The Saint(115)

“I am going to fall in love with you,” Wyatt whispered. “Right … now.”

He closed his eyes and she said nothing. What was there to say?

She shimmied out of her jeans. With him in nothing but his boxers and her in nothing but her panties and his Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt, they spooned in his bed and slept together. She’d known Søren for almost four years, and she’d never slept in his arms. She’d been with Wyatt five days and she’d fallen asleep in his arms and woken up still wrapped up in them. She’d felt so cherished and so wanted and so … normal—for once—that it killed her to leave his arms and his bed. Since she was fifteen she’d felt Søren’s love for her like a blessing. That morning in Wyatt’s bed was the first time loving a priest felt like a burden.

That Friday evening she went to Kingsley’s like always. She and Søren would stake out the music room and Søren would talk to her about various aspects of S&M she needed to understand. He also made her write for him. He wanted to know what she most desired when she imagined them as lovers. Those were her favorite homework assignments he’d given her—writing out sexually explicit fantasies of erotic bondage and torture. She loved their Friday-night training sessions, counting down the minutes until she could be with him again. But Søren had been in Rome for three weeks now. She came to Kingsley’s tonight simply to be alone with her thoughts, her fears, her terrifying feelings for Wyatt.

Wyatt had asked her to go out with him that night, but she’d lied and said she had to work. Some sort of dinner party was happening in Kingsley’s dining room. Eleanor avoided it, hiding out in the music room. She sat near the piano, hoping to feel closer to Søren. It didn’t work. From her backpack. she pulled Søren’s most recent letter to her.

My Little One,

I wish you could be here with me. I strolled through the Galleria Borghese today and tried to imagine all the inappropriate remarks you would make about the statues in their various states of undress. It’s a special kind of torture to be without you among great beauty. I’ve seen the statues before and marveled at them. What I missed today was seeing you seeing them. This city is old and tired, but it would become young again in your eyes. I don’t know if we could ever come to Rome together, although I dream of such a day. I have friends here. I seem to bump into them wherever I go. The city is crawling with priests. After a feast day, sometimes literally.

I hope your classes are going well. I’m sorry I had to be gone so long. I think of you every day, every night. I hope you aren’t too lonely and that Kingsley is behaving himself in my absence.

I passed some graffiti today I knew you’d find amusing—cloro al clero. You see it painted near Vatican City. It means “poison the clergy” but please don’t let it give you any ideas.

My trip here has been successful. I left you as Rev. Marcus Stearns, SJ. I’ll return to you Rev. Dr. Marcus Stearns, SJ. You are under orders never to call me Reverend, Doctor or Marcus. You may call me Father Stearns at church, Sir in your collar and Søren when I’m inside you.

I’m spending the evening with several Jesuits I went to seminary with. I should go now. Soon I’ll be home to you. Home, in case you were wondering, is not Denmark nor New York nor Wakefield nor any city, state or country. I’m home when I’m with you.

Jeg elsker dig. (Yes, I know how much it turns you on when I speak Danish.)



The letter was signed with an ornate S with a slash through it, Søren’s private signature. As she looked up from the letter she saw Kingsley watching from the doorway to the music room.

“What’s his name, Elle?” Kingsley asked from the doorway.

“Who?”

Kingsley walked over to her and pulled the collar of her shirt down. She knew he touched the slight red mark Wyatt had left on her chest from last night’s kisses.

“Tell me everything right now.”

“Kingsley, I’m in trouble.”

“Pregnant?”

“Worse.”

“What’s worse than pregnant?”

She brushed tears off her face with the back of her hand and took a deep breath.

“I think I’m in love.”





28


Eleanor

KINGSLEY TOOK THE NEWS BETTER THAN SHE EXPECTED. He listened and asked no questions, not even when she finished her tale.

“He’s in love with me, King. I never expected anyone other than Søren would ever fall in love with me. He must be a masochist,” Eleanor said with a grim and mirthless laugh. “I guess anyone in love with me would have to be a masochist.”