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“Of course, little one. I can forgive you anything. But don’t think you won’t be called upon to do your penance someday.”
Before she could respond, the unmistakable squeak of sneakers on hardwood sounded outside the door. Another louder squeak followed that one and then the shrieking giggles of children.
“Duty calls.” S?ren rose from the bench.
Nora walked with him down the aisles and into the hall outside the sanctuary. They followed the sound of the children from the church to the annex that housed the fellowship hall and the church kitchen. S?ren led her into the fellowship hall that was part gymnasium, part reception area, and before her was a scene of animal chaos. Her mental description proved even more apt as a boy dressed as a sheep careened by them.
“What on earth?” Nora asked as they found a quiet place near the kitchen.
“The children are practicing for Sunday’s Passion play,” S?ren explained.
Everywhere children ran to parents, from parents, sometimes through parents. As S?ren’s presence became known, however, the din quieted and order began to reassert itself. She had always admired that about S?ren. He let his presence speak far more often than his words.
Nora’s eyes stopped on a woman who looked vaguely familiar. As her features came into better focus, Nora placed a name to the face—Nancy James, one of her favorite mothers here. Sometimes it was hard for Nora to imagine that it was only five years ago that she still attended this church, babysat these kids, chatted with these parents. Nora was finally able to catch her eye and smile. It took Nancy a moment but then she returned the smile with full recognition. Five years…it felt like just yesterday, it felt like a million years ago.
“Did they know about us?” Nora inclined her head toward a group of parents. She kept her voice unnecessarily low. With all the children she could have screamed the question at S?ren without fear.
“I am still a priest. I believe it is safe to assume they either never suspected or they never cared.”
Nora laughed coldly. “Ex-con Elle Schreiber and the sainted Father Stearns? Of course they never suspected.”
“Eleanor, they never thought as ill of you as you believed. When you come back, you will be welcomed with open arms.”
“I’m not coming back.”
A faint smile played at the corner of S?ren’s exquisite lips.
“And yet you are here.”
Nora started to argue, but she caught a glimpse of mirror-pale eyes across the room and froze.
“Michael…” she breathed.
“Yes, he’s helping with the Passion play this year. He’s quite good with the children. Around them he can relax, which is difficult for him in other situations.”
At the moment Michael looked anything but relaxed. His long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail but she could see frustrated strands loose about his face. Children bustled around him frantically. He straightened haloes, retied wings, wrestled the little angels… A shepherd nearly plowed into him and he laughed and slid out of the way.
“Is he okay?” Nora asked, a knife of guilt threatening to cut into her.
“He and his mother started attending here over two years ago. This is truly the most contented I’ve ever seen him. He’s at peace now. Almost happy. There is a new look in his eyes. Relief.”
“Relief…that he isn’t alone?”
“Yes. I told him about us, who we are, the other world we live in. I realize I was taking a great chance by doing so, but he had listened all too well to his father’s words and convinced himself that he was sick and depraved for his desires. But telling only goes so far…”
“Show, don’t tell,” Nora said with a grim smile and made herself not think of Zach. “It’s not fair, you know. It’s such a double standard. You let me have Michael and he’s only fifteen. But you made me wait until I was twenty.”
S?ren inhaled slowly. “That was my mistake.”
“Miracles do happen. You just admitted to a mistake. What was your mistake? Not fucking me sooner?”
“It was my mistake—” he turned and met her eyes “—thinking we had all the time in the world.”
Nora’s heart contracted in her chest. She studied Michael from across the room. He was far from jubilant, but she could see his posture had eased and he had a light in his eyes. She would never have guessed from just looking at him that he wore such fearsome scars under his wristbands.
“You owe Michael a small debt of gratitude, Eleanor.” S?ren interrupted her melancholy meditation. “I had counted the day you left as the worst day of my life. The day I knelt in the back of an ambulance and administered last rites to a fourteen-year-old boy…”
“Knocked me out of first place, did he?”
“Perhaps a tie for first.”
“His scars are horrific. I can’t believe he survived that.”
“It was not a premeditated attempt. He broke glass and slashed fast. He bled profusely but not fast enough that we didn’t have time to save him. Still, the attending physician called his survival a miracle.”
“I’m glad he made it. He’s a sweet kid.”
As Nora said the words, Michael looked in their direction for the first time. His silver eyes widened with shock at the sight of her. His skin flushed and a look of pure panic eclipsed his face.
“S?ren…” Nora was afraid Michael was about to lose it.
“Just watch, Eleanor.”
Michael kept looking at her. But she did as S?ren ordered. Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The red faded from his face, his body went calm and slack. He opened his eyes again and met her gaze once more. And then, of all things, he smiled at her.
