The Virgin
Page 33
Still, Elle walked to the other window in the room and peered out.
The sisters had formed two even lines like an honor guard, and the girl was between them walking toward the front door of the convent. Elle knew what would happen next. There would be a ceremony in the main chapel and the girl would be dressed in her habit and veiled. She’d choose a new name—Sister Mary Something—and profess her temporary vows. And by lunch, she’d be a Sister of St. Monica.
Her old life would be over. Even her name would be gone.
Halfway through the line toward the door, the girl stopped, turned around and ran back to the car. She embraced her mother and her father. Poor thing. She must be scared to death, heartbroken, sobbing...
Or was she?
The girl, using her mother as a shield of sorts, glanced up to the window again and stared straight at Elle. And then—and Elle was entirely certain she didn’t imagine it—the girl winked at her.
Elle laughed and shook her head. Then she composed her face. If Mother Prioress had told her one time, she’d told her a thousand times—behave.
She wrenched herself away from the window and promptly resolved to forget she’d seen that beautiful girl and her mysterious wink. After all, she was about to become a nun and nuns had to abide by vows. Vows of obedience and vows of chastity.
Then again, when had a little thing like a vow of chastity ever stopped Elle before?
11
Haiti
THE WOMAN ROSE off the ground and dusted the sand off her knees, brushed the tears off her face.
“Thank you for your help,” she said. “Have a lovely day.”
With that cool dismissal¸ she reached down and picked up a canvas tote bag by its handles, turned around and walked away from him. Kingsley didn’t like that. At all.
“What’s your name?” he asked, jogging to catch up with her.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“If you don’t have a reason for wanting to know my name, I don’t have any reason for telling you.”
Kingsley winced. She had him there.
“Sorry. I don’t have reasons for much of what I do. If you asked me why I’m even in Haiti, I couldn’t tell you why.”
“Then I won’t ask,” she said. She started walking off again.
“May I carry your bag for you?” he asked, adjusting his strides to keep up with hers. She had magnificently long legs and walked briskly. “It looks heavy.”
“It is heavy. And no, you may not carry it for me.”
“Would you like me to leave you alone?” he asked, not wanting to admit defeat but willing to admit it if necessary.
She stopped and looked at him. A long studied look. He was grateful he had sunglasses on over his eyes; her gaze was so piercing, so searching, that he almost took a step back away from her.
“No,” she said at last. “You don’t have to leave me alone.”
“Then I’ll walk with you, if you’ll allow it.”
“I will,” she said, and started off walking again. Kingsley walked at her side and readjusted his strategy.
“I’m Kingsley,” he said.
“Are you?”
“I am. That’s my name.”
“Just Kingsley?”
“I have a last name. Two of them actually. Do you have a name? First? Last? Middle?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If you didn’t have a name I would have given you one. I have extras.”
That got a smile from her. A small one but he’d take what he could get.
“Juliette,” she said. “My name is Juliette.”
“Beautiful name. Do you have a last name?”
“I do.”
When she didn’t volunteer it, he gave up that line of conversation. He needed a new strategy.
“Your French is perfect, by the way.” A compliment usually worked in these situations, Kingsley had found.
“Yours isn’t,” she said. “You must live in America.”
“I do. Haven’t been back to France in years. You can tell?”
“I can tell.”
“Keep speaking your perfect French to me and perhaps my French will improve.”
“I have nothing to say.” She went silent again.
She had nothing to say? Well, fuck. Kingsley could have respected that statement, and they could have walked on in silence. But he didn’t like silence, especially not from this woman with her voice and her perfect French. So instead of respecting the silence, he broke it. Dramatically.
“I fucked an eighteen-year-old girl this morning,” Kingsley said. “And last night, although I was too drunk to remember much of it.”
“Are you still drunk?” She sounded utterly disgusted with him, but at least she was speaking, so disgust was better than nothing.
“Look, I’m not proud of myself. I didn’t mean to fuck her. It was an accident.”
“Accident?” she repeated. She had a low voice and everything she said sounded like a secret. “Isn’t that the excuse men use when they do something stupid and don’t want to take full responsibility for it? That sort of accident?”
“She didn’t tell me her age.”
“Did you ask?”
“No...” he admitted.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-nine.”
“Old enough to know better.”
“I should. I do. I won’t ever do it again,” he said, hoping to wheedle a smile out of her.
