The red bleeds out from the white marble and spills out onto the floor. It seems to go on forever. The sandaled feet shuffle by pausing at the Alter to bow after taking the body. It is another Pentecost and Lyllian has forgotten to wear red. Her mind is swelling with plans and half thoughts. Mass moves along outside of her as it often does. Seventeen-year old Lyllian is thinking about Michael. The brown eyes and kind smile. The way they walk closely together his arm brushing hers. The way they sit together sometimes, her head leaning on his legs and his long fingers stroking her curls. Occasionally stealing in her mouth as she yawns. A great laugh bursting from him at her mock indignation.

Lately his kisses have been deeper, their meaning like dewdrops decorating an early grass. Gentle and remarkable though so simple, so unextraordinary.  She is contemplating his arms around her when she feels the weight of her mother’s stare. Rose is grimacing with raised eyebrows at a daughter so clearly not paying mind to Mass. Lyllian blinks and joins in as the Our Father is intoned, the voices echoing in the large warm sanctuary of Saint Mark Catholic church. It’s not as though she does not believe. She does! But sometimes she feels like a leaf carried along a river with no control over her destination or speed. God is like that in her family. You are either Catholic or you are wrong. 

Next Chapter: Lucy, Before, New York, May 1922