The Deacon's Daughter

New Hope Baptist Church is my calling.

Twenty years behind this pulpit. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, revivals. I've shepherded this flock through everything—recessions, pandemics, the loss of members and the gaining of new ones.

At fifty-five, I thought nothing could shake my foundation.

Then Candace Johnson came home.

Deacon Johnson's daughter.

She left for Spelman at eighteen—skinny, quiet, awkward. Now she's twenty-eight, freshly graduated from Yale Law, and returned to Birmingham to "figure out her next steps."

And she is nothing like I remember.

The curves came first.

She must be two hundred pounds now, all of it in the right places. Hips that strain against her church dresses. Breasts that rise and fall with each breath. A backside that makes the choir mothers whisper.

"The Lord sure did bless that girl," Sister Williams murmurs every Sunday.

I try not to notice.

I fail.

"Pastor Williams? Can I speak with you?"

It's after Wednesday Bible study. The sanctuary is empty.

"Of course, Candace. What's troubling you?"

She sits across from me, and her skirt rides up her thighs. I force my eyes to her face.

"I'm struggling with... temptation."

Lord help me.

"What kind of temptation?"

"Inappropriate feelings." She looks down at her hands. "For someone I shouldn't want."

"We all face temptation, child. The key is—"

"Someone married."

My throat goes dry. "Candace..."

"Actually, someone widowed." Her eyes lift to mine. "Someone I've admired since I was fourteen years old."

I should stop this.

Should remind her of my age, my position, her father's trust in me. Should cite scripture and send her home.

"I'm old enough to be your father," I manage.

"You're not my father." She stands, moves closer. "You're the man who visited me in the hospital when I had mono at seventeen. Who wrote me recommendation letters for law school. Who I've been dreaming about since I understood what dreams like that meant."

"This is... we can't..."

"I know it's wrong." She stops in front of me. "But I'm tired of pretending I don't want you, Pastor."

She kisses me.

In my own church, beneath the cross, with the choir robes watching from their hooks. Her mouth is soft and demanding and tastes like sin.

I kiss her back.

God help me, I kiss her back.

"Not here," I gasp.

"Your office."

We barely make it through the door before her hands are on my belt.

"Candace—your father—"

"Isn't here." She frees me, wraps her hand around me, and my eyes roll back. "I've waited ten years for this, Pastor. Don't make me wait anymore."

I lift her onto my desk.

Push her dress up those magnificent thighs, find white cotton panties soaked through.

"This is wrong," I groan, even as I pull the cotton aside.

"I know." She guides my hand to her wetness. "Make it right."

I sink to my knees.

If I'm going to hell, I might as well earn it. Her taste explodes on my tongue—sweet and musky—and her cry echoes off the walls of my office.

"Pastor—oh God—"

"Don't take His name in vain." I slide two fingers inside her. "Even if it fits."

She laughs, then moans, then screams as I work her toward release.

"Inside me," she begs. "Please—I need—"

I stand, position myself, hesitate.

"I haven't been with anyone since my wife passed."

"Five years." Her hands cup my face. "That's too long for a man like you."

"A man like me?"

"A good man." She kisses me softly. "Let me be good for you."

I slide inside her, and for the first time in five years, I feel alive.

We make love in my office.

Not the frantic coupling I expected—something slower, deeper. She wraps herself around me, pulls me close, whispers encouragements against my ear.

"So good, Pastor. So right—"

"Candace—"

"I've got you." She clenches around me. "Let go. I've got you."

I come with her name on my lips and tears in my eyes.

Afterward, shame sets in.

"I've betrayed everything I stand for."

"You've been human." She fixes her dress, calm as anything. "That's not betrayal."

"Your father—"

"Will never know. Unless you want him to."

I'm quiet, processing. She touches my face.

"I'm not asking to be your wife, Pastor. I'm asking for... this. Whatever this is. Someone to be human with when the pulpit gets too heavy."

"This can't continue."

"I know."

"We can't be together."

"I know."

"Your father would kill me."

"Probably."

Silence. Then:

"Next Wednesday," I hear myself say. "After Bible study."

She smiles—slow, satisfied. "I'll wear the blue dress. The one you couldn't stop staring at last Sunday."

"I wasn't staring."

"Pastor Williams." She kisses my cheek. "For a preacher, you're a terrible liar."

Every Wednesday becomes ours.

Then some Fridays. Then the occasional Saturday when I'm "working on sermons."

Deacon Johnson notices nothing. The congregation notices nothing.

But I notice everything.

The way she laughs. The way she debates scripture like she's cross-examining a witness. The way she holds me after, when the guilt tries to creep in.

"I'm falling in love with you," she says one night.

"Candace..."

"I know. I know. But I had to say it."

I'm quiet for a long moment. Then:

"I fell first."

She joins the church board the following spring.

Works alongside her father like nothing's changed. Sits in the front pew every Sunday, nodding at my sermons, eyes bright with secrets.

The choir mother asks me if I'm dating anyone.

"I'm married to the Lord," I say piously.

Candace coughs to hide her laugh.

We get married two years later.

In a different church—neutral ground, no congregation watching. Her father stands as witness, having given his blessing only after a very long talk.

"You make her happy," he says gruffly. "That's what matters."

"I intend to keep making her happy."

"You better." He grips my hand. "Or I know where you work."

New Hope Baptist has a First Lady again.

She's thick and brilliant and half my age, and the choir mothers now whisper different things entirely.

But Candace just smiles and takes her seat in the front row.

Some temptations aren't meant to be resisted.

Some falls are how you learn to fly.