Welcome back! Happy to have you here. In this chapter, we're starting to weave some story into our exposition. Also, look out for a new character. I'd love to know what you think about him.
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Crown Vic to a Parallel World: Stolen Love The third and final installment of the ongoing adventures of Church Philips
3
A Tour
"What is that material?" Paul asked as we approached the estate.
"It's structural glass." I said and got ready to explain the material that I was fascinated with. "It's really neat stuff. It's completely self-supporting. They use it here like concrete on Earth but it's even better. It's good in compression and in tension, it insulates, and it can be molded into any shape. It can also be any color or no color at all. When it's transparent, it's like it's not even there."
Paul and I went through the garage and passed the other vehicles that Shawn and I used to travel on Solum. The garage had four places in a horizontal row, each with its own door to the outside. One was empty, one was occupied by the Vic, another by a standard issue, two seat, plain plumb-purple plastic egg car, and another by our custom made, enlarged, four seat egg car.
Paul didn't ask any questions about the vehicles, and I didn't offer. I didn't much care for Solum vehicles and was glad not to have to discuss them. We passed through the garage and into the ground floor of the estate.
The first room we reached was my kitchen. I called it `my kitchen' because I was the only person that I let use the equipment in the room. It was the only space in the house where real cooking could happen. The whole room was monochromatic and solid surface, so it was easy to clean. The floors, walls, cabinets, and other furniture was plain white ceramic-like material while the appliances and countertops were all black glass. Even the cookware, the frying pans, pots, baking trays, and other stuff was black glass.
My kitchen had a Culinarian Synthesizer, a commercial grade version, that I used for creating ingredients. It was specially calibrated to generate raw meat, eggs in their shells, fresh vegetables, fresh fruit, and unprepared spices. Everything around it was very similar to what you would find in a traditional kitchen on Earth. I even had an electric range. I'd wanted gas, but all the Solum natives were thoroughly nervous around open flames and there was no natural gas consumed on Solum, so I compromised with electric.
When I was on Earth in 2025, I'd remembered how much fun cooking could be and didn't want to give it up. A couple years later, when we were designing the estate, I made sure we included a full kitchen. I didn't cook all the time, but I often did breakfast, some big dinners, all the holiday meals, and occasional intimate meals for Shawn and me.
It was very nice to sit down to a perfect meal, synthesized by the Culinarian, with no effort required, but there was something very gratifying about cooking. Even frying an egg for breakfast was much more satisfying than just touching a button on a screen.
I showed Paul around the kitchen but didn't spend too much time with it, because for him, it wasn't very different from any other kitchen on Earth. As a demonstration of the Solum technology, I used the Culinarian to make a fresh apple and a single hard-boiled egg. Paul was suitably impressed and asked me how the machine worked. I think I disappointed him when I told him that I didn't know. We didn't dwell on it as there was much more to see.
Paul and I went quickly through the ground floor living room. It was a kind of a general-purpose family and rumpus room with wall screens for TV watching, couches and chairs for seating, tables for cards and board games, game tables like air hockey and pool, and areas for sitting to visit or chat. This was another room that would have been equally at home on Earth as on Solum, so we didn't spend much time in it. It was a nice but unremarkable space.
On the way out of the living room, and half-way up the stairs to the second floor, we ran into Cellarius who was on his way down with a bundle of mail under his arm. Every time I saw him, I was freshly impressed at his glacial, unchanging nature. Not one of the sixteen years that I'd known the elderly butler showed on the man.
I honestly didn't know how old he really was. Shawn didn't either. Cellarius appeared to be in his mid-seventies, had a full head of snow-white hair, and stood with all his five-feet-ten inches of height displayed in an erect carriage. He always wore an immaculate burgundy suit that was the hallmark of his life's profession.
When Shawn and I came into our fortune and decided to start our own household, we knew we'd need a `man Friday' to run the place. I'd bought out the butler's contract with Shawn's father, through a third party of course, and imported him to the estate with the idea that he would help us get the household running and then I'd pension him off. He accepted the offer, but never accepted the pension. He not only set up the household, but he continued to reign over its daily operation. It worked out because Shawn liked having him around and trusted him completely. Since Shawn trusted the man, I did too.
I introduced Cellarius to Paul and was taken by how close the two men appeared to be in age. This was in spite of the fact that Cellarius was at least three times, and possibly close to four times, Paul's seventy years. Cellarius shook hands with Paul and was very deferential.
