“A trifle?”
“Barely a trinket.”
Nora raised her eyebrow now. Kingsley pushed it back down.
“Just tell him,” Kingsley said.
“I’ll tell him.”
“And remember,” Kingsley continued, “no strange men in the house. We keep the barbarians at the gate. That’s why I have the fucking gate.” He pointed at the iron fence that encircled the house.
“You’re forgetting something, King.” She patted his cheek. “We are the barbarians.”
Chapter Seven
Nora whistled for Gmork, who followed her from the house, neatly avoiding Kingsley’s outstretched hand on their way out the back door. Poor King. The man loved dogs, and yet Gmork had never warmed up to him or Søren or any man he’d ever met.
Nora left Kingsley’s house and walked in the direction of her home.
But she wasn’t going home. She was going to church.
Søren had been given a key to St. Mary’s, a few blocks from her house, as he occasionally celebrated Mass there when one of their usual priests was sick or out of town. She took Søren’s key with her to St. Mary’s, unlocked the side door, and slipped inside the darkened sanctuary.
Tonight the city cooled off quickly after dark. When she arrived at St. Mary’s around eleven, she could smell the slightest trace of autumn in the air. That was all Nora missed from living in New England—autumn, and nothing else. Not the traffic. Not the toll roads. Not the hectic pace of life.
Only autumn, which did come to New Orleans, but slowly and late, late in the season. No winter either, unless she counted Søren who carried winter with him, wherever he went. Winter in the scent of his skin, like frost on sleeping tree branches and the hard freeze of new snow under star-wild skies. Winter in his eyes when he glared, a look that could bring the temperature of any room down if you happened to be on the wrong side of that icy gray stare. Winter in his touch…when she burned for him, only his touch would cool the fires. But only after fanning the flames.
God, she missed him.
Nora sat in the third pew from the front. Gmork curled up on the floor at her feet. The arched windows cast long shadows in the chapel dark. From her purse, she took out a velvet bag that contained a set of tarnished silver rosary beads that had belonged to her late mother.
She didn’t pray the rosary. Nora couldn’t even remember the last time she prayed the rosary. But Søren prayed it often, his fingers flicking through the beads like gears turning on a bicycle.
Once Nora had asked Søren, “Does it mean anything to you? The rosary? Or are you just doing it because you’re a priest and they expect you to do it?”
His answer surprised her.
“All over the world, thousands of Catholics are praying the rosary right this very moment. I like thinking about them, about all of us reaching out to God together. If enough people all over the world were singing the same song at the same time, the whole world could hear it. I like singing in God’s choir.”
“You’re a good priest,” she said to that and kissed him. But he wasn’t a priest anymore.
No. Not true. Søren was still a priest. It was a sacrament, after all, the priesthood. Once a priest, always a priest, they said. Even if a priest were to leave the priesthood, even leave the Church altogether, he would still bear on his soul a brand that said PRIEST in ornate all-capital letters.
What he wasn’t anymore—technically—was a Jesuit. Six weeks ago, after the very last day of the summer course he’d been teaching at Loyola, he’d gone to his Jesuit superiors with a photograph. He showed it to them, a picture of a blond three-year-old boy in a suit jacket and short pants. “This is Fionn,” he said. “This is my son.”
The silence that followed, Søren told her, had sucked the sound from the entire city.
But thanks to a severe shortage of priests in the Church, he’d been spared the worst-case scenarios—he hadn’t been laicized or excommunicated. The punishment handed down was still severe: he was to be suspended from the Jesuits for the period of no less than one year for the crime of fathering a child with a married woman.
Alone in the dark, stuffy chapel, she cried. She cried because Søren had disappeared without a word to her or Kingsley, which meant he was in such deep pain he wanted to protect them from the sight of it.
She cried because she was afraid for him out there alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. And though she didn’t know his thoughts, she knew they were dangerous company.
