The drive to Miss Sharon’s home felt suffocating to James. The subject of his carnal, nightly fantasies drove casually with his delicate fingers gently wrapped around the dark leather steering wheel and his chestnut-haired head facing forward towards the road. Every once in a while, Claude would quickly turn nonchalantly to reply Miss Sharon, who sat in the passenger’s seat.  During those brief movements, James saw his handsome profile as he turned his head in reply. Within those several seconds, in the space between his sunshades and his face, Claude’s eye darted towards James then back towards the road. 

“How do I even explain it?,” would continue Miss Sharon, trying her best to describe the history between James and Otto to an attentive Claude. He’d reply something simple like, “I’m sure there’s no ill intent there Miss Sharon,” to comfort the old lady and calm her down. James mumbled replies but couldn’t concentrate on the conversation or even the words expelling from his lips. Was this some sort of divine punishment? James nervously asked himself watching the back of Claude’s head. He could smell the sweet pheromones faintly coming from that direction. It was comforting and fragrant and lulling to a degree of absolute torture. Between James’s standard replies of “I’m not sure” and “It’s okay”, an emerging sense of guilt washed his being. The young man was unaware of the lascivious machinations James concocted when deep in sleep. The hands that marked his neck, confirmed by Otto to be real, was a physical manifestation of his own wicked desires. Despite the awareness of his own position as a man of God, his function of community educator, and set to uphold standards of moral decency, James wished nothing more than the hands that gripped that steering wheel were the ones decorating his throat. 

“He’s always been that way, right Jimmy?” 

Miss Sharon’s question shifted him back into reality. His mind had been too preoccupied to pay any attention to what they had been talking about. They were nearly at the house, just turning up past the cul-de-sac and towards a much older part of the neighborhood. 

“I’m sorry?” muttered a confused James, unsure of how to reply. 

“Otto! That nasty personality of his…” 

“Miss Sharon… He’s still a priest, as annoying as he may be. We cannot keep talking about him this way. This is turning into gossip.” 

“Is that a sin, Jimmy?” interjected Claude. He was still facing the road, so his expression was lost to James. His voice hinted a playful tone but did not give away any intention. James paused a moment, his nickname sounded odd coming from his mouth. 

“Yes, it is considered a sin.”

“Mortal or venial?” 

“Claude, how do you know the difference?” asked Miss Sharon, stupefied by her usually agnostic nephew. 

“It depends on the gossip,” replied James, dubious to Claude’s questioning. 

“Which would be Miss Sharon’s gossip be as a sin?” Miss Sharon hit his arm with a harsh force. “Ow!” he yelped, slightly swerving on the road, “we could have died Miss Sharon, don't hit me while I’m driving!”

“Why are you asking such a thing, Claude? This isn’t a game!”

“I’m just curious! What sin is it, Jimmy? Ouch, stop hitting me!”

It was odd seeing Miss Sharon be so playful. Even with her hard punches, he could see the corner of her mouth rise up into a small smile and swallowed chuckle. When was the last time she joked around with me? He quietly pondered. 

“Hey Jimmy, please reply before she kills us all.”

“You little shit!” yelled back Miss Sharon, now slapping him with her hat. James watched their dynamic play out a bit longer, even starting to laugh himself before replying, “Like I said, it depends.”

“Depends on what?” asked Claude, pulling up to Miss Sharon’s street and preparing to park by the curb. 

“The gravity of the sin, its consequences and other factors.”

“So, the gossip within the car would be what exactly?”

“Venial.”  

Claude pulled the brake and unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned around to James, his arms wrapped around the back of his seat. “That’s real interesting, Jimmy.” 

Flustered and annoyed, Miss Sharon let out a loud scoff then began to exit the car. “Hurry up you two. I’ll need you to gather some peaches for the cobbler while I make us some lunch.” She shut the door of the muscle car and walked towards her two-story pre-war home. The light blue house sat on a small slope with stairs leading towards the long porch. Claude shrugged and exited the car as James followed suit. “Baskets are out by the back of the house. You two can pick the peaches with those.” 

The two men followed a dirt pathway from the front of the house that leads towards the large backyard full of flora. It had been decades since James had been back there and it looked a lot smaller than when he was a kid. Claude handed him a small basket and led the way towards a row od trees. They were large, billowing trees  with orangey-green fruit hanging from its branches. Every time a gentle breeze would blessedly strike, the trees let out a small rattle accompanied with the soft scent of ripe peach. 

Claude began to inspect the branches and look around; James copied his behavior. He wasn’t sure how long the two of them were picking fruit for but not a single word had been uttered. The only sound that could be heard was the rustling of leaves and the occasional thud of a peach hitting the wicker basket. Eventually, Claude caved. 

“Are we not going to talk about it?” he asked still rummaging through the tree. James turned to him, pink-faced from the heat. 

“What do you mean?” 

“James, you know exactly what I mean. Are we going to talk about the dinner? We made out in your house remember?” 

James shushed him and whisptered, “Not right now… this isn’t the time… or the place.”

“Oh, so you are willing to talk about it.”

“Uh, yes, just ugh, not right now…”

“Then when?” At this Claude, set down his basket with several ripe peaches and placed his hands on his hips. “You never called or left a note. I never heard anything from you. Nothing at all.”