"Master Paul, it is a pleasure to welcome you to the Summas home. I will endeavor to provide for your every need or desire. You have only to voice the merest hint, and we shall spring to your service. Master Church has given me to understand you are a guest of the highest importance and that no effort should be spared in the pursuit of your comfort."
Paul seemed uncomfortable at Cellarius' promise of personal service. He tried to deflect the attention from himself. "That's not necessary. I am a simple man with simple needs. Please don't trouble yourself over me."
Cellarius smiled a practiced, deferential smile and inclined his head toward Paul like he was ready to indulge the priest's fantasy of not wanting to be fussed over. "Master Church intimated that you were a modest man and unaccustomed to service. Do not worry. We will not be obtrusive. That is the art, if I may call it that, of my profession, to provide for your every desire without seeming to do so."
The old butler turned his attention to me to cut Paul off from further objection. He held up a few sheets of paper but did not offer them to me. "Sir, we have received an additional solicitation from the aforementioned source who is not to be named. This is the fourth attempt at making contact. What shall I do?"
I knew who Cellarius was talking about in spite of his cryptic reference, but I was in no mood to deal with the issue then. Shawn's father had been trying to contact me for several weeks, maybe longer. It was tough to tell because I'd ignored every message. I'd also kept it a secret from Shawn and his mother, and I'd told Cellarius to do the same.
Cellarius had agreed without question but cautioned that the secret would be difficult to keep if I did not respond to the letters. He warned that Shawn's father, Verpa, would likely reach out to Shawn directly if he got no answer from me. If Verpa did that, Shawn would likely find out that I'd been ignoring repeated attempts at communication.
I didn't want Shawn angry with me for ignoring his father, but I also didn't want to give Verpa an avenue back into Shawn's life. Fuck him.' I thought bitterly as I remembered my one and only meeting with the selfish fuck who'd made my husband's childhood hell. I assumed the man wanted money. I'd heard through Shawn's mother that his father's wealth management firm had seen several reverses of fortune in the last years, but knowledge of the man's problems did not fill me with sympathy. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.' I added to my earlier bitter thoughts.
My right hand reached for the bracelet around my left wrist, but I stopped it before my fingers touched the gold band. I took a deep breath and quieted the anger that had reared its ugly head in my mind. I told myself that it wasn't right to be angry with the man who couldn't hurt Shawn or me anymore. It was up to me to deal with him and thereby to prevent Shawn from having to. I sighed out another deep breath and promised myself I'd be reasonable. "When is our monthly meeting?" I asked my faithful butler.
"A week from this Thursday, sir."
"Fine...we'll deal with it then. Please add it to the agenda."
"Sir," Cellarius tilted his head down and to the right in crisp acknowledgement, then turned back to Paul, "and a fine good afternoon to you sir." He said and continued down the stairs with purpose in his stride.
Paul watched after the butler until he was well out of sight then jerked his head toward where he had stood. "What can he do?" Paul asked.
"Cellarius is a Fourth-Class Empath. He gets impressions but no specific thoughts. He's very good at his job and uses the little power he has to maximum advantage. He is also well over two hundred years old. I don't know his exact age, but I'd guess somewhere between two-fifty and two-seventy."
Paul pointed down the steps. "That man, the one who was just here," Paul said with his voice full of disbelief, "you're telling me that he was born when the Declaration of Independence was being signed."
I did the math in my head and was almost as surprised as Paul. I'd never made the connection between Cellarius' age and what events on Earth that it might parallel. Even though it sounded crazy, it was completely true. "Yes, give or take a few years. Don't think about it too much, Paul. You'll drive yourself nuts. It's easier to take it as it comes."
Paul seemed to deliberately withdraw from his amazement, and we started up the stairs again. "This is truly a wonderous place." He muttered as we climbed.
Paul's breath caught in his throat with a gasp as we reached the top of the staircase and entered the second floor of the house. The second floor was what I considered `public space.' Its main purpose was for entertaining, and as such, it was the grandest space on the estate. It was also one of the spaces that fully displayed the philosophy behind the location and construction of the house.
When Shawn and I had decided to build the estate in the middle of a huge natural wonder, we also decided that we wanted to be as much a part of that natural wonder as possible. Therefore, every exterior wall of the entire structure, including the roof, was transparent on the inside and fully operable to open to the outside.
We went to great lengths to make certain that the walls could open as much as possible while still maintaining the structural integrity of the building. The characteristics of structural glass made huge openings possible. The house was very much a `convertible.' The advanced building management system, who's interface lived on a phone app, made converting the indoors into the outdoors, as easy as touching a few buttons on a screen.
