The Angel
Page 72
In other words, yes, she still loved Søren.
Wesley stared at the dedication until his eyes watered.
To W.R. Many waters.
She’d dedicated the book to him. Not to Søren, as she had all her other books. Many waters… She still loved him too.
Underneath the dedication Nora had written him another note.
Wesley, you twerp, you could have told me.
Could have told her? Could have told her what?
Wesley looked up. Hanging from the ceiling in the entryway to his home was a chandelier that had once hung in Versailles—the French palace, not the town in Kentucky. And the book had come straight to this address, not his old school one and then forwarded.
“Shit…” Wesley breathed. She knew who he was now. How had she found out? Well, not that hard really. She must have looked him up on Google or something. He should return the favor. The address on the envelope wasn’t anything he recognized. Maybe she’d left Connecticut, left New York City, left Søren.
Grabbing the book and the envelope, he raced through the big house and out the back door. At the guesthouse, his house, he could barely get the key in the lock. Once inside he slapped on a light, grabbed his laptop and went to Google. He typed in Nora Sutherlin and the city Guilford.
The very first hit took him to a New York City gossip site. Scanning the article he discovered Nora had gone to some S&M club as the date of a guy named Griffin Fiske. At first Wesley’s heart swelled with happiness that Nora had gone anywhere in the presence of any guy who wasn’t Søren. Maybe they’d broken up. Wesley quickly Googled Griffin Fiske and had the unpleasant shock of discovering he already knew him. Or at least knew of him. He’d seen Griffin’s name in Nora’s cell phone once and he’d casually asked her who he was.
“My personal trainer,” Nora had answered without batting an eyelash. Nora’s “personal trainer” was also the obscenely rich son of the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange, a former drug addict who’d had a couple stints in rehab, the grandson of the owners of Raeburn Farm, and kind of obnoxiously good-looking in a tanned and muscley sort of way. God, he looked like one of those guys in Calvin Klein ads in Vanity Fair. Not Nora’s usual type. She went for guys like her editor Zach Easton—handsome in a distinguished sort of way, overeducated and usually older than her. Wesley had never seen Søren, not even a picture of him, but he guessed that’s what he looked like too. They’d spoken on the phone once and even Søren’s voice sounded well manicured. Yet another reason to hate the man.
Wesley took a long, slow, deep breath and ran through the facts in his mind.
Nora didn’t seem to be with Søren anymore.
Nora did seem to be keeping bad company, however.
Nora had dedicated her book to him with the words Many waters…
Wesley got up and started packing.
* * *
Suzanne stared at the ceiling and tried to become one with her sofa. Emptying her mind, she slowed her breathing and focused only on the beating of her heart. It pounded hard, almost audibly. She breathed deep again but the pounding only grew louder. Groaning she raised a hand to forehead and called out, “Go away, Patrick.”
“Open the damn door, Suz,” he called back. “I’m not leaving until you let me in or the cops come for me.” Once more he beat on the door. How the hell was anyone supposed to meditate under these conditions?
She stood up, walked to the door and threw it open.
“Fine. Come in.” Suzanne threw herself back down on the couch and closed her eyes.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Where have you been?” Patrick demanded. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know he stood next to the couch glaring at her.
“I’ve been busy. I started writing a book about my time in Afghanistan. Been living at the library.”
A long silence followed her words.
“A book…about Afghanistan. That’s why you haven’t called me back or emailed me or answered the door or anything for six f**king weeks?”
“I’m very busy. Can’t you see?”
She’d hoped the bitchiness would send Patrick running. Instead he sat down on the couch right next to her stomach.
“Suz.”
She shut her eyes tight.
“Suzanne.”
Slowly she opened them.
“What happened?” Patrick asked, brushing a lock of hair off her face. The tone of his voice was so gentle, the concern so intimate that tears sprang to her eyes. “Something happened. Tell me.”
She swallowed hard and covered her eyes with her hands.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I can’t…”
“That priest you were investigating…did something happen? Did he threaten you? Hurt you?”
Suzanne laughed miserably.
Hurt her? Well, she did have bruises the day after. Suzanne’s whole body tingled from the memory of that night a month and a half ago. She’d been such an idiot going to the rectory. Looking back she saw that she’d started to fall for Father Stearns. Maybe not fall for him. Maybe it wasn’t love. But lust definitely. Lust as she’d never experienced before in her life—blazing hot, unbearable, like a fist in her stomach and a splinter in her mind.
Suzanne, are you planning on standing in the hallway all night staring at me? Or are you coming in?
She’d come in. And he’d turned to her. And she’d reached out and laid her hands on his chest. Underneath her hand she’d felt his heart beating slow and steady. He hadn’t been afraid or nervous. Only her. In an instant his mouth had crashed onto hers and she’d thrown herself into the kiss, body and soul. Her nails dug into his back, her br**sts pressed into his chest. Nothing would have stopped her from having him that night. Not the Church or the state or her better judgment or her job or even her memories of Adam. She reached between their bodies to unbutton his pants, and a pair of hands with a viselike grip clamped down on her wrists. She found herself backed to the wall, her arms pinned above her head, and Søren’s face by hers, his eyes closed, the slightest grimace of pain on his face.