“He’s fine,” S?ren said. “He is one of us after all.”
“You care about him very much. I can tell,” she said.
“He’s become like a son to me.”
“How sweet. Like Abraham and Isaac.”
“I know you are still angry that I didn’t tell you his age. Had I told you, would anything have been different? Apart from this impressive claim to righteous indignation?”
Nora opened her mouth to protest but a boy of about five or six squealed past them.
“Owen!” S?ren called out, freezing the little boy in his tracks. “Come here, young man.”
S?ren snapped his fingers and pointed at a spot on the floor in front of him. Little Owen slumped over and slunk to the spot. Nora had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Owen was the cutest little thing with his curly black hair sticking out in all directions.
“Yes, Father S.?” the boy asked and kicked at the hardwood, making his soles squeak on purpose.
“Owen, please examine your shoes.”
Obediently Owen looked down. His whole body heaved the most forlorn sigh she’d ever heard come from a child.
“I forgot.” Owen looked up at S?ren with pleading eyes.
“You forgot to tie them or you forgot how to tie them?” S?ren asked.
“I forgot how.”
“Eleanor? I believe this is your area of expertise.”
“I’ll try, but I’m a little out of practice.”
Nora knelt in front of him and attempted to demonstrate the bunny rabbit method, the two loops as ears and the loop around the loop… Owen just watched her with his grave eyes.
“Does that make any sense, Owen?” she asked as she stood up again.
“I don’t know. It’s just so hard. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Owen.”
Nora watched as S?ren reached out and placed the tip of his finger between Owen’s eyes. Owen’s eyes crossed and both he and S?ren laughed. “You’re dismissed. But do try to stay in the slow lane, please.”
Owen took off again, but this time at a more restrained pace.
Nora glanced across the hall, past the tables to where the parents sat talking among themselves but never taking their eyes off their kids.
“I wanted to have your children once,” she said, not looking in his eyes.
“I told you, Michael is like a son to me. And you had him, did you not?”
Nora inhaled sharply. “There’s a difference between sadism and cruelty. I hope you learn that someday.”
“Remind me which of those you prefer?”
“I’m going, S?ren. Thank you for another lovely anniversary.”
Nora turned on her heel and strode from the hall. She heard footsteps behind her but kept walking. She only made it as far as the entryway when she heard her name.
She stopped and turned around to face S?ren.
“It’s hard enough for me to come to this place again and see you,” she said. “You don’t have to make it harder.”
S?ren raised a hand to the side of her face. He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. She glanced around to make sure no one was there watching them. It was a habit she’d never break.
“Forgive me. This is difficult for me, as well.”
“I didn’t think anything was difficult for you.”
S?ren lowered his hand and stepped out of the sunlight and into the shadows by the shrine of the Virgin Mary.
“Surely you of all people cannot think so highly of me.”
Nora smiled and followed him into the shadows.
“The day I first saw you, I thought you were omnipotent.”
“You were fifteen, Eleanor.”
“I still think that.”
S?ren’s laugh was empty and somber.
“If I were omnipotent you would still be with me, little one. I didn’t have the strength to stop you from leaving.”
“You did,” she said. “But you loved me too much to use it.”
“Perhaps I’ve always loved you too much.” S?ren turned his eyes up to the Virgin Mary statue. “Our mutual acquaintance tells me you’ve given up work on your book.”
Nora tugged at her shirt cuffs.
“Zach found out about what I do. He killed the deal.”
“Surely you can write without him.”
“I’m not sure I can. He made me see my book with new eyes. I was just a smutty storyteller before him. For a little while I felt like a real writer.”
“Answer a question for me, Eleanor. Why did you begin your work with our monsieur?”
“I had nothing. He offered me a job.”
“You could have worked any number of jobs. Why that one?”
“He said I’d make a lot of money working very few hours. I thought it would give me—” She stopped and swallowed. “I thought it would give me time to write.”
“Your work with Kingsley was merely a means to an end. It was never meant to be the end.”
Nora didn’t know how to answer that.
S?ren reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small black velvet bag and placed it in her hand.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Your real anniversary gift.”
Nora opened the bag and a silver pendant on a chain poured out into her hand. She held it close to her eyes.
“A saint’s medal.” She laughed. “I haven’t worn one of these in years. Who is it? St. Michael? St. Mary Magdalene?”
“St. John the Apostle actually.”
“St. John…patron saint of fools and ex-lovers?” she hazarded a guess.
“No,” S?ren said, his voice and eyes gentle. “The patron saint of writers.”