The room that Paul and I had arrived into, displayed these features as the walls were open to their maximum amount and the constant breeze of the plains whispered through the space like a familiar embrace. Paul crossed the black glass floor of the two-story-tall entryway that traversed the entire front of the building. He turned as he went like he was waltzing by himself. He paused at the wide-open front doors that were also transparent and gazed out over the grand staircase that led up from the scrub of the Pravus Plains.
Paul stepped through the door and down several of the curved black basalt steps that I had quarried from the mountain with my white magic and set in place with my telekinesis. He turned to face the front of the house. "It's black on the outside, but inside it's like it's not even there." He marveled.
I wasn't sure if that was a question or if the man was just narrating what he saw. I joined him on the stairs to look at the front of the house and to point out its features. "This center section is the main house," I explained, "and it's where Shawn and I live. No one else lives in the main house."
"That wing to the right is the residential wing." I pointed to the two-story structure that stretched the length of two football fields to the east. "That's where everyone else stays when they're here. They all have their own apartments, as much space as they want. Each one has a garage that opens out back, a living room and a kitchen downstairs, and bedrooms upstairs. Each unit has its own private entrance and balcony off the back. Whoever stays here can come and go as they please. At the far end is a gym for anyone who wants to work out.
"I admit the garages and cars were my idea and they haven't really worked out. We're four-hundred-miles from the nearest town of Oppidum and no one ever drives it. We have two planes here and most people that come to visit arrive from the sky, not over the land. Some of the cars haven't ever been driven."
I shrugged to resign myself to the reality of the failed idea. "It's fine. They don't go bad, so even if they sit for a hundred years, they'll still be ready to go if someone does decide to drive one. I could get rid of them and make the garage space into something more useful, but no one has ever complained and it's something that hasn't needed to be addressed.
"Down there," I pointed to a similarly sized wing that stretched to the west, "that's the barracks, the chapel, and servant's wing. The barracks is for when we have large quantities of visitors. That's another great idea I had during the design phase of this place that hasn't worked out. We've never used that space. None of the beds have ever been slept in. We'll do something with it one of these days, or we won't. No big deal either way.
"As for the servant's quarters, we don't have much use for that either. It's hard to keep help because we're so remote here. Cellarius is our one constant. The rest of the servants are rotating contractors. They use the space, but they use it like a hotel instead of a residence. No one lives there. I don't like it, having strangers around all the time, but I haven't figured out a solution. It makes me feel a little better that everyone is thoroughly vetted before they're allowed out here, but it's far from ideal."
"Chapel." Paul said as a question.
I realized I'd forgotten to include the space in my explanation even though I had mentioned it. "Yeah, Mary wanted to raise her girls in the church, as much as possible, so I had the space included in the original design of this place. I originally thought that Joe would be our chaplain, but..." I trailed off. The `Joe issue' was something I'd planned to talk to Paul about, just not right then. I skipped over my brother and hoped that Paul would as well.
"Bem wound up filling that role. He's really immersed himself in the faith. He's read The Bible so many times he has it memorized, and he's taken classes online to learn how to conduct services. He's also made thorough use that book you gave Joe."
Paul touched my arm to stop my speech. "Bem...the assassin...is the chaplain?"
I corrected Paul on his one misstatement before I went on with praise for Bem and his services. "Bem was a problem solver, never an assassin. He has killed people, but he never set out on a mission with death as the goal. It may sound like semantics to you, but I assure you, the difference is very important to Bem.
"As for his religious fervor, I admit that I find it trying at times, especially when he references the commandments by number when he thinks I've broken one. That said, he is a very good chaplain and conducts a pretty service. I mean, he's no Paul Miller." I teased the priest with an elbow to his ribs. He and Mary taught the girls and we all...well, most of us attend his weekly meetings. He's super excited to see you. He hoped you could give him some pointers on how to keep things fresh."
Paul stroked his wide chin with his right hand in a motion that seemed both thoughtful and a little worried. "I'll happily speak with him. I hope whatever advice I can offer doesn't fall short of his expectations."
I bumped Paul's upper arm with a sideways fist in a buddy gesture to set him at ease. "No pressure, my friend. He's not looking for the meaning of life, just some tips from a professional. Maybe, if you don't mind attending one of his services, you could give him notes or something. I think it would tickle him to death to have you in his audience."