Wesley stared at the dedication until his eyes watered.
To W.R. Many waters.
She’d dedicated the book to him. Not to Søren, as she had all her other books. Many waters… She still loved him too.
Underneath the dedication Nora had written him another note.
Wesley, you twerp, you could have told me.
Could have told her? Could have told her what?
Wesley looked up. Hanging from the ceiling in the entryway to his home was a chandelier that had once hung in Versailles—the French palace, not the town in Kentucky. And the book had come straight to this address, not his old school one and then forwarded.
“Shit…” Wesley breathed. She knew who he was now. How had she found out? Well, not that hard really. She must have looked him up on Google or something. He should return the favor. The address on the envelope wasn’t anything he recognized. Maybe she’d left Connecticut, left New York City, left Søren.
Grabbing the book and the envelope, he raced through the big house and out the back door. At the guesthouse, his house, he could barely get the key in the lock. Once inside he slapped on a light, grabbed his laptop and went to Google. He typed in Nora Sutherlin and the city Guilford.
The very first hit took him to a New York City gossip site. Scanning the article he discovered Nora had gone to some S&M club as the date of a guy named Griffin Fiske. At first Wesley’s heart swelled with happiness that Nora had gone anywhere in the presence of any guy who wasn’t Søren. Maybe they’d broken up. Wesley quickly Googled Griffin Fiske and had the unpleasant shock of discovering he already knew him. Or at least knew of him. He’d seen Griffin’s name in Nora’s cell phone once and he’d casually asked her who he was.
“My personal trainer,” Nora had answered without batting an eyelash. Nora’s “personal trainer” was also the obscenely rich son of the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange, a former drug addict who’d had a couple stints in rehab, the grandson of the owners of Raeburn Farm, and kind of obnoxiously good-looking in a tanned and muscley sort of way. God, he looked like one of those guys in Calvin Klein ads in Vanity Fair. Not Nora’s usual type. She went for guys like her editor Zach Easton—handsome in a distinguished sort of way, overeducated and usually older than her. Wesley had never seen Søren, not even a picture of him, but he guessed that’s what he looked like too. They’d spoken on the phone once and even Søren’s voice sounded well manicured. Yet another reason to hate the man.
Wesley took a long, slow, deep breath and ran through the facts in his mind.
Nora didn’t seem to be with Søren anymore.
Nora did seem to be keeping bad company, however.
Nora had dedicated her book to him with the words Many waters…
Wesley got up and started packing.
* * *
Suzanne stared at the ceiling and tried to become one with her sofa. Emptying her mind, she slowed her breathing and focused only on the beating of her heart. It pounded hard, almost audibly. She breathed deep again but the pounding only grew louder. Groaning she raised a hand to forehead and called out, “Go away, Patrick.”
“Open the damn door, Suz,” he called back. “I’m not leaving until you let me in or the cops come for me.” Once more he beat on the door. How the hell was anyone supposed to meditate under these conditions?
She stood up, walked to the door and threw it open.
“Fine. Come in.” Suzanne threw herself back down on the couch and closed her eyes.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Where have you been?” Patrick demanded. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know he stood next to the couch glaring at her.
“I’ve been busy. I started writing a book about my time in Afghanistan. Been living at the library.”
A long silence followed her words.
“A book…about Afghanistan. That’s why you haven’t called me back or emailed me or answered the door or anything for six f**king weeks?”
“I’m very busy. Can’t you see?”
She’d hoped the bitchiness would send Patrick running. Instead he sat down on the couch right next to her stomach.
“Suz.”
She shut her eyes tight.
“Suzanne.”
Slowly she opened them.
“What happened?” Patrick asked, brushing a lock of hair off her face. The tone of his voice was so gentle, the concern so intimate that tears sprang to her eyes. “Something happened. Tell me.”
She swallowed hard and covered her eyes with her hands.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I can’t…”
“That priest you were investigating…did something happen? Did he threaten you? Hurt you?”
Suzanne laughed miserably.
Hurt her? Well, she did have bruises the day after. Suzanne’s whole body tingled from the memory of that night a month and a half ago. She’d been such an idiot going to the rectory. Looking back she saw that she’d started to fall for Father Stearns. Maybe not fall for him. Maybe it wasn’t love. But lust definitely. Lust as she’d never experienced before in her life—blazing hot, unbearable, like a fist in her stomach and a splinter in her mind.
Suzanne, are you planning on standing in the hallway all night staring at me? Or are you coming in?
She’d come in. And he’d turned to her. And she’d reached out and laid her hands on his chest. Underneath her hand she’d felt his heart beating slow and steady. He hadn’t been afraid or nervous. Only her. In an instant his mouth had crashed onto hers and she’d thrown herself into the kiss, body and soul. Her nails dug into his back, her br**sts pressed into his chest. Nothing would have stopped her from having him that night. Not the Church or the state or her better judgment or her job or even her memories of Adam. She reached between their bodies to unbutton his pants, and a pair of hands with a viselike grip clamped down on her wrists. She found herself backed to the wall, her arms pinned above her head, and Søren’s face by hers, his eyes closed, the slightest grimace of pain on his face.
