The Angel
Page 13
“Eleanor, you’re supposed to be in school.” He didn’t even look up at her from his work as he squatted on the ground and covered the roots of the sapling in black earth.
“It was a life-or-death situation. If I stayed in school, I would have killed myself.”
“As suicide is a mortal sin, I’ll absolve you for cutting class. But you know you are also not supposed to be at the rectory.” He didn’t sound at all angry or disappointed, only amused by her as usual.
“I’m outside the fence. I’m not at the rectory—I’m just near it. What are you doing anyway?”
“Planting trees.”
“Obviously, but why? Are the two million trees around us not enough for you?”
“Not quite. You can still see the rectory from the church.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Søren stood up and walked over to the fence. Nora remembered how her heart had hammered at that moment. She thought for certain he could hear it beating through her chest.
Face-to-face with only the fence and a fourteen-year age difference between them, Søren pulled off his sunglasses and met her eyes.
“I like my privacy.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile.
“It’ll take years before you get any.” Søren arched an eyebrow at her, and she’d blushed. “Privacy, I mean. Trees take forever to grow.”
“Not these. Empress trees and this particular species of willow are some of the fastest growing.”
“In a hurry for your privacy?”
“I can wait.”
Something in his eyes and his voice told her that they weren’t talking about the trees anymore. I can wait, he’d said and looked at her with a gaze so intimate she felt as if it was his hand on her face and not just his eyes.
She summoned her courage and returned the gaze.
“So can I.”
Nora shook off the memory and entered the rectory through the back door. In the nighttime quiet, the only sound came from the creaking hardwood. She would miss that sound this summer, miss this house and the priest who presided here. Tonight would be their last night together until the end of summer and the bustle about a replacement for Bishop Leo had died down. Then she and Søren would be able to return to their own unusual version of normal life.
But only if he wasn’t chosen to replace the bishop. Please, God, she prayed, please don’t pick him.
Passing through the kitchen, Nora saw a single candle alight on the center of the table. Next to the candle sat a small white card, and written on it in Søren’s elegant handwriting were instructions: Bathe first. Then come to me.
Holding the card by the corner, she dipped it into the candle flame and let the fire eat Søren’s words. She blew out the flame just as it touched her fingers, and she rinsed the ashes down the sink. Like almost all parish priests, Søren had a housekeeper who handled all his household needs. Nora was grateful for Mrs. Scalera—a woman formidable enough that she could force even Søren to sit down and eat something on occasion—but Nora knew all it would take would be for his housekeeper to find a stray note from him to her, a single long black hair or hairpin, or any other telltale sign that a woman had spent the night to endanger Søren’s career.
Nora started undressing even as she took the narrow stairway to the second floor. She loved the rectory. For seventeen years it had been her secret second home. A small Gothic two-story cottage, Nora knew it was a far cry from the sprawling mansion where Søren had been born and had lived until he was eleven. But that house had never been a home to him. For all its exterior beauty it had been a house of horrors. This place, however, had captured his heart just as she had all those years ago.
Breathing in the steam from the warm water, Nora let the heat seep into her skin. Søren often bathed her before their sessions. It was an act of dominance, the act of a parent with a small child, but more importantly, it relaxed her muscles so that his beatings would only hurt, not injure her.
Nora did not linger in the bath. Nor did she bother washing her hair. She wanted him, needed him. Tonight was their last night together for two or three months. Five years, she reminded herself, as tears welled up in her eyes. Five years they’d lived apart. Two months should feel like nothing.
But what if she left him and this time she couldn’t come back?
She pulled herself out of the water and dried off. Wearing nothing but a white towel, she walked down the hallway to his bedroom. At first glance Søren’s bedroom seemed an appropriate reflection of what he appeared to be. The dark wood of the two-hundred-year-old four-poster bed perfectly matched the wood of the floor. The ceiling arched like a church nave. The oriel window broke apart the moonlight that intruded into the room. All was neat, spare, humble, elegant and pious. Unsullied by modern technology, uncluttered by superfluous decoration, it was the bedroom of a man who had nothing to prove.
Still…a trained eye that knew what to look for would see marks on the bedposts that were not the natural byproducts of time. The lock on the heirloom chest under the window seemed unnecessarily heavy for simply guarding linens. And the rosewood box on the bedside table didn’t just hold his white collar—it held hers.
Nora’s eyes scanned the candlelit room trying to locate Søren. She didn’t see him. Instead she saw the bed… He’d changed the sheets. The white sheets were gone and in their place rich black sheets graced the bed. Black sheets meant only one thing. Nora inhaled sharply and forgot to exhale again.
