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“Are you doing okay?” she asked, taking a step back to give him some breathing room.
Michael nervously rubbed his arms.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Did Søren give you that book?”
“Yeah. It helped. Thank you,” Michael said. She’d passed on her old beat-up copy of The Other Secret Garden to him, a classic work on the psychology of sexual submission.
“You’re welcome. Is our priest on the phone?”
Michael nodded.
“What language?”
“French first.” Michael leaned closer to the door. “Now Danish.”
“Hmm … that’s good news and bad news.”
“How?”
Nora returned to the bench and crossed her legs, a move that caught Michael’s attention.
“French is bad. French means Kingsley.”
“Who’s Kingsley?”
Nora grinned. Who was Kingsley? Kingsley Edge, the King of Kink in New York City. Half-French, all pervert. Her occasional lover and Søren’s best friend. Well, best friend on those occasions Søren wasn’t threatening to kill him.
“French is bad since Kingsley gets called when anything disreputable needs doing. But Danish is good. Søren always calls his niece in Copenhagen on Sundays after Mass so whatever’s going on isn’t so bad it’s upsetting the routine yet.”
“Father S has a niece?” Michael looked incredulous at the idea.
Nora grinned at him. Søren did have an aura of having been sprung full-formed from the head of Zeus about him. One could hardly imagine him as a little boy or having parents, going to school and doing homework. But she knew all about his family—the good and the evil.
“Two nieces, one nephew. And—” she held up three fingers “—three sisters. Two American sisters, one in Denmark.”
Michael looked up at the ceiling.
“Wow.”
“Can you imagine having him—” she pointed at the closed door, behind which stood one of the more intimidating men alive “—as your brother? Terrifying, right?”
“I don’t envy the boyfriends.”
They laughed together even though Nora knew Søren hadn’t gotten a chance to have any of the normal brotherly experiences with his sisters. He and Freja had grown up in separate countries and Claire was fifteen years younger than him. And Elizabeth … well, Elizabeth was another story.
“Come here and let me look at you,” Nora said, tearing herself away from the dark trajectory of her thoughts. “How tall are you now?”
Just thirteen months ago he’d been only a few inches taller than her.
“Five-ten.” Michael obediently moved to stand closer to her.
“I knew you weren’t done growing,” she said, remembering how she’d studied him as he slept that night. “You grew into your hands. Haven’t put on much weight though.”
He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“None of that teen angst now, Angel. You’re tall, thin, have perfect porcelain skin and supermodel cheekbones. And unlike mine, your long black hair behaves itself. You, young man, are prettier than any guy I’ve ever seen.”
Nora studied him. Poor kid probably got ostracized at his school for his looks. He wasn’t at all effeminate, but he had passed pretty boy miles ago and landed straight in the middle of beautiful. The girls no doubt envied him for waking up looking lovelier than they could after an hour of primping, and the boys probably hated him for inspiring homoerotic thoughts in their fevered teenage brains.
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. And I’m always right about these things. Aren’t you legal yet, jailbait?” she teased.
“Turned seventeen last month,” he said, blushing.
“That’s legal in this state,” she said and winked at him. The blush deepened and Michael started to say something. But before he could speak, the door to Søren’s office opened. Without a word, Søren crooked his finger at both of them before disappearing back inside.
Nora took a deep breath.
“That’s our cue.” Standing up, she held out her hand. Michael hesitated only a second before slipping his trembling fingers into her grasp.
Hand in hand they entered Søren’s office. Despite knowing Søren for almost twenty years, she’d spent relatively little time in his office. Every member of Sacred Heart knew “Father Stearns’s Rules”—no children under sixteen were allowed in his office without a parent present, no one was allowed alone in his office without the door being left open, private conversations were for the confessional alone, and no one, absolutely no one, was ever allowed at the rectory. Ever.
Except Nora, of course.
The rules were stringent but necessary in the controversy-wary Catholic Church. And in all his years at Sacred Heart, Søren hadn’t caused even the barest whisper of scandal.