“Keep him safe, God,” she prayed aloud. “Don’t let him forget how loved he is. I love him and Kingsley loves him. Protect him and bring him home.”
These were simple prayers, children’s prayers, but they were all Nora had.
Usually, she prayed and went home again. But tonight her prayers felt insufficient. She needed something more. Not for God’s sake, really, but her own peace of mind. She left Gmork lightly snoozing on the floor by her pew and walked through the nave to the narthex, where she found a bank of votive candles and matches on an iron stand.
She stuffed a twenty into the offering box. A dollar for the candle. Nineteen dollars as a guilt-offering for all the dog hairs Gmork left behind.
With a practiced flick of the match, Nora lit a votive candle and whispered her brief prayer as she touched the tip of the flame to the wick.
“God, bring Søren home to us.”
Nora left her little prayer burning and slipped out the side door, Gmork at her heels. She saw almost no one out and about as she walked back to her house, Gmork at her side, keeping her safe from all the ghosts and goblins and dangerous drunks of New Orleans. Where Kingsley lived in a six-thousand square-foot Italianate mansion, she lived in a much smaller house, painted red and nearly hidden by a wrought iron fence and an enormous oak tree. The fence and tree were both festooned with Mardi Gras beads.
The beads were there when she bought the place, and she’d left them there since they were colorful and pretty. She assumed they’d wear out and drop off at some point, but mysteriously they’d multiplied. She never saw anyone adding to the beads, but there were undeniably more beads now than when she’d moved in. Reds and blues and purples and gold and black and white. But mostly silver.
One of these days, she was going to catch someone in the act of beading her house and she’d ask them why her and no one else on the street.
And why silver?
So far, no luck. But she could live with a little mystery in her life. Kept things from getting boring. Søren had taken a few strands of beads off her tree once and tied her up with them. It had been Mardi Gras in her bed that night.
“Søren,” Nora said to herself as she unlocked her backdoor. “Hurry up and get home, please. I miss you. My pussy misses you…”
That was not a prayer.
It was a cry for help.
Nora entered through the back door into her kitchen and flipped on the lights. She had mail—a handful of junk mail flyers. An electricity bill for her dungeon. A vet appointment reminder. The book she’d ordered (The Power and the Glory)…and a check from her publisher. A large check. After paying her bills with it, she’d have enough left over to buy that Harley-Davidson SuperLow in Iced Pearl she’d been eying. One step closer to being a Hells Angel than Søren.
A postcard slipped out from between the junk mail as she was tossing it into recycling. She bent to pick it up off the floor.
For weeks now, she’d been receiving postcards from her lover. It was the only communication either she or Kingsley had received from him on his trip. No calls, no texts, no emails, no letters. Nora had simply woken up one morning a month ago to find her bed empty. Two days later, she received a postcard from Texas with nothing written on the back but her name and address in Søren’s handwriting.
Nora had no idea what specifically set Søren off on a cross-country road trip without so much as a goodbye kiss, but she planned on asking him—loudly. After he fucked her, of course.
Why co
uldn’t Søren have a normal midlife crisis like every other man she knew? She’d much prefer he buy a sports car and get a twenty-two-year-old girlfriend than simply disappear on them. He could have at least written something on the postcards. Something like, I love you. I miss you. I wish your vagina was here.
For a month, she’d been sneaking to St. Mary’s at night to pray for Søren’s return. And for a month, Søren was getting further away from her, not closer. She had over a dozen postcards now—Houston, Austin, Oklahoma City, Phoenix, Denver, Wyoming, South Dakota, Montana, Salt Lake City. The last one was a photo of Hells Canyon in Idaho. A week ago. She assumed the next postcard would come from Oregon or Washington, maybe even Canada.
Instead, the postcard was from, of all places, a French Quarter hotel right here in New Orleans.
When she flipped it over, she found a message this time.
Suite 301. Key at the desk under your name.
Søren’s handwriting. No stamp or postmark.
Nora took a deep breath. Her head fell back and she closed her eyes.
