Chapter 2: The Blueprint Of Desire

The bell for morning prayer echoes through the cold halls of the convent house, pulling me from a restless sleep. I wake up with his face etched into my mind, a persistent image that I haven’t been able to shake since yesterday. I dress quickly in my heavy habit, my fingers fumbling with the fabric.

We are summoned for a mandatory meeting in the assembly hall. Our superior, Sister Kira, stands at the front of the room with a stack of rosters. She is a stern woman who values order above all else. She begins instructing the group on our new assignments for the reconstruction project.

“Sister Clara,” she says, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “You are assigned to sketch the murals. You will work directly under the supervision of Father Julian.”

My heart throbs against my ribs. A wave of heat rushes through me, and for some reason, I feel a surge of genuine happiness. I try to suppress it immediately. I know I need to have a professional word with him if he is to be my supervisor, but the thought of being alone with him in the dim corners of the church makes my pulse race.

Later that morning, I sit in the breakfast room with Maya. The room is quiet, filled only with the sound of clinking spoons and low whispers. Maya leans in close, her eyes scanning the room to make sure no one is listening.

“The rules are getting stricter since the construction started,” Maya whispers, stirring her oatmeal. “Kira is obsessed with us staying away from the site workers. She says the secular world is a distraction we can’t afford. It feels like they are locking us down even more than usual.”

“It is for our protection, Maya,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction. “The church has to maintain its sanctity during the chaos.”

“Sanctity is one thing, but boredom is another,” Maya counters with a playful roll of her eyes. “I just hope we get to see more of the Los Angeles architect. This place needs some life.”

Just then, the heavy oak doors swing open. Julian walks in alongside Father Max, a priest who has been in Bar Harbor for years. Even in a room full of men in collars, Julian draws every ounce of attention. He moves with a confident, athletic stride that feels entirely too modern for these ancient walls. Seeing him makes my heart throb again, harder than before. I quickly look down at my plate, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

I hear his footsteps stop right in front of our table.

“Sister Clara,” he says. His voice is rich and clear, vibrating through the small space between us. “I was told you are the artist for the murals.”

I am so shocked that I nearly drop my fork. I stand up quickly, my chair scraping against the floor, and nod. “Yes, Father. That is me.”

“Follow me,” he says simply.

I blink, completely confused by his bluntness. “What? Now?”

“We need to get to work,” he replies. He doesn’t offer a polite smile; he just watches me with those intense, searching eyes.

I look down at my half-eaten breakfast and then at Maya, who is staring at Julian with her mouth slightly open. Father Max clears his throat, looking a bit uncomfortable with Julian’s forwardness.

“Julian, perhaps we should give her a moment,” Max suggests. “It looks like she is still eating her breakfast.”

“I am done,” I say quickly, pushing my plate away. I don’t want to keep him waiting, and the truth is, I am suddenly too nervous to eat another bite.

Julian turns and walks out of the room without waiting for a reply. I follow behind him and Max, my hands tucked into my sleeves to hide the way they are shaking. Every step I take toward the construction site feels like a step further away from the safety of my vows.

The mural site is quiet, the air smelling of old stone and fresh plaster. I sit on a low wooden stool, my sketchbook resting on my knees, while Julian stands over a set of architectural plans. The light from the high, arched windows catches the sharp lines of his profile, making him look more like a statue than a man.

He begins to speak, his voice low and professional as he points toward the empty expanse of the vaulted ceiling. “The central theme needs to be the ascension,” he says, his hands moving through the air to map out the space. “I want the lines to be fluid but structured. We need a focus on the light breaking through the clouds here, at the highest point of the arch. The shadows should fall toward the corners to create depth.”

I nod, my pen scratching against the paper. But I am not drawing clouds. I am not drawing the ascension. My hand moves on its own, driven by the image burned into my mind from the moment he caught me in the fog. I trace the curve of his jaw. I shade the intensity of his eyes and the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. I am lost in the rhythm of his voice, using it as a soundtrack to capture his likeness.

“Focus on the transition between the celestial and the earthly planes,” he continues, unaware of what I am doing. “The figures in the background should be less defined, almost ethereal, to pull the eye toward the center.”

After a few minutes, he stops talking and holds out his hand. “Let me see the preliminary layout.”

My heart stops. I realize too late what I have done. I hesitantly hand him the sketchbook, my fingers trembling. As he looks down at the page, his face changes instantly. The professional mask slips, replaced by a look of confusion that quickly turns into visible frustration.

“You are sketching me,” he says. His voice is flat, almost accusing.

I gasp, my face burning with a heat so intense it feels like a physical fever. I reach out and snatch the book back from his hand, hugging it to my chest. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… I was just practicing lines.”

It is a lie, and we both know it. He walks toward me, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the small space. Each step he takes forward, I take a step back, my heart thumping against my ribs. I hit the cold stone wall behind me and stop. He is so close now that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

He stops just inches away, his eyes searching mine with a look that is far too intimate for a priest. He looks frustrated, but there is something else underneath it, a flicker of curiosity.

“Concentrate, Sister Clara,” he says softly. He takes a breath and steps back, putting distance between us, though the tension remains. “We have a lot of work to do.” He pauses, his gaze falling to the sketchbook I am still clutching. “But you are a very good artist. The likeness is… precise.”

I look at the floor, absolutely embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Father. It won’t happen again. Let’s do it again. From the top.”

He watches me for a long moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black trousers. “Is your mind occupied with something else today?”

“No,” I whisper, though every nerve in my body is screaming the opposite. “My mind is on the work. I promise.”

I sit back down on the wooden stool, trying to steady my breathing. I keep my eyes strictly on the paper this time, desperate to regain my composure.

“I’ll start over,” Julian says. His voice is a little tighter now, but he begins to walk through the layout again. As he explains the perspective of the grand ceiling, he frequently leans over my shoulder to look at the sketch. He wants to make sure I am getting the proportions of the archway right this time. Every time he leans in, the scent of his sandalwood cologne washes over me, making my hand shake as I draw the celestial lines he describes.

“The light needs to break here,” he says, his finger hovering just above the paper to point at the center of my sketch. “It has to feel like an explosion of grace.”

I nod, my focus entirely on the movement of his hand. When he finally stops talking, the silence in the church feels heavy, charged with the words we aren’t saying.

“I think I have it now,” I whisper. I stand up to give him the finished mural sketch, but my movements are clumsy because of the nerves still humming under my skin. The sketchbook slips from my fingers.

It falls to the stone floor with a dull thud.

I immediately bend down to pick it up at the exact same moment he moves to help me. Our movements are perfectly in sync. Just as my fingers reach for the edge of the paper, his hand lands squarely on top of mine.

His palm is warm and broad, pressing my hand into the cold stone. I freeze. A sudden, violent wave of heat surges through my body, starting from the point where our skin meets and racing straight to my heart. It is a physical shock, an electric charge that makes the air in the room feel thin.

We stay like that, frozen in the shadows of the empty church. I slowly lift my head, and I find him already looking at me. His face is only inches from mine. His eyes are dark, filled with a hunger that has nothing to do with religion, and for the first time, I see his composure completely shatter. Neither of us moves. Neither of us pulls away.