Disclaimer: Patrick McKenna doesn't belong to me; I'm just letting him out of the Vatican for a bit. Also, I've never been to Rome and I'm a lapsed Catholic, so it's a given that I've gotten a ton of details wrong. Just enjoy the story for what it is.

Like a Prayer

Chapter 1

Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there
Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery
Just like a dream, you are not what you seem
Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there
—Madonna

I'm standing at the window and I should be enjoying the beauty of Rome bathed in late afternoon sunlight — it's one of the reasons I wanted the apartment, because it's at the top of a hill and even on the ground floor I have an excellent view — but I'm not really seeing it at all. I'm busy crushing on a priest. Father Patrick McKenna to be exact.

I first saw him a couple of weeks after I arrived here, when he was celebrating mass in Latin. I'd been going to mass at St. Peter's — it seemed like the holiest place to go — and immediately I noticed that he didn't drone when he chanted, that he spoke the ancient words as if he meant every single one of them. There was an intensity about him, a fervor that long ago had died to complacency in the older priests I'd seen before him. And so instead of my mind wandering and only catching the occasional phrases I knew, I found myself staring at him, trying to parse his words through his movements and facial expressions, and in the process I seared his image in my mind: the severe side part in his honey-brown hair, the cleft in his chin so chiseled it could break glass, the stern blue-green eyes the color of the 50-foot waves at Mavericks.

Then later that week I went to confession and, unbeknownst to me, he was on the other side of the screen. I had figured out that most of the Vatican priests didn't speak English well, if at all, and if I blithely nattered on about my sins in English instead of Italian, free-associating at high speed, the poor priests would simply absolve the crazy American and send her on her way. So I was admitting to my intense, irrational hatred for John Elway dating back to his days at Stanford when suddenly the voice I'd heard at mass earlier that week interrupted dryly, "Well, that's not good, my child."

That voice. It had rung with conviction in Latin but hadn't given a hint of the Irish accent I now heard quite clearly when he spoke English. And I'm a sucker for an Irish accent. So even though he was rightly taking me to task, the combination of the accent with his glacial good looks turned me into a puddle of goo right there in the confessional. And I haven't been able to get him out of my mind since.

It's not love. I'm not fooling myself. I know what I'm feeling is intemperate lust and that I don't even know Father Patrick McKenna, I've only created this idea of him in my mind. He probably smokes cigars. Is a diehard Lakers fan. Hates baseball.

And — that's it. I've indulged my imagination enough for one day.

Determined to put him out of my mind, I start wrestling furniture around. The apartment came fully furnished (another reason I took it), but now I wonder if it would feel more spacious if the sofa goes from the middle of the room to the side, its back against the wall facing the window.

I try out the vantage point from the sofa's new location. I'm not sure about it, but I can always move things back later, I reason as I move the end table and coffee table, then roll up the area rug now exposed by the furniture I moved.

There's a trapdoor in the floor.

My landlady had said nothing about a basement or storage room beneath my apartment, and I'm intrigued. I hoist the heavy door on the second try and see stairs leading down to somewhere lost in darkness. I pull out my keychain flashlight, a plastic gecko with a bulb in its mouth, and I see that beneath isn't another room, it's a passageway.

The stairs are dusty and as I walk down them I wonder when the last time was someone used them. As I hurry along the narrow passageway, eager to find out what's at the other end, I notice there are no other passageways branching off, just a slight incline downwards and the occasional corner, and no lamps or other lights.

The incline gradually reverses and I start climbing, and then I find myself at the bottom of another set of stairs leading to a trapdoor. I walk up the stairs almost to the top, take a deep breath, then put the gecko in my pocket, plunging me into darkness, and push up against the door.

It doesn't budge, and I realize it might have a rug over it, too and I push harder. It lifts slightly, and I go up another stair, bending to put more shoulder into it and it lifts again, a little higher. As I push against the door with my back as well, it suddenly occurs to me to wonder what's on the other side. Or, more to the point, who.

I could be muscling my way into a terrorist cell where they're toting up grenades and assault rifles, or a satanic cabal in the middle of a blood sacrifice, or the bedroom of some poor pensioner who I'm giving a heart attack from fright…

Just as I'm about to turn around and go back the trapdoor suddenly is light in my hands and slams open. I look up — and into a pair of startled blue-green eyes.

"F-father Patrick?"