“About God damn time.”
Then she sent Kingsley a quick text message.
Søren’s back.
Kingsley replied in typical Kingsley fashion.
Thank fuck, he wrote, which was the closest Kingsley Edge ever got to saying a prayer.
Chapter Eight
Priority number two was figuring out why Father Ike killed himself. Priority one was getting Paulina’s mind off Father Ike until Cyrus could. And he knew just what to do. He ordered take-out—Honduran food from Los Catrachos—poured cocktails, hit Play on his favorite jazz album, and put Paulina on the love seat. Although not a cure for sadness, Christian Scott’s trumpet was a highly effective treatment. And if that didn’t work, a kiss or two or ten thousand. As many as Cyrus could get away with.
He slid his hand across Paulina’s stomach, soft and trembling under the lightweight linen of her blouse and held her by the hip. She turned her face to meet his eyes. There was no woman in the world who had eyes like Paulina. They reminded him of sepia photos, pale brown, and out of another time and place with lashes almost long enough to tickle his cheeks. But even more, they were honest eyes that hid nothing, nothing at all from him and asked him to hide nothing, nothing at all from her. So he didn’t hide a thing from her. He let her see how much he loved her, adored her, treasured her, wanted her, and then he kissed her on her soft full lips to make sure she got the message.
The kiss she gave him in return was the kiss he wanted—nervous at first, slowly growing bolder, and by the time one song switched to another, they were both breathing each other’s breaths. He pushed her gently down onto her back on the plush sofa and guided her legs around his waist. He didn’t ask for much in this world…but if he didn’t feel her heels on his lower back right this second, his heart would break right in two. When he told Paulina that, she laughed and he felt her breasts moving against his chest.
“Well, I’d hate to break your heart,” she said. “Especially when it’s so easy to keep it in one piece.” She let her heels come to rest on his back. It was enough to make a grown man cry. “Better?”
“So much better.”
Her tongue tasted sweet like the blueberry wine she’d had after dinner. Sweet and spiked and he couldn’t get enough of it. He knew marriage wouldn’t be like this all the time. He’d be a fool to think it was all low lights, jazz, and making out like teenagers on the sofa. But still, he would have married her in that room that second if he could have talked her into it. Especially since he knew any minute now…any second…she would say…
“All right, behave, Cyrus.” She said this right when he slipped his hand under her shirt and started inching up and up.
“I am behaving,” he said.
“Behaving bad.”
“Behaving bad is still behaving.” He bit her earlobe. She laughed, but she placed her hands on his chest.
“That’s enough,” Paulina said. Cyrus groaned and sat up.
“Already?”
“Already.” Paulina slowly pulled herself back up and righted her clothes and her hair. He was pleased to see she was at least breathing hard. Maybe he could flatter himself that she stopped because she was about to lose control, not him.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
“I will. I said ‘yes’ six months ago. I’ll say ‘yes’ again tonight.”
“No, I meant right now. Right damn now.”
He picked up his bourbon sour and drank the rest of it down to the rocks. He was half-tempted to take the ice in his hand and put it all down his pants.
“I will marry you on November seventh like we planned and not a day sooner.”
“I could be dead by November seventh.”
“Then I will throw you the finest funeral this town has ever seen.”
“Second line?”
“Second line, Trombone Shorty leading the way.”
“Not fair I have to miss my own funeral.”
“Better not die then,” she said.
“Better not.”
She started to stand, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his lap. She was heaven in his arms, all curves and warm skin and wildflower perfume.
“You’re ornery tonight,” she said, pinching his nose. “What’s gotten into you?”
He leaned back on the couch, resting his head on the back.
“It was a strange day.”
“I know it was. You got to talk to that lady?”
“Lady? Yeah, I talked to the lady.”
“What was she like?”
“Different,” he said. “Not what I expected. I guess someone with her job isn’t on duty 24/7. Even dominatrixes take Saturdays off apparently.”
“Did she help you?”