"I don't often get to be on the receiving end of a church service." Paul said to himself more than he said it to me. He dropped his hand from his chin and slapped it against his thigh. "I'll do it. If it will make him happy, I'll attend one of his services while I'm here."
I bumped Paul's upper arm again and smiled at him. "Bem'll be stoked. Thanks, Paul." Paul grinned back, seemingly in agreement with me.
I turned on my feet to point along the estate again and gestured further out beyond the main structure to an outbuilding I wanted Paul to see. "Beyond the servant's wing, far enough for safety, is a runway and hangar for our planes. Like I said before, we're four hundred miles from Oppidum and even that isn't much of a town. It's a lot like a mining community in the old west. We go there for some things and that's where Shawn has his practice, but if we want to do any business or see any sights, we have to go to the capital and that's two-thousand miles from Oppidum."
I tried to explain the logistics, but I knew as I was doing it, that Paul would have to experience the trip to truly understand. "Anyway, we drive across the plains sometimes. As you saw, the Vic can handle the speed needed to traverse the distance in a reasonable amount of time, but it's a long boring drive and a hard one for the typical Solum car. A plane is faster and more practical. We have a cargo-style plane for larger loads and a jet for a quick commute. Shawn took the jet to town earlier to check in at his practice and to take my sister and her family into town."
I walked Paul back into the entryway and tried to explain a little more about the house. "You know, Paul, Shawn and I were on the road for a long time. We saw so much and met so many people, the bustle started to get overwhelming. On kind of a whim...actually, I think it was one of the anniversaries of the mission...anyway, we came back here to visit the statue, and we found the solace of this place to be very soothing.
"We love the cloudless blue sky and the bright sunshine during the day. We especially love it at night. Wait till you see it. It's so black, you feel like you can look right out in space. The stars are so bright and so close," I reached my right arm up like I was trying to put a finger on something just beyond my grasp, "it's like you could pluck them out of the heavens and put them in your pocket."
I dropped my arm to my side and looked to see what Paul thought of my words. "You're a poet." He grinned at me again, then his face drew down into a grave expression. "I've seen a sky like that, long ago, in South America. In my village the sky was like that. At night...I used to look at the stars and wonder. I used to think that just maybe they were holes in heaven, and if I picked the right one, and looked close, I might catch God looking back."
"It's you who's the poet." I remarked, a bit surprised at the whimsey of the man's words. It was a lovely thought, but he expressed it with such a serious face...I thought it odd but didn't ask him about it.
"Anyway, that's why this place is the way it is. We didn't want to build a traditional house in the middle of all this wonder and not be able to enjoy the wonder when we were inside. Almost every wall is transparent from the inside. The glass is `smart' in that it can be tinted to keep the view out, but its default is clear. And the lights," I pointed Paul's attention along the wall to a slit right at the corner that formed between the wall and the ceiling, "are up there where that seam is. When they're on, they light the room as brightly as you could want, but they cast no glare on the glass and cause no light pollution. You can see the stars right through them."
"Very impressive, young man, very impressive. This is quite an intimidating space. What else is on this floor?"
I turned my body to lead the way toward the ballroom at the back of the house and tripped over a very small, very lean, very tan man who was puttering along with his hands in his pockets. "DAMNIT CASS!" I shouted at the man as I stumbled and fought to get my feet under me without crashing to the ground. The diminutive man barely spared me a glance as he puttered along toward the open front door. I had to call him back once I had my feet under me. "PAPA!" I called. "PAPA CASS!"
The man turned and puttered his way into my presence. He was five feet tall and not a fraction more. If he weighed a hundred pounds, that would have been a lot. His face was drawn and deeply lined with age and worry, his jaw set tight, and his thin lips pressed together. The man's bright, cobalt blue eyes were incongruously intelligent and searching.
Cass wore a long sleeve button-down shirt with a pocket on the left breast and long pants over wedge heels. His outfit was a neon splash of seafoam green, yellow, electric blue, and coral pink. Cass's snow-white hair was combed straight back from his head, but as usual it had refused to stay put. His hair tended to change styles throughout the day like the clouds in the sky.
"Papa, I'm gonna step on you one of these days." I warned him. "I don't want to hurt you. Could you try not to sneak up on me like that? PLEASE?"
"Apologies, my boy." Cass said to me in a thin, reedy voice that quavered around in the upper reaches of his head. "I was on my way to have a stroll before dinner and suddenly there you were. I do believe it is you that sneaks up on me, my boy. Perhaps you should look before you leap. I used to tell my son that. My boy,' I'd say to him, you must always look before you leap.' `Yes, father,' he'd say because he was always an obedient boy."