His alarmed expression relaxes. "Thank goodness. I thought I might have to have this room exorcised."

"I — " But what can I say? Anyway, he's reaching his hand down to me and helping me up, playing the gracious if bemused host as he offers me a cup of tea, and I'm too disoriented to refuse.

I'm in Father Patrick's study, it looks like, as I take a moment to look around as he goes to put the water on. An oriental carpet had covered the trapdoor, crumpled now in a heap against the wall. Bookshelves line another wall, and the books look old and important, with hard covers and unadorned spines. This is a serious library for a serious man.

He comes back with a wooden desk chair, placing it near an upholstered wingback and gesturing for me to take the comfy chair. I hesitate out of politeness, nervously pushing my hair back from my face — and feel cobwebs there. I'm getting dirt all over a priest's apartment.

He's about to sit down on the desk chair when I slide onto it ahead of him as if we're playing musical chairs and it's the last seat. Luckily he moves deliberately in his long black priest's robe or he would have wound up sprawled in my lap, and I promise God if I can get through this interview without embarrassing myself any further I will do something incredibly pious and repentant as soon as I can think what exactly that would be.

He settles into the wingback chair and considers me. "You seem to know who I am."

"Yes. I've been to mass when — "I start to explain, and then realize he was asking me to introduce myself. "Oh! I'm Miri. Miri Stannis." He frowns slightly, as if he's heard my name before but doesn't remember where. I supply helpfully, "My parents are big 'Star Trek' fans, they named me after one of the characters on the show."

He merely nods at the information. "You know, Miri, most people come to the door of my chambers when they wish to see me."

My words tumble out in an effort to assure him. "And I would have, Father, if I'd actually wanted to see you, but — I mean, of course I would want to see you, but I didn't mean to see you, now, like this. I mean, I didn't know — " A random thought occurs to me and I blurt out, "Am I in Vatican City?"

"Yes, you are. And you came from…?" he encourages.

"Rome! My apartment in Rome!"

He looks puzzled and fascinated. "You mean there's a passageway between your apartment and my chambers — between Rome and Vatican City?"

"Yes!" My shoulders slump as I try to figure out the implications of that, and can't. All I can manage is, "Isn't that weird?"

"Indeed." The electric kettle starts to whistle and he holds up a finger. "Hold that thought."

I not only hold the thought, I hold my position, afraid to move and spread more dust than I absolutely have to. When Father Patrick comes back with a matching tea set on a tray and some shortbread cookies I finally straighten and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, and as he sets the tray down I have a sudden picture of him sitting in the wingback chair, studying the Bible and casually snacking. I don't know whether to laugh at myself or not.

He pours for us both, and I try not to notice the look he gives me when I refuse cream and sugar, as if I'm not quite civilized. I wouldn't say I disagree with him. He takes a sip, and then regards me intently. "Where are you living in Rome, then, Miri?"

I tell him the street, and describe the neighborhood. "Maybe in the past this was the kitchen and the Vatican needed access to the markets, the commercial district, for supplies?"

He shakes his head. "These have always been the chambers for the camerlengo."

"The camerlengo?"

"The chamberlain for His Holiness."

I nod, although I'm no more enlightened by his explanation. Looks like I'll need to spend some time at the wireless café with the baristas who "hey baby" every woman who walks through the door. (I do my best to think of them as insouciant and not sexist swine, but it's been difficult.)

I try out another idea on him. "Maybe...this was a stop on Italy's version of the underground railroad?"

"Because of its infamous African slave trade?"

Okay, that was stupid. "Or during the war, the Vatican was smuggling prisoners of conscience...around." He gives me a look and I know he's thinking the same thing I am — that my hypothetical prisoners would either have to make their way from Rome to the Vatican, only to be smuggled out to Rome again, or vice versa. Pretty futile. So I say in self-defense, "This might not be the only secret passage to your chambers, Father Patrick. There could be several."

"A whole network of them, going all the way to the coast." He nods sagely, and I know he's making fun of me. I can feel myself starting to sulk — he hasn't had any brilliant ideas, has he? — and I reach for a cookie to calm me down.

I can tell just by looking at them they're store-bought. He deserves some homemade shortbread, I find myself thinking. And if I'm going to make some for him I might as well make some for his boss —

Whoa. Time out. Making cookies for the pope? Really? What is wrong with me?

