Father Baxter gave his coffee another aimless-seeming swirl, feeling around the bottom of his cup with the stir stick, as if a solution to this awkward moment might be concealed down there for him.
He could not figure out what this young man wanted. This was the fifth time now that they had met here at this corner bistro, the fifth time the priest had watched mesmerized as the waitstaff and patrons alike fluttered about this fellow like nothing he had ever seen before. If he didn’t know better, Father Baxter told himself, it would almost seem reasonable to suspect the young man was a vampire or something.
Of course, he couldn’t be. Could he?