Anita squinted, tried to steady herself. Failing that, she tried to steady the vision before her by rolling her head in circles with the distortion. Since when had Claude asked her for advice? Something told her not to trust this man.

But, if she started listening to that instinct now, she might start questioning her marriage.

“Oh, God,” Anita pleaded. “I don’t know, you’ve always been better at this kind of thing. And you’re a priest now.”

A priest! Last she’d heard, Claude was … fixing chairs? A lot of chairs? Something like that. But she rather liked the idea of her most beloved son as a sexless, naive saint. Was that selfish of her? No. God wanted it that way.

“You don’t suffer from that,” Anita reassured with a dismissive toss of her hand. “Besides, God wouldn’t’ve let you become a priest if that were true, so either you sold your soul to Satan or you don’t have a problem.”

Speaking of problems, she was starting to catch too many words and almost be able to think about hers. She stuck two fingers down the hem of her skirt, over her hip … drew out a little bottle, then popped the cork. When she tipped it back, she found but a drop left and barely that.

“Claude,” she said, warmly, though her eyes were still fixed on the nip like it was a telescope seeking far off dry land. “Where do you keep the communion wine?”