I stand up abruptly, thankful for the small favor of not upsetting my teacup. Or his. "I don't mean to take up your time, Father Patrick, I interrupted you and you were probably — "

But he's asking, "Would you mind if I followed you back, to see where the passage leads?"

"Of course not!" Relieved to be moving, I'm down the steps quick as a shot, clicking on the gecko to light our way.

There's only room for us to walk single file and I turn to lead the way when he asks, "Who is Johnson, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The back of your shirt, it says 'Johnson' and '51.'"

"Oh! Randy Johnson!" As I lead him back to my apartment I tell him about The Big Unit, the six-foot-ten sidewinding lefty who in his prime regularly threw over 100 mph and whose slider made left-handed hitters beg to be taken out of the lineup, about his five Cy Young awards and his two no-hitters and his perfect game, his World Series performance with the Diamondbacks —

I need to shut up. I swing around to face him, catching him in the light of the gecko. "Do you even like baseball, Father?"

To my great surprise, he looks amused. "Not as much as you, Miri, but I do know a little about it. You know, there's an Italian Baseball League team in Nettuno, on the coast near here."

"There is?" I swing back around and can't contain a little skip of joy. "Oh, boy!" I hear the softest of chuckles behind me and I can't help needling him, "So do you go to their games using the vast network of passageways that run through your chambers down to the coast?" He doesn't respond and I know my promise to God didn't work and my evil genius will not go quietly.

Then we're climbing up the stairs and into my living room. The sun has just set and the sky is a lovely violet blue and Father Patrick immediately crosses to the window and takes in the view of the city.

"How beautiful!"

His own study, I remember, has only a small window looking out onto a courtyard. And thinking about his study, I realize that the tables are turned and now I'm Father Patrick's host and he deserves the same courtesy he showed me.

"Father, please, have a seat." I gesture to the sofa. "I'll be right back."

I go into the kitchen and whip open the cupboards in quick succession, wondering why I'm expecting delicate china teacups — much less tea and cookies — to miraculously appear just because I'm entertaining the camerlengo. Then I see the "care package" my little brother sent me sitting on the counter and, hoping he sent something useful, I start to tear into it just as Father Patrick appears in the doorway.

There's a dusty priest in my kitchen. Isn't there something wrong with this picture?

He's looking around with open curiosity at my fish-shaped plates, the cow-spotted teakettle, the calendar from the California Academy of Sciences featuring Buccalo the giant sea bass, the pile of plastic take-out containers from the deli around the corner I'd washed and saved in case I needed them again….

Father Patrick says, perfectly serious about the scrutiny he's subjecting the kitchen to, "They don't let me out of the Vatican much."

"Oh." I look around the kitchen myself and decide, "Well, I don't think this is typical of the average Roman citizen."

"In what way?"

"Most Roman citizens didn't just move here from America. And could probably offer to make you an espresso."

He nods, assessing, making allowances. I self-consciously reach for a steak knife and open the care package, still determined to provide some kind of refreshment for Father Patrick —

I sigh, "Oh, Leo." — even if it's a teenage boy's idea of refreshment.

"Who is Leo?" he asks.

"My brother. He sent me some things from the States he thought I might not be able to get here."

He peers into the box along with me. "I don't recall — was there a 'Star Trek' character named Leo?"

"He's actually named Leonard, after the doctor, Leonard McCoy."

"And you call him Leo, not Bones?"

I pull out three bricks of pink popcorn and a box of red vines."My parents didn't want to be obvious; they just wanted to pay homage."

"Otherwise, I suppose, you'd be named Uhura and he'd be Spock."

"Got that right," I agree grimly. And then I sneak a sideways glance at Father Patrick. He knew Doctor McCoy's nickname. Is he...a Trekkie? Good heavens.

I hold out a container of Tang for his inspection and ask frankly, "Are you interested in trying any of this, Father?"

"Of course," he insists politely, nobly. If you can't take a priest at his word, who can you take it from? In my wildest, most daring daydreams, though, I never would have imagined making Tang, the breakfast drink of the astronauts, with the camerlengo. Thanks, Leo.

To preserve what dignity he has left, I give Father Patrick the Poetry Daily mug and keep the ankylosaur mug for myself. It's the least I can do when I'm feeding him cheese puffs. As I turn on the lights in the living room I have a sudden thought. "What if the passageway between our places is exactly so the camerlengo can get out of the Vatican and see how other people live?"