Nora and Michael sat in front of Søren’s desk. Glancing around, Nora noted little had changed in the office since he took over Sacred Heart nearly twenty years ago. His neat and elegant office was replete with books and Bibles in nearly two dozen languages. On his huge oak desk sat a framed photo of his beautiful niece, Laila. Laila must be Michael’s age by now. Nora hadn’t seen her since their last trip to Denmark. Nora loved their rare excursions out of the country together—only on another continent could she and Søren walk down the street holding hands. But he was a priest when she gave herself to him, and he’d warned her before she made her commitment that theirs would never be a normal relationship. At eighteen it was nothing to promise him she didn’t care about the sacrifices she’d have to make. At thirty-four she would still make the same decision she had back then, but maybe she wouldn’t make it quite that easily.
Nora turned her eyes to Søren. She still held Michael’s hand for comfort. But whether he was comforting her or she him, she couldn’t say.
“Eleanor, Michael,” Søren began. “We have a situation.”
“Fuck, I knew it,” Nora swore and didn’t even receive the slightest scolding from Søren. Now she knew it was bad, very bad, for Søren to lift the “no swearing on Sundays” edict. “Someone rat us out? I swear to God, I’ll kill them—”
“Eleanor, calm down. I said we had a situation, not a crisis. The priest visiting today—”
“The one who gave me and Michael the stink eye?”
“That one,” Søren said with barely concealed amusement. At least one of them could find this whole nightmare funny. “That was Father Karl Werner—”
“God, I hate German Catholics,” Nora, born Eleanor Schreiber and possessing not one but two German Catholic grandparents, said with venom.
“Father Karl,” Søren continued, pretending not to hear her, “is rather conservative. If he gave you a dark look, Eleanor, it was only because your reputation precedes you.”
“And Michael?” she asked. Michael was only seventeen and apart from scandalously choosing public over Catholic school, he was a model teenager at Sacred Heart: quiet, hardworking and about to graduate at the top of his class.
Michael sighed, flipped his palms upward and thrust his wrists out meaningfully. She didn’t need to see his scars to know that’s what he meant.
“Yes,” Søren said with sympathy. “Father Karl is not pleased that we are home to—”
“A walking mortal sin?” Michael completed for Søren. Nora wrapped her fingers around Michael’s wrist. She slipped her index finger under his wristband and lightly stroked the raised white scar she knew lurked underneath. A little over two years ago, when Michael was only fourteen, his conservative father had found out that Michael had a real and burgeoning interest in BDSM. Much like her when she was a teenager, Michael often hurt himself simply for the sexual thrill of it. Unlike her, it was his own judgmental father, not his empathetic priest, who caught him at it. Michael’s father had laid such shame and guilt on him that Michael had slit his wrists one day and nearly died. Some Catholics, especially of the older generation, considered suicide the most dire of all sins. No doubt Father Karl thought Michael should attend another church. Preferably one that didn’t still sport Michael’s bloodstains on the hardwood.
“Father Karl’s opinion of you both has nothing to do with his visit today,” Søren continued, making it clear in his tone he couldn’t care less about Father Karl’s opinion on anything. “The reason for his visit today had only to do with me. As you both may know, Bishop Leo has colon cancer and will soon retire.”
“And Father Landon is replacing him, right?” Nora asked.
“Father Landon was replacing him. Until three days ago when certain allegations came to the fore.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Nora groaned. “Why priests can’t keep their holy cocks inside their goddamn pants is beyond me.”
Michael inhaled sharply and Nora grimaced. She looked at Søren and smiled apologetically. Søren arched his eyebrow at her.
“Present company excepted, of course,” she said.
“Of course.”
Søren stood up and came around the desk. Nora looked up at him and stared at his face. Everything about him was so aristocratic and aquiline. Even in Denmark, where pale blond hair and blue eyes were the rule and not the exception like here in America, Søren still stood out for his height and his undeniable male beauty.
“With Father Landon’s transfer there remains the question of who will replace Bishop Leo.” Søren paused. The implication of his words hit Nora harder than a rattan cane across the thighs.
“Oh, shit. Søren.” Nora covered her mouth with her hand.
“Well put,” he said, nodding.
“What’s going on?” Michael asked. “This is bad, right?”
“Very bad.” Nora turned to Michael. “Our Father Stearns might be the next bishop of the diocese.”
