The Saint
Page 59
“Eleanor, are you trying to use logic on Catholics?”
She tried to laugh but the sound didn’t come out quite right.
“I think someone smart once said that was a pointless strategy.” She smiled at him.
“The whole world is a courtroom. And everyone loves to play judge, jury and executioner. A Catholic priest sexually involved with a teenage member of his congregation? I will be crucified. I’ve seen this happen over and over again. And the only people who won’t hate me will be the people who hate you instead.”
“Is this my fault?” she asked, afraid of the answer. She had pursued him, hadn’t she?
“No. It’s destiny. Or doom, perhaps. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
“Maybe they’re the same thing.”
“Perhaps they are.” He looked into her eyes and she saw her doom and destiny waiting in them. One kiss. Surely one kiss wouldn’t kill them. She leaned in. She knew Søren would let her kiss him. She knew he would kiss her back.
But then she heard something. Whistling. Somewhere in the building someone whistled. She’d heard the song before but couldn’t name it or place it. Hurriedly she pulled back from the embrace and put two feet between her and Søren.
“I’m changing my answer,” Søren said. “It’s his fault.”
“Who is that?” she whispered in a panic. Søren did something she’d never dreamed she’d see him do. He rolled his eyes.
“‘La Marseillaise’—the French national anthem.”
“Who’s in the building?”
Søren sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead.
“I suppose tonight’s as good a night as any,” Søren said.
“For what?”
“For you to meet the in-law.”
18
Eleanor
THE WHISTLING SOUND GREW CLOSER. SØREN TOOK her hand in his.
“Eleanor, allow me to apologize in advance.”
“Apologize? For what?”
“For him.”
“Who? Moi?” asked the man who strolled through the nearest door and right up to them. “I hope I’m interrupting something.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened at the sight of the man.
“I love that reaction.” He pointed at Eleanor’s face. “That is the ‘you didn’t tell me how pretty he was’ look, oui?”
“Didn’t I almost punch you on a set of stairs once?” she asked him.
“You broke into my house. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You have Eddie Vedder hair,” Eleanor said, which was the only thing she had to say for herself. She was still trying to recover from the shock of the man. He wore the most amazing suit she’d ever seen in her life. Black trousers, riding boots, long black jacket, black-and-silver embroidered vest. He had dark shoulder-length hair and a face that belonged on a male model. And to make matters even worse, he was French. So this was the brother-in-law? The best friend? The Kingsley?
He picked up her hand as if to kiss the back of it, but at the last second he raised her fingertips to his nose and sniffed them. She pulled her hand back.
“So this is elle?”
“This is she. Eleanor, this is Kingsley. Kingsley, Eleanor. Now please go back to the rectory, Kingsley, before Eleanor starts liking you.”
“Liking me more than you, you mean. Too late. Isn’t it?”
“You are seriously French,” she said.
“Would you like to see how French I am?” He imposed himself between her and Søren and stared down at her with the most seductive expression she’d ever seen on the face of a man with all his clothes on.
“Kingsley, please,” Søren said.
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to her.”
Kingsley stepped even closer.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
“Seventeen. How old are you?”
“Thirty. Is your hymen intact?”
Eleanor stood up straighter.
“Is your brain intact?”
“I ask for a reason.” He shook his finger in her face to hush her. “I f**ked a virgin last week. I didn’t mean to.”
“What happened? You trip and fall into her hymen?”
“You jest, but do you know how hard it is to get blood off raw silk upholstery?” Kingsley asked, sounding positively perturbed. “She could have told me before I f**ked her. I would have put a towel down first. But c’est la guerre. What’s the etiquette for accidentally f**king a virgin? Should I send flowers? If I f**ked you and broke your hymen, what would you want from me after?”
“Hair of the dog that bit me?” Eleanor suggested her father’s favorite hangover cure. “Fuck me again?”
Kingsley looked her up and down. He seemed to like what he saw.
“Would you like to play a round of Justine and the naughty monk with me?”
“Never heard of it.”
“I swear I will have you arrested,” Søren said to Kingsley. He sounded stern but Eleanor saw amusement in his eyes.
“Have you ever read Justine by Le Marquis de Sade? Wonderful book. Little twelve-year-old Justine runs away to a monastery and the monks rape her and subject her to orgies and beatings over and over again. So that’s how you play the game. Shall we?”
“How do we know who wins?”