The sisters had formed two even lines like an honor guard, and the girl was between them walking toward the front door of the convent. Elle knew what would happen next. There would be a ceremony in the main chapel and the girl would be dressed in her habit and veiled. She’d choose a new name—Sister Mary Something—and profess her temporary vows. And by lunch, she’d be a Sister of St. Monica.
Her old life would be over. Even her name would be gone.
Halfway through the line toward the door, the girl stopped, turned around and ran back to the car. She embraced her mother and her father. Poor thing. She must be scared to death, heartbroken, sobbing...
Or was she?
The girl, using her mother as a shield of sorts, glanced up to the window again and stared straight at Elle. And then—and Elle was entirely certain she didn’t imagine it—the girl winked at her.
Elle laughed and shook her head. Then she composed her face. If Mother Prioress had told her one time, she’d told her a thousand times—behave.
She wrenched herself away from the window and promptly resolved to forget she’d seen that beautiful girl and her mysterious wink. After all, she was about to become a nun and nuns had to abide by vows. Vows of obedience and vows of chastity.
Then again, when had a little thing like a vow of chastity ever stopped Elle before?
11
Haiti
THE WOMAN ROSE off the ground and dusted the sand off her knees, brushed the tears off her face.
“Thank you for your help,” she said. “Have a lovely day.”
With that cool dismissal¸ she reached down and picked up a canvas tote bag by its handles, turned around and walked away from him. Kingsley didn’t like that. At all.
“What’s your name?” he asked, jogging to catch up with her.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“If you don’t have a reason for wanting to know my name, I don’t have any reason for telling you.”
Kingsley winced. She had him there.
“Sorry. I don’t have reasons for much of what I do. If you asked me why I’m even in Haiti, I couldn’t tell you why.”
“Then I won’t ask,” she said. She started walking off again.
“May I carry your bag for you?” he asked, adjusting his strides to keep up with hers. She had magnificently long legs and walked briskly. “It looks heavy.”
“It is heavy. And no, you may not carry it for me.”
“Would you like me to leave you alone?” he asked, not wanting to admit defeat but willing to admit it if necessary.
She stopped and looked at him. A long studied look. He was grateful he had sunglasses on over his eyes; her gaze was so piercing, so searching, that he almost took a step back away from her.
“No,” she said at last. “You don’t have to leave me alone.”
“Then I’ll walk with you, if you’ll allow it.”
“I will,” she said, and started off walking again. Kingsley walked at her side and readjusted his strategy.
“I’m Kingsley,” he said.
“Are you?”
“I am. That’s my name.”
“Just Kingsley?”
“I have a last name. Two of them actually. Do you have a name? First? Last? Middle?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If you didn’t have a name I would have given you one. I have extras.”
That got a smile from her. A small one but he’d take what he could get.
“Juliette,” she said. “My name is Juliette.”
“Beautiful name. Do you have a last name?”
“I do.”
When she didn’t volunteer it, he gave up that line of conversation. He needed a new strategy.
“Your French is perfect, by the way.” A compliment usually worked in these situations, Kingsley had found.
“Yours isn’t,” she said. “You must live in America.”
“I do. Haven’t been back to France in years. You can tell?”
“I can tell.”
“Keep speaking your perfect French to me and perhaps my French will improve.”
“I have nothing to say.” She went silent again.
She had nothing to say? Well, fuck. Kingsley could have respected that statement, and they could have walked on in silence. But he didn’t like silence, especially not from this woman with her voice and her perfect French. So instead of respecting the silence, he broke it. Dramatically.
“I fucked an eighteen-year-old girl this morning,” Kingsley said. “And last night, although I was too drunk to remember much of it.”
“Are you still drunk?” She sounded utterly disgusted with him, but at least she was speaking, so disgust was better than nothing.
“Look, I’m not proud of myself. I didn’t mean to fuck her. It was an accident.”
“Accident?” she repeated. She had a low voice and everything she said sounded like a secret. “Isn’t that the excuse men use when they do something stupid and don’t want to take full responsibility for it? That sort of accident?”
“She didn’t tell me her age.”
“Did you ask?”
“No...” he admitted.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-nine.”
“Old enough to know better.”
“I should. I do. I won’t ever do it again,” he said, hoping to wheedle a smile out of her.