Cass's monologue died with a gentle cough, like he was clearing a speck of dry dust from his throat, and he looked up at me. "Did you want something, my boy?"
I was tempted to smear my frustration across my face with both of my palms, but I held my hands at my sides. I introduced Paul Miller to Cassius Custos, Bem's father. The men shook hands and as usual, Cass had difficulty keeping the thread of the conversation. "Miller...Miller, odd name that. Odd. What's it mean? Does it mean something, my boy?" Cass asked Paul.
"Your boy?" Paul asked.
I tried to explain Cassius's oddity of speech to Paul. "He calls everyone that. He says it's his right because he's the oldest. We're all supposed to call him Dad.' I call him Papa because I like calling him Papa Cass. You know," I said as a short sidebar to Paul, "Like Mama Cass Elliott from the sixties band, The Mamas and The Papas. Always makes me sing Monday, Monday in my head. Anyway," I shrugged to get myself back on topic, "I call him Papa Cass, and Bem calls him father.'"
Paul nodded to my explanation and tried to answer Cass's question. "Miller is a surname from the ancient occupation of milling, or the act of grinding grain into flour."
Cass squinted up at Paul. "You're a farmer then? You don't look like a farmer. You're a bit fat to be a farmer. I used to work with farmers. The farmers I knew were all thin men. I brought my boy up around farmers. Taught him the value of a hard day's work. Noble profession that, farming."
"CASS!" I barked to stop the merry-go-round monologue. "Paul is not a farmer. Miller is just his last name. Paul is a man of God."
"OH!" Cass exclaimed with deep excitement. He grasped Paul's hand again and pumped it in a forceful car-salesman-style handshake. "My boy is one of them now. Started his own religion. Does a lot of talking about a fellow named Jesus. Sounds like a nice fellow. Have to meet him someday."
He released Paul's hand and slapped his hands together like he was dusting them off. "Gotta go now. Was on my way for a walk before dinner."
"Cass," I objected, "dinner won't be for hours yet."
"Good thing I'm walking now, then, isn't it?" Cass insisted and puttered away.
Paul and I watched Cass as he went through the front door and down the steps. He turned right and walked out of sight. Paul tried to ask me about Cass but couldn't seem to find the words. "Is he...does he...uhmmm...how shall I put this?"
"Yes," I said to anticipate the question, "he absolutely has a fucking screw loose."
"Young man?" Paul said as a question.
I looked at my guest and realized who I was talking to. I apologized again. "I'm sorry, Paul. He gets under my skin like a tick. That was Bem's father. He's a retired lawyer from a little farming community. Bem brought him to live here when he moved here with Mary and the girls. He wanted to reconnect with the old man. He hadn't seen him or really kept up with him for years. When he came to live here, he just seemed to blend in with the furniture. He wanders around and says silly things. He calls everyone `my boy.'
"We thought there was something wrong with him. Shawn examined him and said he is perfectly fine. He doesn't seem to be getting any worse, so we leave him be. Bem told us that he's always been scattered and a little goofy. He also told us that he was a very well-respected lawyer, but I don't see how he could have been, acting like he does. I'll tell you this, he's as spry as a grasshopper in the spring. He moves around this estate on those damn quiet feet of his and you never know where you'll find him.
"He'll walk miles and miles out across the plains. You'll find him up on the roof, up on the mountain, on every section of the climbing wall, and if you confront him about what he's doing, he looks at you like you're the lunatic. I trip over him like you would a cat in a dark room, but it never teaches him to stay out from underfoot. I'm so afraid that one of these days I'm going to step right on him, but he always skitters out of the way while I'm struggling for balance.
"Anyway," I said as I calmed down from my little rant on Cass, "he's Bem's father and he's two-hundred-and-forty-two or three years old. He had Bem when he was one-fifty or so. He's very proud of Bem, to the point that it embarrasses Bem. He thinks Bem invented Catholicism and that Jesus Christ is someone `he sure would like to talk to one of these days.'" I said in a reedy voice that approximated Cass's as much as possible.
"I started calling him Papa Cass' as a joke with myself." I explained the name again. "He tried to get me to call him Dad,' but I just can't. I hated my father, as you well know, so calling him Papa is as affectionate as I can get with Cass. That's the story." I said with a shrug of finality. Paul grinned a broad smile at me. "I think he's lovely, his startling grasp of theology aside. I can't wait to get to know him better."