He settles onto the sofa. "Do you mean, like 'The Prince and the Pauper'?"

I haul the armchair across the room so it faces the sofa and sit down. "I was thinking more like Audrey Hepburn in 'Roman Holiday' but — yeah, like that."

"First of all, I reject the comparison to Audrey Hepburn." He says this with the same measuring look in his eyes he's given me ever since I popped into his chambers, but for some reason I now suspect him of a sense of humor. "Second, it isn't that the camerlengo's a prisoner in the Vatican, Miri. It's just that my duties don't often take me to private residences."

I'm not ready to let go of this particular train of thought, though. "Are your duties so — strenuous, you sometimes feel the need to get away? Maybe in the past no one lived here, it was the camerlengo's retreat or something."

He tries a chili-and-cheese-flavored corn chip. It's a little late to worry if any of this is going to make him sick to his stomach or not but I put in a silent prayer to the patron saint of gastrointestinal disorders anyway as he answers, "If anyone needs a retreat, it's His Holiness, not the camerlengo, and I've never heard of a passageway like this from his chambers to chambers in Rome."

"Of course you wouldn't, it'd be a secret, otherwise how could he sneak away?"

"His Holiness does not sneak."There it is again! Or I think it is. Is he trying to be funny? Before I can make up my mind he goes on, "Besides, I think the camerlengo could do better than this, don't you?"

"Maybe this was really plush back in the day." For heaven's sake, why can't I stop talking back to a priest? "I'm sorry, Father Patrick, I don't mean to sass you — "

"Sass me?"

Do they not say "sass" in Ireland? "Talk back to you. I don't mean to be disrespectful, I don't mean to be irreverent, honest — "

"You just tend to say the first thing that comes to mind."

I shrug helplessly. "Pretty much."

He smiles at that. I hadn't realized it but I haven't seen him smile before, and his whole face lights up when he smiles, he looks so delighted, and his eyes become incredibly warm — more like Monterey Bay than Mavericks — and I forget to breathe.

His lips are moving. He must be saying something. I tune in. "— people tend to be on their best behavior around me, Miri, and they're so careful about every word they say in front of me. That you're not intimidated by me — "

I start to protest, but shove some pink popcorn in my mouth to shut myself up as my mind finally catches up with the rest of me. Father Patrick McKenna, the stern, serious camerlengo, is sitting in the apartment of some woman he just met and eating junk food and he looks like he's actually enjoying himself. Does he really need to know he's been intimidating the hell out of me? Of course not.

Maybe I was right. Not about the underground railroad but about the camerlengo needing a retreat of some kind. He's easily the youngest priest I've seen at St. Peter's, and one of the few who speaks English. Maybe it helps to be with someone closer to his age who can hold a conversation in his native language. Maybe there aren't that many opportunities for him to just sit around and relax and talk about things that have nothing to do with — whatever a camerlengo does.

Maybe he just needs a friend.

" — that you feel you can be yourself around me, is…refreshing."

Really? "Wow, they really don't let you out of the Vatican much!"Too late I clap my hand over my mouth, but Father Patrick gives a sharp crack of laughter.

"It's true!" he agrees. "When I was nine years old, His Holiness adopted me and I essentially grew up in the church."

"How — what? Your father is the pope? What were you, some sort of religious prodigy?"

"Hardly!" He takes a sip of Tang and hazards a cheese puff. "He was visiting Ulster when a bomb that was meant for him killed my entire family instead. I was left an orphan, and he adopted me."He reaches for a red vine and starts to chew on it when he intercepts my gaze and asks, looking amused, "What?"

Clearly there's no self-pity in him when it comes to his past, it's just a fact to him, but it must have shown on my face that suddenly it was like I was watching a movie (starring the little Irish boy from "Millions" and "The Water Horse," the kid with all the freckles) — in my mind's eye I saw a little boy traumatized by the murder of his parents being dragged off to Italy by a total stranger, not knowing the language and horribly homesick and having to eat linguine carbonara instead of lamb stew and forced to think of a bunch of old priests as his new family.

Of course, I can't cop to that — he already thinks I'm weird. So I tell him, "That makes my twelve years of Catholic school seem like summer vacation."

"In what way?"

"Well, when the bell rang at 3 I could at least leave Sister Florencia and Sister Mary Verissima behind and go play tag with the public school kids and learn a new curse word or something but you came home to milk and cookies and the pope asking how your day went!"