“It was a life-or-death situation. If I stayed in school, I would have killed myself.”
“As suicide is a mortal sin, I’ll absolve you for cutting class. But you know you are also not supposed to be at the rectory.” He didn’t sound at all angry or disappointed, only amused by her as usual.
“I’m outside the fence. I’m not at the rectory—I’m just near it. What are you doing anyway?”
“Planting trees.”
“Obviously, but why? Are the two million trees around us not enough for you?”
“Not quite. You can still see the rectory from the church.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Søren stood up and walked over to the fence. Nora remembered how her heart had hammered at that moment. She thought for certain he could hear it beating through her chest.
Face-to-face with only the fence and a fourteen-year age difference between them, Søren pulled off his sunglasses and met her eyes.
“I like my privacy.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile.
“It’ll take years before you get any.” Søren arched an eyebrow at her, and she’d blushed. “Privacy, I mean. Trees take forever to grow.”
“Not these. Empress trees and this particular species of willow are some of the fastest growing.”
“In a hurry for your privacy?”
“I can wait.”
Something in his eyes and his voice told her that they weren’t talking about the trees anymore. I can wait, he’d said and looked at her with a gaze so intimate she felt as if it was his hand on her face and not just his eyes.
She summoned her courage and returned the gaze.
“So can I.”
Nora shook off the memory and entered the rectory through the back door. In the nighttime quiet, the only sound came from the creaking hardwood. She would miss that sound this summer, miss this house and the priest who presided here. Tonight would be their last night together until the end of summer and the bustle about a replacement for Bishop Leo had died down. Then she and Søren would be able to return to their own unusual version of normal life.
But only if he wasn’t chosen to replace the bishop. Please, God, she prayed, please don’t pick him.
Passing through the kitchen, Nora saw a single candle alight on the center of the table. Next to the candle sat a small white card, and written on it in Søren’s elegant handwriting were instructions: Bathe first. Then come to me.
Holding the card by the corner, she dipped it into the candle flame and let the fire eat Søren’s words. She blew out the flame just as it touched her fingers, and she rinsed the ashes down the sink. Like almost all parish priests, Søren had a housekeeper who handled all his household needs. Nora was grateful for Mrs. Scalera—a woman formidable enough that she could force even Søren to sit down and eat something on occasion—but Nora knew all it would take would be for his housekeeper to find a stray note from him to her, a single long black hair or hairpin, or any other telltale sign that a woman had spent the night to endanger Søren’s career.
Nora started undressing even as she took the narrow stairway to the second floor. She loved the rectory. For seventeen years it had been her secret second home. A small Gothic two-story cottage, Nora knew it was a far cry from the sprawling mansion where Søren had been born and had lived until he was eleven. But that house had never been a home to him. For all its exterior beauty it had been a house of horrors. This place, however, had captured his heart just as she had all those years ago.
Breathing in the steam from the warm water, Nora let the heat seep into her skin. Søren often bathed her before their sessions. It was an act of dominance, the act of a parent with a small child, but more importantly, it relaxed her muscles so that his beatings would only hurt, not injure her.
Nora did not linger in the bath. Nor did she bother washing her hair. She wanted him, needed him. Tonight was their last night together for two or three months. Five years, she reminded herself, as tears welled up in her eyes. Five years they’d lived apart. Two months should feel like nothing.
But what if she left him and this time she couldn’t come back?
She pulled herself out of the water and dried off. Wearing nothing but a white towel, she walked down the hallway to his bedroom. At first glance Søren’s bedroom seemed an appropriate reflection of what he appeared to be. The dark wood of the two-hundred-year-old four-poster bed perfectly matched the wood of the floor. The ceiling arched like a church nave. The oriel window broke apart the moonlight that intruded into the room. All was neat, spare, humble, elegant and pious. Unsullied by modern technology, uncluttered by superfluous decoration, it was the bedroom of a man who had nothing to prove.
Still…a trained eye that knew what to look for would see marks on the bedposts that were not the natural byproducts of time. The lock on the heirloom chest under the window seemed unnecessarily heavy for simply guarding linens. And the rosewood box on the bedside table didn’t just hold his white collar—it held hers.
Nora’s eyes scanned the candlelit room trying to locate Søren. She didn’t see him. Instead she saw the bed… He’d changed the sheets. The white sheets were gone and in their place rich black sheets graced the bed. Black sheets meant only one thing. Nora inhaled sharply and forgot to exhale again.