I laughed at Paul's attitude. "I'm going to remind you that you said that." I warned him and led the way to resume the tour of the house.
I showed Paul around the ballroom at the back of the house to the right. It was built just like the entryway but was a big square instead of a shallow rectangle. We called it `the ballroom,' but it was just a space to entertain. Its special feature was its floor. It looked like plain black glass, but it was far from plain anything. It was a triumph of engineering and design, a fully controllable surface that could take on any shape.
Any part of it could be called on to create a stage for plays or live music, it could be turned into stadium seating for screening films, it could remain flat for large dancing crowds, or, as discussed recently with Andy, it could be turned into a catwalk for a fashion show. The other cool feature of the room was that the rear wall could be opened completely to the outside and onto a balcony that was the same dimension as the inside space.
We moved from there to the last corner of the second floor, behind the entryway and to the left, was the formal dining room. This was the only single-story space on the second floor, and it housed a highly polished and ornately inlaid mahogany table long enough to seat fifty with full banquet service. It also had a matching buffet sideboard and a lot of other very formal crap.
I didn't much like the room as it was too stuffy for my taste, but it was the one concession I'd made in the design of the house. Shawn's Uncle Ars had insisted that as members of Solum's ultra-rich elite, Shawn and I would need a space that was fit to entertain other members of the ultra-rich elite. I agreed begrudgingly and let Ars dictate the style of the space. The ceiling was a simple light panel, and the walls were screens to display whatever dŽcor was appropriate for whatever event we were hosting. In the seven years since we'd completed the estate, we'd never used it for its intended purpose, and that was fine with me.
Behind the dining room and on a balcony that could only be seen from that room when we wanted it to be, was the pool. It was twice the size of an Earth Olympic style pool and had a slide, a high dive, a low dive, a big shallow section for lounging and a separate hot tub for more intimate lounging. The pool was accessible from the ground via a set of glass stairs, or from the ballroom balcony via a retractable catwalk that could be reeled in and locked off if we threw a party and didn't want revelers in the pool.
Paul and I came out of the dining room and went down the short hallway that separated it from the ballroom until we arrived back in the entryway. We passed a private staircase that Paul asked me about, but I refused to discuss until later, and entered the very edge of the servant's wing to access the chapel.
The chapel didn't have anything to do with the servant's wing. We'd put it there, at the head of the corridor, because that's what made the most design sense. If I had it to do over again, I would have found a different place for the space. I still figured I'd have the room cut from the house so I could relocate it at some point, but that point hadn't yet come.
I escorted Paul through the perpetually glowing stained-glass door and into the room that served the religious needs of my extended family. The room was intimate and asymmetrical, like someone had sliced away Joseph's side of a diminutive traditional church and added it to our house.
The door opened into what would have been the center aisle, but it was the only aisle on the left side of the space. It directed one's gaze to a simple wooden cross hung on the opposite wall. The cross was made from unfinished blond poplar, roughly milled and joined with pegs of the same wood. When we'd needed a cross, Shawn and I discussed what we could make it out of. The easy thing would have been black glass or a precious metal. We could have easily afforded to have it made of almost any material.
There was some talk about having the cross made from the stone of the mountain but that didn't seem right because of the mountain's name. Creating a symbol of Christ from the stone of the Demon's Citadel cut against the grain of even my atrophied religious sensibilities. We thought and thought until Shawn hit on just the right answer.
He called his uncle and was granted special permission for us to revisit the box canyon in the Glosbe Mountains where we'd trained with Neb and Bem before the first mission. We went there to retrieve a section of the giant poplar tree that I'd wrenched from the ground with my first big show of practical magic. It was from that wood that I'd fashioned the cross.
Next to the cross at the front of the room was the lectern, also made of blond poplar so it would match, but built from commercially sourced wood. This stood on a small riser in front of the six rows of pews with fold down kneelers. These were the same blond wood as the lectern but had conservative dark blue upholstery on the seats and the kneelers. The room itself was plain, with white partition walls, a black glass floor, and transparent exterior walls and ceiling.
Paul and I followed the aisle to the end and slid into the front pew. Paul crossed himself and genuflected before he sat. I did the same. "A simple, pleasant space." Paul observed. "A lovely space."
Paul gestured through the clear wall behind the cross. As the chapel was on the front of the estate, the transparent wall faced the plains to the south and hundreds of miles of nothing but yellow scrub and blue sky. "The starkness of that view...I would say that is as close to infinite as the human mind can comprehend. Yes, this is a lovely space. I feel very peaceful here."
