CHAPTER 8
My phone rang at seven o’clock. I groped for it.
“Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything—”
“Ah, Goldy the caterer?” said Father Olson.
“Oh, Lord!” I gargled into the mouthpiece. “Who told you?”
“Er—”
“I mean, how could you have found out? It was just last night!”
“What?”
I pressed my face into my pillow and knew better than to speak. An awkward silence ensued while I involuntarily recalled the Sunday school teaching on s****l activity between single adults—“… either single and celibate or married and faithful.”
Oh well. The silence lengthened. Father Olson cleared his throat.
I sat up gingerly, wondering if priests were frequently greeted with early morning guilt. Maybe they learned to ignore it. After a minute, Father Olson resumed a normal tone. “I’m sorry to call so