“I don’t have your number or your address. How was I supposed to reach you?”

“You could’ve asked Miss Sharon for it. I’m on the phonebook.”

“That would have raised suspicion. Why would’ve I needed your number for? But yes, I could’ve done more.”

“Asking Miss Sharon for my number wouldn’t have been strange. She has no clue about that night!” Claude’s voice raised slightly. James shushed him once more and turned back to the house. No sign of the old lady. 

“I get it, just—uh, gosh. What are you expecting me to say Claude?” Claude remained paused, trying to form the words to best describe the situation. Claude picked up his basket and replied, “I’m not sure. I just didn’t want your silence.” 

“Are you upset with me?”

“No, I’m not. I am but I’m just,” Claude sighed, “I don’t know what there is here. I’ll head inside. Wait a couple minutes and then  you come in.” He headed back towards the house and in through the backdoor. James watched him walk back, with his eyes darted around the small of Claude’s back and below. He waited several minutes and held his measly pick in his hands. 

 After waiting several moments, James heads inside. The house was a lot smaller than he had remembered as well. The inside was nicely decorated with the rear entry directly connected to the kitchen. As James opened the door he was hit the scents of heavily spiced pork and vegetables. “Start slicing them peaches, Jimmy,” Miss Sharon yelled not even look his direction while toiling over a hot stove. Strolling into the kitchen, Claude was sat on the kitchen table with a large metal bowl, dumping the sliced fruit as syrupy juice dripped from his fingertips. He didn’t even bother looking up at James as he sat down diagonally from him and began slicing thinly.

“Once you’re done Claude, let Jimmy take over. He knows what to do,” commented Miss Sharon, washing her rice in a colander at the sink with her back turned to the two of them. 

“You don’t trust me?” asked Claude while deeply concentration on his slicing. The technique was awful with the peaches in different shapes and sizes. Miss Sharon turned around dubiously and immediately took the knife away from him. 

“You set the table. I don’t want you bleeding on the dessert,” she dryly stated, throwing the knife into the sink. 

“It cannot be that bad,” he replied wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. “Right, Jimmy?” James looked up then to the bowl and then back to Miss Sharon wearing an expression of doubt. “Et tu Sacerdos?” James couldn’t help but chuckle a bit then continue cutting up the fruit. He could feel Claude staring at him as he got up and set the table as instructed. 

Spotting the rest of the cobbler’s ingredients, James prepared the filling for Miss Sharon and even gave her a small piece to taste.

“Does it need more nutmeg?” he asked.

“It good, just add a tiny pinch of salt. It will cut down on the sugar,” she replied as she boiled the rice over medium heat. James did as he was told then placed the mixture in a ready pie shell and into the oven. 

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this,” Miss Sharon spoke, “I think the last time we cooked together was right before you moved up North.”

“Yeah, dad had already moved after mother’s funeral. I just needed to pack up the last of my stuff.”

“It felt strange that summer. It felt strange those three years Lucy had been away too but it truly felt vacant that summer without her.”

“Yeah,” James replied quietly, unsure of what to say. Miss Sharon spoke so fondly of his mother even after all she had done. The few fond memories James had of his mother Lucille, had long been corroded in the last three years of her life. 

“You know, I have the keys to the house. It needs cleaning but everything still runs fairly well. If Otto becomes too much, you can always stay at the house.” 

“Thanks but I should be fine for now. It would be weird to live there without dad. It doesn’t feel like home anymore.”

“He’s gonna be leaving you that house regardless of how you feel about it. As the only child, you should make use of property—even if it’s in the middle of nowhere Georgia.”

“It not about that,” James stated cleaning up the table of Claude’s mess and back turned. “The house just feels foreign now. I drove past it on Tuesday and I don’t know…” He paused a bit after mentioning Tuesday and then continued,  “it felt like it is a place still haunted by everything going wrong.” 

“What house? The one from Tuesday?” interrupted Claude as he walked over to the table and pulled up a chair. “It's a nice place. Just old and in need of a spruce.” 

“You saw the house?” asked Miss Sharon curiously, not wanting to go further on in the conversation surrounding her deceased friend. 

“We ran into each other when I drove past to see it,” said James and carefully constructing his own words.  He shot Claude a look urging him to stop talking about Tuesday. 

“Was that before you made plans with that new friend?” asked Miss Sharon shutting off her stove and serving food onto the table. Claude smiled wickedly at James and answered, “Just a bit before then.”  

 The table conversation remained tame after Claude’s little stint. James caught on that Claude was a bit of a trickster; hearing of his childhood antics filled with pranks and evenings spent in detention. Miss Sharon recounted stories of James’s attempts to play sports and spelling bee competitions. They got to hear new tales from Miss Sharon too, her years spent making art and living up and down the East Coast. After desserts were consumed and dishes were washed. Claude grabbed the keys announcing that he would drive James home. Miss Sharon, growing sleepy and collapsing to her rocking chair on the porch nodded and wove them goodbye. James nervously followed Claude and slid into the passengers seat. Claude yelled goodbye one more time before entering his car, closing the door, and putting his keys into the ignition. 

“I hope you’re ready to have that talk now,” Claude said, turning his body and placing his arm around the passenger’s seat as he back up from the driveway. His body was too close to James. He could smell peach juice all over his clothes.