"Me to." I admitted.
"Do you indeed?" Paul looked at me along his eyes with unveiled scrutiny, like he was trying to read an explanation for my peace in my expression. "I thought you had no faith."
"I don't have any, not in God or organized religion." I rubbed the back of my neck with the heel of my right hand and tried to find the right words to explain the peace I felt in the chapel. "I believe in my friend Bem, and his passion for the pretty story in The Bible. I believe in my sister and her faith in God and his teachings. I believe in my nieces and that this is the right thing to teach them. I believe in my husband and the joy he takes in these services. I believe in the peace that being in this room brings me. I believe in the comfort that religion, if carefully applied, can bring to the human soul. I don't think I need God to feel good about this place."
Paul turned his face toward me as I spoke and watched me quietly. "I was wrong about you," he said as I finished, "you're not a poet. You, young man, are a philosopher. You are so close to the true definition of faith, but you claim to have none. It is my fervent hope that you can one day put the bitterness of your past behind you and embrace the comfort of religion, to use your words."
I worried that Paul was getting ready to break our unspoken agreement with an attempt to bring me back `into the fold' of the faith. I hoped a gentle warning would deter him. "Don't..." I said when he interrupted me with a raised hand.
"Never fear, never fear my friend. It is not my intention to proselytize. I am fully aware that all I would accomplish by any attempt to do that, would be to risk our friendship. I treasure our friendship and respect your decision far too much to take that risk."
"Thank you, Father...I mean, Paul. Thank you for understanding."
Paul and I spent a few more minutes enjoying the chapel, but as we were in the middle of a tour, we didn't linger. We returned to the corridor and made our way to the staircase I'd skipped earlier. We climbed the stairs to the space above the dining room.
Up there, was my favorite space. That's where Shawn and I lived. It was our apartment. The space was designed as a close copy of Shawn's studio apartment in Epistylium. It was the same size and furnished in the same style. The only difference was the transparent walls and ceiling.
It also had a great, big balcony made of glass that could be tinted just like the walls could. The balcony had a stone hot tub inspired by the natural rock formation behind the waterfall at the training grounds in the Glosbe Mountains. We used the hot tub so often that we'd reset the balcony glass default to frosted glass so Shawn and I could spend time outside in our all-togethers and be assured of complete privacy.
Paul and I climbed the stairs and went down the short hallway to the twin doors that separated Shawn and my private space from the rest of the main house. One door was for the apartment and the other was for a compact gym that only we used. I said my name to the apartment door, and it opened for us. I walked into the apartment ahead of Paul and breathed the familiar scent of my husband and my home. It made me miss Shawn all the more. I hoped he'd be home soon. I especially hoped for some private free time before dinner.
Paul jerked me out of my fantasy with a comment on the apartment. "Why so small in the middle of all this grandeur?" He asked.
I waved a dismissive hand around the room, intending for it to take in the entire estate with one sweeping motion. "All this is nice, but it can be overwhelming. I didn't really even want this much house, but..." I shrugged and didn't finish my statement. The argument had long since been lost and we had as much house as we had and that's all there was to it. I got back to what I'd been saying without further comment. "This is our retreat from our retreat. In this room, it's just me and my husband and nothing else."
Paul cocked his head to think and rested his large right hand under his wide jaw. "You've been married for...how many years now? It's quite a while."
"Sixteen years this July the tenth." I announced proudly.
Paul pulled a chair from the black kitchen island and sat. He seemed to deflate as he rested himself. I wondered if the morning had been too much for him. I offered him a cup of coffee and he accepted. I made one for him with cream and sugar and a black one for me. I passed his cup across to him and leaned on the counter to drink mine.
"That's a long time to do anything." Paul observed into his cup. He took a sip from the mug and nodded his approval, then addressed me with fatherly concern on his face. "Are you still happy? Is your life good? It would be easy to look around and see all this material wealth and assume you must be happy. Many would think `what reason could anyone with all these things have to be otherwise?' I know the reality. I've been a confessor and a comfort and a shoulder to cry on for long enough to know that the people who have every reason to be happy, are often the ones who are desperately sad."
I recognized the seriousness of the question and felt that it was very important for me to answer Paul honestly. For whatever reason, the man had asked me a deeply thoughtful and caring question and I needed to respond in kind. I sipped my own coffee as I thought over what he'd asked. `Was I happy? Was my life good?' It would have been easy to tell him everything was great and get on with the tour, but that would have been an oversimplification. There was more to it than that and Paul had a right to an honest answer.
