The Angel
Page 61
“So?” Suzanne prompted, not wanting but needing to know more.
“So Nora’s a little on the intimidating side. Famous, rich, beautiful…you’d think if she said hi to him, he’d die on the spot. But no. I’m sitting there two weeks ago, Sunday morning, staring at Nora like usual. And she looks at Michael and winks at him. I thought, ‘Oh, shit, call 9-1-1—Mike’s going to have a heart attack.’ But no, guess what he does?”
“What?”
“He stuck his tongue out at her like they were old buddies or something. She stuck her tongue out back at him, and the temperature in the sanctuary shot up twenty degrees from the heat of those two eye-fucking each other.”
Suzanne didn’t say anything at first. Father Stearns seemed rather defensive about both her and Michael Dimir. If he acted as confessor to both of them, then no doubt he knew the thirtysomething author was having an affair with a teenage boy. Together she and Harrison watched the game for a few minutes in silence. Or almost silence. Despite being sidelined, Harrison couldn’t seem to stop yelling advice and encouragements at his own team.
She didn’t know much about soccer, but she could tell that Father Stearns owned the field. His team responded to his every quiet command like well-trained soldiers. And he seemed indefatigable, running up and down the field with the fearsome long-legged agility of a jaguar.
“God, he’s good,” she said, as he weaved in between two players and scored a goal from the center line.
“Of course he’s good,” Harrison said, taking off the ice and rubbing his inner thigh. “He’s one hundred and fifty percent pure European. Got the soccer gene on both sides.”
“How can somebody be one hundred and fifty percent European?” Suzanne asked, recalling what little she’d discovered about the priest’s past.
“His father’s British, was British. Dead now. His mother’s Danish. And he went to seminary in Italy.”
Danish mother? That would explain the hair and eyes. And the inscriptions in the books and on the photo—must be Danish.
“Thought his mother was from New Hampshire.”
Harrison scoffed.
“Does that,” he said, pointing at Father Stearns, “look American to you?”
“No,” she admitted. He looked spectacular to her—masculine and handsome and so incredibly attractive. But not particularly American. “European genes—guess that’s why he’s your best player.”
“Second best.”
“Second? Let me guess—you’re the best.”
Harrison shook his head.
“No. Father Stearns’s brother-in-law comes and practices with us sometimes. He’s even better. But don’t tell Father S I said that. They’re really competitive.”
Suzanne furrowed her brow. She knew Father Stearns had a sister, but the older sister, Elizabeth, didn’t live in Connecticut.
“Brother-in-law? One of his sisters is married—”
Harrison shook his head.
“Father S was married.”
Her heart shuddered a little in her chest.
“Father Stearns was married?”
“Yeah, when he was my age—eighteen. Legal adult,” he reminded her. “Apparently didn’t last long. She died. Some kind of accident. If I was an eighteen-year-old widower, I’d probably join the priesthood too.”
Suzanne could barely speak.
“Married…” I’m not a virgin…I wasn’t born a priest… “Eighteen…that would have been a long time ago. He and the brother are still friends?”
“They’re either best friends or they want to kill each other. Hard to tell sometimes. They constantly swear at each other in French.”
“French?”
“Yeah. Brother-in-law’s French.”
Harrison said something else but Suzanne had stopped listening. She looked out across the field and saw the practice coming to an end. Father Stearns’s team had won 2–1. Standing up, Suzanne brushed the grass off her jeans and walked toward him.
As she came to him, he pushed his sunglasses up on his head.
“Good game,” she said. “You were married?”
Father Stearns looked over her shoulder and shot Harrison a death stare. Harrison blew a kiss at Suzanne.
“Every Thursday I devote to praying for vocations for the church,” Father Stearns said. “I pray Harrison will be called to become a Cistercian.”
“Cistercian?”
“They take vows of silence. This prayer has not been answered yet.”
Suzanne laughed and fell into step beside Father Stearns. She had to lengthen her already long strides to keep up with him.
“Yes, I was married,” he finally said. She realized with the church so close by, he likely had just walked here. She decided to walk with him until he shooed her off. “Very briefly. She died shortly after we wed.”
“Can I ask how or is that too personal?”
“Not personal,” he said as they hit the sidewalk. “Merely painful. Marie-Laure fell to her death while out in the woods. I was a mile away, lest you think my asterisk refers to a murder.”
“Beautiful name. She was French?”
“She was. A ballet dancer.”
Suzanne experienced an odd sensation then. Something like jealousy. She pictured a beautiful French ballerina and her handsome young husband. What passion they must have had for each other.