Father Patrick laughs harder at that and I feel my face flush hot. Finally he manages, "It wasn't as bad as all that, Miri." A pause. "My father was only an archbishop at the time."

He grins at his own joke and I can't help giggling despite myself. Everyone's a comedian tonight.

We pass on to the more mundane topic of my own family (which I gloss over in case it seems like I'm bragging that all my relatives are still alive, nyerhe!) and then tell him what brought me to Rome — a position at the university, teaching literature in English — thinking that by cleverly letting slip I have a Ph.D. he'll be so impressed it'll turn his opinion of me around, but of course that isn't what catches his attention.

"Did you bring many books in English with you?"

"Practically my whole library. Books are the one thing I splurged on shipping over here."

"Would it be possible for me to borrow one or two? Books are a bit of a luxury on a priest's salary — "

I jump up and lead the way to the bookshelves; they're on the other side of the trapdoor, near the desk. As he examines my collection I have a brief moment of panic wondering if I own anything incriminating, and just as quickly I remember that I put all the books I'd need for my courses near the desk and all the truly incriminating books — the pirate romances, the Jenny and the Cat Club books, the historical fantasies, the Calvin and Hobbes — are in my bedroom, and he's not going anywhere near there. I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

He's familiar with the 19th century authors and some of the early 20th century, but gets lost somewhere in the Modernists. We each select an armful of books for him to examine further and as we turn to go back to the sofa he asks, catching sight of a photo on my desk, "Is that your family?"

"Yep, that's Clan Stannis." We move closer to the desk and I point out, "My mom, Leo, Carolyn, and my dad."

"Carolyn…" Father Patrick tilts his head slightly. "Is she also named after...?"

I nod. "Lt. Carolyn Palamas, Anthropology and Archaeology officer."

"Carolyn and Leo have your mother's hair," he comments.

"Mom calls it 'otter brown' — glossy, dark, looks a little reddish in the sun."

Father Patrick looks amused at the description. "And you and your father?" he asks about the lighter-haired side of the family.

"More kelp than otter."

"And you're all at the beach — is there a water motif in your family?"

"Mom's a marine biologist. Dad's a chef. It's either about water, or food."

"Except if it's about literature."

I give a modest shrug. "We all have our little rebellions." Except for Father Patrick; he went into the family business. But I guess he didn't have much of a choice.

We sit down again, munching on bad food and talking about the authors he's missed out on. He's a perceptive reader, discerning, and I think I'm coming across as intelligent, thoughtful, adult — except when he can't help laughing at one of my particularly biased opinions, like about Language poets. (What a waste of trees those pretentious idiots are. Seriously.) He decides to take a couple of short novels and a book of poetry.

"I guess I shouldn't overstay my welcome," he says. He starts to stack the cereal bowls now empty of snacks but I wave him off. He puts out his hand, smiling. "Then thank you for a very pleasant evening indeed, Miri."

I shake his hand. It's warm and dry, his grip is firm, and — I don't want to think any further about his hand. "Come back anytime, Father." He looks a question at me. "I mean it. The passage leads between our apartments and nowhere else. You're probably meant to be here."

"Reading your books and eating your crisps."

"And drinking my Tang, sure. It has more vitamin C than orange juice. Oh, here!" I reach into my pocket, hand him the gecko. "You'll need this."

I watch as he makes his way down the stairs, and then find I can't move. I can't even think. I can't make sense of it. What just happened? Was it real? Of course it was real, there's a dusty spot on my sofa where he was just sitting — can I vacuum that up, or is it holy dust? And the way he says my name with his accent — !

I manage a deep breath, and then another, and then another. I walk slowly and deliberately into my bedroom, throw myself on the bed, bury my face in a pillow, and scream.

When I get up there's a faint, dusty outline of me on the comforter. Just great. I feel only slightly saner but I carefully remove my dirty clothes and get them into the laundry basket and then I take a shower. And as I make sure I wash every last cobweb out of my kelp brown hair, I realize my name makes perfect sense. Miri was the plain, awkward teenage girl who had a hopeless crush on the handsome, dashing, offhandedly charming, carelessly kind Captain Kirk. And Father Patrick is my Captain Kirk.

Then, sure I'm not going to get anything else dirty, I put on some sweats and go into the kitchen and pull out the butter and sugar and flour. I'm going to make shortbread for my new friend the camerlengo.

end Chapter 1