The Priest, The Ghost and The Love

Chapter - 4 You remember...

The house was slowly turning into a home, and it would have taken way longer if not for the lack of pleasure of sleep in Maya's life. She spent the whole night and a large part of the day unpacking the cardboard boxes and decorating the empty house with the beautiful things her family had packed for her. The drawing room, bedroom, and office all were perfectly decorated, except for a few chores which required the help of Mr Moretti, like shifting the furniture and fixing the leaking taps of the upper floor bathrooms. The past sixteen hours didn't only involve exhausting work but also a whole bottle of Passerina, several orders from Randy's restaurant, a trip to the grocery store, and a video from her family, who were vastly relieved to see their Maya was finally adjusting to her new surroundings. But the writer was cautious not to mention the camerlengo in their conversation, or else she would have gotten badly scolded if she were to mention that she served him some casual street food. The ghostwriter's parents, despite being atheists held this young holy man in very high regard, and they had all the right to feel that way. Maya, too, felt for him that way, but there was more in her heart for Father Patrick. She was grateful to him. But now that she had been graced with his company and got the opportunity to observe what he was like in the privacy of his chamber and she was awed too. The young woman was not unaware of what it was like being a hero, after all, she had written uncountable of them. All of them had one quality in common - humility. Unfortunately, there is a difference between a real-life person and the ones who exist in the world of her words. In actuality, most men did not dwell on humbleness despite being famous, but he did. His soft yet assertive voice spoke volumes of his character, and yet it was never indented to intimidate her. He never once made her feel insignificant or degraded her. His voice never once hinted at the difference in their status, their race or their nationality. To Maya, it felt as if the handsome Priest saw just another soul not bothered by the material difference between them. But she did not mention the camerlengo to her family because why she served him street food would be easier to explain, what bothered her more was how could she ever explain this strange discovery of her to another soul. The situation she had landed in was far more complicated and controversial than she would have preferred. Having a man enter her house from a secret door was one thing but having the camerlengo enter her home from a secret door was a travesty against his reputation and that of the Vatican. Despite the politics of this situation seeming messier than she preferred, the writer wanted the secret door to open this evening so that she would not find herself fighting this loneliness all by herself but her loneliness was not the only reason she wanted Father McKenna to visit her. There was acceptance in his demeanour towards her, an acceptance she hadn't been graced with yet in a long time. Despite her zeal, the clouds of sorrow never truly left her heart. For she felt he would never return, the secret door might never open again, and that wretched her heart, but she was oblivious to the reason for this anomalous feeling that resided in her.

Presently, Maya was standing under the shower, the water raining over her, settling every muscle she had strained while labouring around the house. In the shower, the water came as a soothing cascade, calming her soul and making her forget every triviality she was currently facing. The young woman hated leaving the calming cocoon that was her shower as Maya forced herself to break the comforting embrace of the water. She did not have any commitments for today. Neither did she have an appointment with the editor nor did the author want to meet her over a meal to discuss the manuscript. So, the ghostwriter decided to work further on the manuscript the publishing house had sent her earlier that day. The author she was currently working for was a peculiar one, the type of author for whom she despised ghostwriting. Authors of this kind had all kinds of imaginations and authentic ideas yet a significant part of the story is wasted upon declaring the protagonist the chosen one, and she hated it. She was well aware that no one is born special, people are not destined to do great deeds. It is always an ordinary man's decision to do something great, to sacrifice all he has for the greater good that makes him special. What camerlengo Patrick McKenna did a year ago during the Papal conclave only solidified her thinking. And so, there was Maya Deol, sitting in her office, eyes glued on the screen of her laptop as her fingers lazily pressed the keys without caring to glance at them. The whole house was silent. So eerily hushed that a whisper in one corner of the house could be heard in the next, and that was how she liked working - in solitary and isolation. Many times oft, the writer's surroundings were so silent that it could deceive anyone into thinking no one was even there. The only sound that managed to penetrate the thick aura of silence was the sound of the keys when she pressed them and the sipping of the wine. Maya lost track of time as she kept working on her assignment until the sound of knocking fell in her ears, almost startling her. But before the young woman could have ensnared her senses and taken command of any action, the sound of a rusty metal door opening filled the room. The short-lived shock dissolved as soon as Maya conceded the sound of her secret door. The presumably centuries-old door produced a very distinctive noise due to its rusted hinges, but it also acted as a doorbell for Maya in this case. Pulling her raven hair in a ponytail, she started walking up to the living room where the ghostwriter found the camerlengo standing by the door, a surprised look overhauling his attractive face as his blue eyes widened on seeing the neatly furnished room. Father Patrick appeared genuinely surprised by the lack of cartons lying around that he was greeted by yesterday.