, he hadn’t expected anyone to actually be here, so his steps faltered, too loud to pretend he hadn’t intruded on a private moment, too far into the sanctuary now to turn away. He could only see the back of her head, but he was almost positive he’d never seen her before and he didn’t want to scare her off. “I don’t mean to interrupt, just wanted to let you know that you’re welcome to stay for as long as you want. And if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

.

This was not where she had intended to be tonight. She had started the night in her flat, making sensible choices. Sensible, relatively mundane choices, such as choosing to have a glass of water with her ravioli, rather than what she’d usually pair it with. Her chip had sat in front of the table, and she had determinedly not looked at it. If it was real, tangible, it was something she could lose. But she’d looked at it, finally, and it had felt so hot in her hand that she couldn’t bear the warmth alone. 

And so, she had ended up here. In a church she’d never been to before, clasping a stupid coin that meant more to her than anything she’d ever owned. It had, thankfully, been empty as she’d arrived, otherwise she’s sure she would have lost her nerve. She didn’t speak, sure she’d be frightened off by the sound of her own voice. Instead, she sat with her head bowed, in some reverent prayer, mouthing words to what had been her high school’s school hymn. 

As she was nearing the end of the second verse, a voice interrupted her. Lotta’s head raised quickly, snapping to the man who had entered. It was if her spell had been broken. “No- I’m- Sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m not- actually religious. I’m sorry.”