I drank some more coffee and formulated the words in my head before they came out of my mouth. "I love my husband, and he loves me. We have a great relationship. When I came back here, to Solum, after you and I met, Shawn made me go to therapy. I mentioned that to you when we were in the car this morning. I had a lot to deal with.
"I hated myself for most of my life. I thought it was because of what happened with my parents, but that was only the tip of a very ugly iceberg. I hated myself for being gay and for not being good enough and for being ugly and fat and angry and too tall and for smoking and drinking and eating too much of all the wrong stuff and for not going to college and for not being a success and for everything and anything you could name."
I set my cup down and rubbed my face with my palms. My right hand reached for my bracelet again, but I forced the hand away and put it in my pocket. "I was able to come to terms with a lot of that with the help of Doctor Recolens and Shawn. The process wasn't all about me either. Shawn has demons he deals with. We were able to work on his issues as well.
"We're both healthier people now, better people, I guess. We're better for each other. I don't live every moment in terror that he'll leave me, and he doesn't have to filter everything he says and does when he's around me, through the lens of my damage. I've also come to accept the idea that this is really my life and that my husband loves me. He and I, we're both easier to live with than we were before.
"That said," I lost the thread of what I was saying and had to think for a second to get it back, "that said, I'm still looking for the `why.' I have yet to find the meaning...purpose maybe is the better word. Shawn has a hugely successful surgical practice. When someone needs an organ replaced or a full body cancer treatment or something like that, it usually takes a team of doctors all working together to provide the energy needed for the procedure.
"When Shawn first opened his practice, he became known for being able to perform those treatments single handedly. Initially, he was only able to do that with me there to power the procedures. I was his battery, and I was happy to do it. It wasn't the same thing as being the doctor that did the saving, but it made me feel good. I felt like I was helping people."
I shook my head to myself and sighed as I got to the part of the story I didn't like. "What Shawn didn't realize until a chance accident in front of his office forced him to attempt a procedure that he shouldn't have been able to do by himself, was that living with me had stretched his capacity.
"My power had increased his magic reserve to the point where he didn't need me anymore, so that outlet is lost to me. I take some comfort in the fact that my power is what made it so he could do the work by himself, but it's small consolation when he leaves for work in the morning and I'm stuck trying to figure out how to kill the time until he gets home."
Paul swirled his coffee around in his mug and drained it. He handed it across the island to me and I put it back in the culinarian for a refill. I finished my own cup and did the same with mine. "That doesn't mean I'm completely idle." I went on as I made the selections on the machine and got the cups back from it.
"I'm useful to this world. They call me for disaster relief. My magic helps energize the rescue workers and my telekinesis and white magic are useful in building collapses or mining accidents. Shawn's talents are useful in those instances as well. We're well known around this world as THE team to call whenever the situation is really bad."
Paul accepted his fresh cup of coffee from me and tasted it. "Delicious," he observed, then got back on topic, "we certainly could have used someone like you during the Mexico City earthquake recovery work."
I nodded my agreement and used both my hands to raise my coffee cup to my lips. Keeping them both on the cup meant it was easier to keep my right hand away from my bracelet. "So, I help people, and that's great, but then what? When everyone is safe and the mess or whatever is cleaned up, they shake my hand and thank me and I come back here, or go to the apartment in the capital, and Shawn goes off to his practice, and I stick my thumb in my ass."
The part of my mind that wasn't speaking, the part that was listening to what I was saying, reminded me that I was talking to a priest and that maybe I shouldn't say things like `stick my thumb in my ass.' I apologized for my language for the second or third or fourth time since I'd picked Paul up from the rectory that morning.
Paul set his cup down on the surface of the island and told me no apology was needed. "Don't censor yourself around me." He insisted. "I took the collar off so the people of this world would be comfortable around me and so I could be comfortable around them. I have no intentions of breaking my vows, but I'm not going to `be a priest' while I'm here."
I thanked Paul for his understanding and explained there was more behind my desire to keep my language in check than just his presence. "I try not to be vulgar because Shawn doesn't like it, but sometimes, especially when I'm angry, the construction worker comes out of me. Shawn tells me my `welder is showing' when I say things like that."
"He's good for you." Paul observed.
"He is."
"On the other matter, finding your `why' as you put it," Paul said, "don't lose heart. Open yourself to every new experience you encounter, and something will click for you."
I thanked Paul for his advice, and we lapsed into silence as we finished our coffee.