Read Online The Dress Shop of Dreams by Menna van Praag - Free Book Online Page A

her window. It had been the same book, red leather and gold. How could she have forgotten that? The book must be something pretty special and she’s honored that he’d wanted to share it with her. But what was it? Cora makes a mental note to investigate the matter on her return home.
    The priest looks down at his fingers resting on the feet of the statue. St. Francis wears sandals, the nails of his ten marble toes smoothed away by thousands of hands over hundreds of years. Father Sebastian can’t remember how long he’s been standing there. What was he meant to be doing? What time is it? He’s hungry. It must be nearly midday. Confession. That’s what he’s supposed to do now. Before he stopped by St. Francis, Sebastian had been on his way to the confessional.
    He shuffles across the stone floor, his soft leather shoes sliding past the pulpit, shaking himself free of his memories so he’ll be able to listen to his parishioners. He knows most of them think he nods off while they talk, sleeping through their minor transgressions, dozing during their petty sins. Probably they’d prefer it that way. But Sebastian never sleeps during confession, despite the soft velvet cushions and dim light. It wouldn’t beright. And he tries to be as good as he possibly can, after the great wrong he once did, always vainly attempting to level his lopsided balance sheet, even though his heart isn’t really in the religion of it anymore. In fact, if he’s honest with himself, Sebastian’s heart hasn’t been with the church in a long time. He goes through the motions, the rituals, the pomp and circumstance, but at the end of each day he feels more detached, more alone than when he woke.
    Sebastian settles into his seat and leans his head against the wood, letting a small sigh escape his lips. He feels the presence of someone else alongside him, another soul seeking redemption. And, before he even speaks, Sebastian knows who it is. He can’t help a smile.
    “I’ve met someone, Father. A woman.” The words tumble out in a rush of excitement. “A real woman, one who actually looks me in the eye without laughing.”
    “Well, that’s a wonderful thing,” Sebastian says. “And I’m very happy for you. But, strictly speaking, you aren’t really supposed to be here, are you?”
    “I didn’t steal someone else’s place,” Walt protests. “There was no one waiting, so I just thought—”
    “But you’re not a Catholic, dear boy,” says Sebastian gently. “And you don’t have anything to confess, do you?”
    “No,” Walt admits. “But I like talking to you. You’re such a good listener.”
    The priest smiles again. He knows the real reason Walt comes to him. For, while he listens carefully to each of his parishioners, there is no need. He’s always been able to see people’s stories on their faces: their greatest regrets, fears, hopes and dreams, hanging in the air around their heads and hearts. He only has to look at a person to suddenly feel exactly whatthey feel. And so it was with Walt, ten years ago. But still Sebastian listens, because it’s the right thing to do and because, while he does so, he is able to forget about himself.
    “I think,” Walt continues, buoyant as a balloon, “I think she might actually … like me. Not just my voice, but me.”
    “But this is not Cora?” Sebastian frowns. “The one you’re in love with?”
    “No.” Walt sinks back to the floor. “Not her, I’m trying to forget about her.”
    “Oh. Okay.” Father Sebastian feels the sudden stab of pain in Walt’s chest as if it had just happened to him and decides not to pry. “And who is this new girl?” He’s vaguely aware that, in these politically correct days, he shouldn’t really call grown women “girls” but he can’t help it. Any woman not of his generation seems like a girl to him.
    “Milly.” Walt smiles. “Her name is Milly. And she’s nearly forty. Seventeen years older than me. But it doesn’t