“She swears up and down she doesn’t know Father Ike. But I don’t know. I just don’t know…”
“You think she’s lying?” Paulina asked.
“Not about that. But she’s hiding something. She even told me she was hiding something before she shut the door in my face.”
“That’s brass, right there.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Was she pretty?” Paulina asked. He knew she was asking out of curiosity, not jealousy. Paulina had too much self-respect for something like that.
“She’s not my type but she wasn’t bad. I can see the appeal. Her appeal, not the appeal of what she does. I’ve been beat up. It’s not fun. But she can make a couple thousand dollars a day just beating men up. And they’re the ones paying for it. Crazy.”
“Sounds like a good racket to me. Hat’s off to her,” Paulina said, tipping an imaginary hat.
“Now who’s being ornery?”
“Hey, whoa,” she said, reaching for the remote on the coffee table. “Archbishop Dunn’s on the news.”
She unmuted the television. Archbishop Thomas Dunn was on the screen. He was a tall white man in his late sixties, with a broad smiling, ruddy face and thick white hair with a widow’s peak.
Paulina leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Cyrus sat back, waiting to be unimpressed.
A young pretty reporter had caught the man outside St. Louis Cathedral.
“Your Excellency, can you confirm that a priest has been found dead on a church property?”
“Unfortunately, I can confirm that. Out of respect for the family, we are not commenting further, though we are asking the faithful of New Orleans for their prayers during this difficult hour. And please, pray for your pastors. Even called by God, this can be a stressful, thankless vocation. Depression, burnout, they can take their toll on all of us.”
“The exact cause of death has not been disclosed by police, but a firearm was found at the scene. Could you—”
“Thank you, that will be all.” The archbishop was already walking away, back into the cathedral.
“Useless,” Cyrus said. He took the remote from her and turned the TV off. He pulled her close. “How you feeli
ng, baby?”
She rested her head on his chest. “I just keep trying to focus on all the good Father Ike did. There’s nothing else I can do except pray for him. And pray for you.”
His phone buzzed on the table. He ignored the first ring, but knew he couldn’t ignore the second. Paulina knew, too. She passed him his phone.
A 504 number. He answered. “Tremont.”
“Mr. Tremont, this is Sister Margaret at St. Valentine’s.”
He sat up. “Thanks for calling me back, Sister. I guess Detective Naylor told you I’d be calling about Father Ike.”
“She did, yes, sir.”
“I’m very sorry about Father Ike. I know you were old friends.”
“Thirty years,” she said, a crack in her gentle voice. “I was hoping you would come by tonight.”
“Tonight?” It was past ten o’clock. Paulina was clearing their glasses from the table.
“Yes, I did something I wasn’t supposed to do,” Sister Margaret said. “I went into Ike’s apartment here at the clergy house. He has a sister in DC, and I wanted to talk to her. I met her once years ago and thought…well, I’m sure you understand.”
“Did you see something in his apartment?” Cyrus’s heart was racing now, hard as it had when Paulina’s heels had been on his back.
“I did, Mr. Tremont. I don’t know what it is but I think you should come take a look at it.”
“I can do that, Sister. I’ll be right there.”
Cyrus kissed Paulina goodnight and it did his heart good that as he pulled away from her house, she was still standing on the stoop, watching him go and waving. The only other woman who’d ever watched his car drive away was his mother. He took it as a good sign he’d found a woman who could love him that hard and wasn’t afraid to show it.
He held onto that vision of her in the porch light, her arms wrapped around herself until she raised one hand to her lips to blow him a kiss goodbye. He held onto it all the way to St. Valentine’s.
The church itself was a nice one—a beautiful brick structure about two hundred years old—but the clergy house wasn’t much to look at. Built in the late ’60s or ’70s, he’d guess. Square and squat. Not much to distinguish it, except for the two front windows on either side of the porch. They were stained-glass, but the colors were faded and hazy.
The Priest: An Original Sinners Novel Page 6