“So Nora’s a little on the intimidating side. Famous, rich, beautiful…you’d think if she said hi to him, he’d die on the spot. But no. I’m sitting there two weeks ago, Sunday morning, staring at Nora like usual. And she looks at Michael and winks at him. I thought, ‘Oh, shit, call 9-1-1—Mike’s going to have a heart attack.’ But no, guess what he does?”
“What?”
“He stuck his tongue out at her like they were old buddies or something. She stuck her tongue out back at him, and the temperature in the sanctuary shot up twenty degrees from the heat of those two eye-fucking each other.”
Suzanne didn’t say anything at first. Father Stearns seemed rather defensive about both her and Michael Dimir. If he acted as confessor to both of them, then no doubt he knew the thirtysomething author was having an affair with a teenage boy. Together she and Harrison watched the game for a few minutes in silence. Or almost silence. Despite being sidelined, Harrison couldn’t seem to stop yelling advice and encouragements at his own team.
She didn’t know much about soccer, but she could tell that Father Stearns owned the field. His team responded to his every quiet command like well-trained soldiers. And he seemed indefatigable, running up and down the field with the fearsome long-legged agility of a jaguar.
“God, he’s good,” she said, as he weaved in between two players and scored a goal from the center line.
“Of course he’s good,” Harrison said, taking off the ice and rubbing his inner thigh. “He’s one hundred and fifty percent pure European. Got the soccer gene on both sides.”
“How can somebody be one hundred and fifty percent European?” Suzanne asked, recalling what little she’d discovered about the priest’s past.
“His father’s British, was British. Dead now. His mother’s Danish. And he went to seminary in Italy.”
Danish mother? That would explain the hair and eyes. And the inscriptions in the books and on the photo—must be Danish.
“Thought his mother was from New Hampshire.”
Harrison scoffed.
“Does that,” he said, pointing at Father Stearns, “look American to you?”
“No,” she admitted. He looked spectacular to her—masculine and handsome and so incredibly attractive. But not particularly American. “European genes—guess that’s why he’s your best player.”
“Second best.”
“Second? Let me guess—you’re the best.”
Harrison shook his head.
“No. Father Stearns’s brother-in-law comes and practices with us sometimes. He’s even better. But don’t tell Father S I said that. They’re really competitive.”
Suzanne furrowed her brow. She knew Father Stearns had a sister, but the older sister, Elizabeth, didn’t live in Connecticut.
“Brother-in-law? One of his sisters is married—”
Harrison shook his head.
“Father S was married.”
Her heart shuddered a little in her chest.
“Father Stearns was married?”
“Yeah, when he was my age—eighteen. Legal adult,” he reminded her. “Apparently didn’t last long. She died. Some kind of accident. If I was an eighteen-year-old widower, I’d probably join the priesthood too.”
Suzanne could barely speak.
“Married…” I’m not a virgin…I wasn’t born a priest… “Eighteen…that would have been a long time ago. He and the brother are still friends?”
“They’re either best friends or they want to kill each other. Hard to tell sometimes. They constantly swear at each other in French.”
“French?”
“Yeah. Brother-in-law’s French.”
Harrison said something else but Suzanne had stopped listening. She looked out across the field and saw the practice coming to an end. Father Stearns’s team had won 2–1. Standing up, Suzanne brushed the grass off her jeans and walked toward him.
As she came to him, he pushed his sunglasses up on his head.
“Good game,” she said. “You were married?”
Father Stearns looked over her shoulder and shot Harrison a death stare. Harrison blew a kiss at Suzanne.
“Every Thursday I devote to praying for vocations for the church,” Father Stearns said. “I pray Harrison will be called to become a Cistercian.”
“Cistercian?”
“They take vows of silence. This prayer has not been answered yet.”
Suzanne laughed and fell into step beside Father Stearns. She had to lengthen her already long strides to keep up with him.
“Yes, I was married,” he finally said. She realized with the church so close by, he likely had just walked here. She decided to walk with him until he shooed her off. “Very briefly. She died shortly after we wed.”
“Can I ask how or is that too personal?”
“Not personal,” he said as they hit the sidewalk. “Merely painful. Marie-Laure fell to her death while out in the woods. I was a mile away, lest you think my asterisk refers to a murder.”
“Beautiful name. She was French?”
“She was. A ballet dancer.”
Suzanne experienced an odd sensation then. Something like jealousy. She pictured a beautiful French ballerina and her handsome young husband. What passion they must have had for each other.