Michael looked up sharply at Søren.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“I’m afraid I can’t disagree. That Father Karl came here in person means I’m at the very least on the short list of candidates.”
Nora closed her eyes. Bishop … if Søren became the bishop he’d be the priest to all the priests in the diocese. He’d have to leave the Sacred Heart rectory where a few hundred trees gave him near-total privacy and move to a home he’d have to share with other priests. His already busy schedule would turn hectic and she would rarely if ever get to see him. And that’s if he got the job. Which he would, unless they found out about her and Søren’s extracurricular activities.
“Can’t you just tell them no?”
“Not without raising both ire and suspicion. This is supposed to be a great honor.”
“Honor my ass,” Nora said and saw Michael suppress a laugh. “I don’t mean that literally,” she said to him and noticed again what a gorgeous young man he was turning into. “Okay, maybe I do.”
“Eleanor, five minutes of decorum is all I ask,” Søren said.
“I’m sorry,” she said and meant it. “I’m just a little bit terrified. What’s the plan?”
She knew Søren. He wouldn’t be freaking her out with something like this unless he already had a plan.
“Usually the vetting process for a new bishop is one to two years. With the bishop growing weaker every day, they will attempt to have a new bishop installed by August at the latest.”
Today was May 16th.
“So what do we do for the next two and a half months?” she asked.
“You two will do nothing.” Søren eyed her and Michael. “I will handle this. The diocese will investigate me, of course. This is not a concern. Even if they do discover something about our personal life, Eleanor, the Church will do what it always does when faced with imminent scandal.”
“Hush it up,” Nora supplied, and Søren didn’t disagree. “But?”
“But tomorrow morning an article will appear in the Times about Father Landon. The press will likely descend on the diocese and involve themselves thoroughly in the investigation.”
“The press, huh? Explains why you were on the phone with Kingsley already today.”
Kingsley had a fascinating relationship with the press—fascinating in the way the sack of Rome by invading Barbarian hordes was fascinating. A reporter once threatened to run a story exposing one of Kingsley’s clients—an internationally renowned human-rights attorney—as a transvestite with multiple sexual fetishes. Two nights before the story ran, a sex tape that the reporter and her husband had made played in an endless loop on every computer in their six-year-old’s exclusive private school. The video was unremovable. All two hundred computers had to be scrapped and replaced.
The story never ran.
“I’d rather not resort to any of Kingsley’s methods to keep our private life private,” Søren said. Søren might be a sadist but he only hurt people consensually. “But his information is often invaluable. Rest assured, Eleanor, I will find a way to avoid becoming the next bishop. That is not why I called you both here.”
“I’m already dying not to know why you called us here,” Nora said. Something in Søren’s gray eyes warned her that whatever he was about to say, she wasn’t going to like it.
“You and Michael are the only two members of Sacred Heart who know who and what I am. The press will come, and they will ask questions. I cannot ask either of you to lie for me. And as I know neither of you will tell the truth when asked—”
“Damn straight,” Michael said under his breath, and Nora said a prayer of thanks for Michael’s loyalty. She knew Michael credited Søren with saving his life. She’d never heard the whole story, but she knew Søren had risked his career by telling Michael the truth about himself and his relationship with Nora. The night she and Michael spent together over a year ago was Søren’s reward to Michael for going an entire year without harming himself again. Although an unusually wise and mature teenager then and now, Michael had been fifteen the night she’d taken his virginity. Sixteen, not fifteen, was legal age in Connecticut and New York, and that made their night together a crime. She’d done the deed not knowing his age, but Søren had made the introductions.
“Okay. So Michael and I aren’t allowed to lie about you? Vow of silence then?”
Søren smiled. “You taking a vow of silence, Eleanor, is as likely as you taking a vow of celibacy. No, I think it’s best that you both leave town while this is going on. Together.”
Silence descended on the room like a shroud.
“Can I talk to you alone for one minute please, sir?” Nora asked, and Søren released a much put-upon sigh.
“Michael, would you mind?”
Michael stood up and left the office.
“Are you insane?”
“Little one, who owns you?”
Nora sunk back into her chair.
“You, sir. But you really want—”
“Eleanor, if a reporter asked you if we were lovers what would you do?”