“Whoever has lost the least blood by the end of the game wins.”
She tried to laugh but the sound didn’t come out quite right.
“I think someone smart once said that was a pointless strategy.” She smiled at him.
“The whole world is a courtroom. And everyone loves to play judge, jury and executioner. A Catholic priest sexually involved with a teenage member of his congregation? I will be crucified. I’ve seen this happen over and over again. And the only people who won’t hate me will be the people who hate you instead.”
“Is this my fault?” she asked, afraid of the answer. She had pursued him, hadn’t she?
“No. It’s destiny. Or doom, perhaps. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
“Maybe they’re the same thing.”
“Perhaps they are.” He looked into her eyes and she saw her doom and destiny waiting in them. One kiss. Surely one kiss wouldn’t kill them. She leaned in. She knew Søren would let her kiss him. She knew he would kiss her back.
But then she heard something. Whistling. Somewhere in the building someone whistled. She’d heard the song before but couldn’t name it or place it. Hurriedly she pulled back from the embrace and put two feet between her and Søren.
“I’m changing my answer,” Søren said. “It’s his fault.”
“Who is that?” she whispered in a panic. Søren did something she’d never dreamed she’d see him do. He rolled his eyes.
“‘La Marseillaise’—the French national anthem.”
“Who’s in the building?”
Søren sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead.
“I suppose tonight’s as good a night as any,” Søren said.
“For what?”
“For you to meet the in-law.”
18
Eleanor
THE WHISTLING SOUND GREW CLOSER. SØREN TOOK her hand in his.
“Eleanor, allow me to apologize in advance.”
“Apologize? For what?”
“For him.”
“Who? Moi?” asked the man who strolled through the nearest door and right up to them. “I hope I’m interrupting something.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened at the sight of the man.
“I love that reaction.” He pointed at Eleanor’s face. “That is the ‘you didn’t tell me how pretty he was’ look, oui?”
“Didn’t I almost punch you on a set of stairs once?” she asked him.
“You broke into my house. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You have Eddie Vedder hair,” Eleanor said, which was the only thing she had to say for herself. She was still trying to recover from the shock of the man. He wore the most amazing suit she’d ever seen in her life. Black trousers, riding boots, long black jacket, black-and-silver embroidered vest. He had dark shoulder-length hair and a face that belonged on a male model. And to make matters even worse, he was French. So this was the brother-in-law? The best friend? The Kingsley?
He picked up her hand as if to kiss the back of it, but at the last second he raised her fingertips to his nose and sniffed them. She pulled her hand back.
“So this is elle?”
“This is she. Eleanor, this is Kingsley. Kingsley, Eleanor. Now please go back to the rectory, Kingsley, before Eleanor starts liking you.”
“Liking me more than you, you mean. Too late. Isn’t it?”
“You are seriously French,” she said.
“Would you like to see how French I am?” He imposed himself between her and Søren and stared down at her with the most seductive expression she’d ever seen on the face of a man with all his clothes on.
“Kingsley, please,” Søren said.
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to her.”
Kingsley stepped even closer.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
“Seventeen. How old are you?”
“Thirty. Is your hymen intact?”
Eleanor stood up straighter.
“Is your brain intact?”
“I ask for a reason.” He shook his finger in her face to hush her. “I f**ked a virgin last week. I didn’t mean to.”
“What happened? You trip and fall into her hymen?”
“You jest, but do you know how hard it is to get blood off raw silk upholstery?” Kingsley asked, sounding positively perturbed. “She could have told me before I f**ked her. I would have put a towel down first. But c’est la guerre. What’s the etiquette for accidentally f**king a virgin? Should I send flowers? If I f**ked you and broke your hymen, what would you want from me after?”
“Hair of the dog that bit me?” Eleanor suggested her father’s favorite hangover cure. “Fuck me again?”
Kingsley looked her up and down. He seemed to like what he saw.
“Would you like to play a round of Justine and the naughty monk with me?”
“Never heard of it.”
“I swear I will have you arrested,” Søren said to Kingsley. He sounded stern but Eleanor saw amusement in his eyes.
“Have you ever read Justine by Le Marquis de Sade? Wonderful book. Little twelve-year-old Justine runs away to a monastery and the monks rape her and subject her to orgies and beatings over and over again. So that’s how you play the game. Shall we?”
“How do we know who wins?”
“Whoever has lost the least blood by the end of the game wins.”
