Something Nice

An Original Sinners Novella

Tiffany Reisz

8th Circle Press

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

About the Author

Books by Tiffany Reisz

Copyright

Author’s Note

This story takes place two months after the end of The Siren, the summer between The Siren and The Angel.

1

When Søren said, “Let’s make a trade,” Nora should have known right then and right there it was a trap. He was her owner, her master, her dominant. Dominants did not make trades, especially not a dominant like Søren. He gave the orders. She followed the orders. The end. By the time he’d suggested the trade, he’d flogged her for nearly an hour. She was naked, standing by the bedpost with her arms tied over her head and in her aroused and weakened state, she’d fallen for the trap hook, line, and vagina.

“Trade, sir?”

“Yes. I’ll do something nice for you and you’ll do something nice for me.”

“Something nice?” she asked.

“Yes, something nice.”

“No offense, sir, but niceness really isn’t your strong suit.”

“True, but neither is it yours.”

“Good point. Still…what’s the catch?” she asked.

“No catch,” Søren said.

“You’re a sadist. There’s always a catch. Sir.”

“The usual catch. You’ll have to agree to the trade without knowing what nice thing I want from you first. Then again, that hardly matters since I could simply order you to do it anyway.”

“True,” she said. “May I ask why you aren’t simply ordering me to do whatever it is then?”

“Let’s say I’m feeling generous. So tell me, Little One, what would you like me to do?”

He dropped the flogger onto the bed and pressed his bare chest to her naked back. He cupped her breasts in his hands and lightly held them as he kissed her shoulder, the back of her neck. A stubborn curl of her black hair fell over her face. She wriggled her itching nose and Søren, attentive as always, tucked the curl behind her ear for her.

“It has to be something nice?” she asked. “Could it be something naughty?”

“Aren’t those words synonymous in your vocabulary?”

“True,” she said. “Anything nice? Anything at all?”

“Anything that’s in my power at this moment. I’ll play your favorite song on piano, massage every inch of your body, give you a bath, tell you a story, or—”

“Go down on me?” she said. “All the way? To completion? No stopping right before I come to torture me like you did last week?”

Søren laughed softly into her ear, which only made her aching arousal worse. If she didn’t come soon she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

“That’s certainly in my power,” he said. “Is that your request?”

“Since you are in a generous mood, sir…”

Apparently he was in a generous mood. He unhooked her wrists from the bedpost and with one finger under her collar, drew her to the bed, laid her down on her back, and straddled her stomach. He lifted her arms over her head again and cuffed her wrists to the headboard. With his knees, he nudged her thighs wide open while he pressed a deep, sensual kiss onto her lips. She’d been back with Søren two full months and every day it got a little easier. The bruises on her body had healed weeks ago. The bruises on her heart would take a little longer, but with every night she spent in Søren’s bed, with every kiss, every touch, the pain of losing Wesley eased. Sometimes she could go hours without thinking of him, and those were always the hours in Søren’s bed.

He kissed her neck and her chest, lingered long over her nipples, which hardened and throbbed in his warm mouth. As he kissed her breasts, he teased the little metal hoop threaded through her clitoral hood. He had the most miraculous fingers, long and dexterous. They knew all her secrets.

Nora panted with pleasure as he stroked her and when he slipped a finger inside her and pressed against that soft spot that made her wild, she gasped so hard her shoulders came off the bed. Søren laughed again and raised his head. He put one finger over his lips, shushing her.

“Let’s play the quiet game, shall we?” he asked in a soft, chiding tone. It was times like this she remembered he was once a school teacher. “We are in a rectory, after all. Not a brothel.”

“Sorry, sir,” she whispered. “I have trouble telling the difference sometimes.”

He lowered himself to the bed and if there was a sexier sight in the world than his blond head between her legs, she hadn’t seen it yet and doubted she ever would. He flicked his tongue over her clitoris and she flinched with pleasure but somehow managed to stay silent. Mostly silent. It wasn’t easy to keep from moaning when Søren pressed his tongue to the base of her vagina and slowly licked his way to her clitoris. He did it again and this time he pushed his tongue into her body. Nora seized with pleasure. Every muscle in her body clenched and she gasped Søren’s name.

Just enough bright white moonlight streamed in the room to watch him as he worked on her. She saw the outline of veins on his muscular arms and shoulders, the look of intensely absorbed concentration on his face, and his long dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. When his fingertip found her favorite nerve ending, her deep muscles fluttered, and Nora remembered she was supposed to be having an orgasm, not staring at her lover while he went down on her. Closing her eyes, she rested her head back against the pillow. She was so close to coming but she breathed through the pleasure the same way she breathed through the pain when Søren flogged her. If she could control her breathing, she could put off climaxing for another minute or two and the orgasm, when it did come, would be twice as intense. Søren wasn’t making it easy on her, though. He licked her deeply and thoroughly, fucked her with two fingers inside her, ran his tongue around her clitoris over and over again until she shook and shuddered against the sheets. Her stomach tightened and her back became a steel string pulled taut and ready to snap. She desperately wanted to touch him, to stroke his hair, caress his shoulders, but he had her hands tied to the bed. Instead she wrapped her legs over his back and rested her heels between his shoulder blades. His skin felt hot to the touch.

Søren lightly sucked her clitoral ring and the pleasure passed the point of no return. He slipped a third finger into her and she was done for. Her muscles strained and stretched and spasmed. Her head fell back on the bed and her back arched off it. The orgasm shot through her body, starting at her clitoris and spiking up her spine and down her thighs. She came as quietly as she could even though it felt so divine she might have screamed were she in her own bed. She was still coming when he slid on top of her and rammed his cock into her still shuddering body. He put his hand on her neck, slipped his thumb under her collar and pressed it into the hollow of her throat. A thousand fresh shockwaves of pleasure coursed through her as he pounded his own orgasm into hers. She ceased to exist for one perfect moment and became nothing but pure sex.

She finally came back to her senses when Søren pulled out of her and his semen poured onto the bed. He’d probably force her to sleep in the wet spot. His sadism knew no bounds.

“Was that nice enough for you?” he asked as he stretched out alongside her body.

“Very…very…nice. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re most certainly welcome.”

Nora laughed drunkenly. “I guess it’s your turn,” she said. “What nice thing do you want me to do for you, my sir?”

“Guess.”

“Hmm…do you want a blow job?”

“I just came.”

“Anal?”

“Same answer.”

“Blood-play?”

“As nice as that would be, no. My scalpel needs sharpening.”

“Do you want to fist me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Do you want me to fist you?”

Søren made a face of utter disgust and Nora giggled. She loved finding Søren’s limits and poking them.

“That is a hard no for the rest of eternity,” he said.

“Threesome with Kingsley?”

“He’s busy with Juliette this weekend. They’re vacation-home hunting in Newport.”

“Okay, I give up. What nice thing do you want me to do for you in exchange for the nice thing you did for me, sir?”

Søren slid on top of her again. He braced himself over her, his hands on either side of her chest. He kissed her collarbone, her chest and neck.

“I want you,” he said as he nuzzled her hair that had come loose and flowed over her shoulder. “To…” He kissed her right nipple. She moaned softly. “Go.” He kissed her left nipple. She moaned a little less softly. “To.” He lightly bit the soft skin in the valley between her breasts. She moaned almost loudly. “The Sacred Heart church picnic tomorrow.”

Nora raised her head off the bed and met his eyes.

“What the hell?”

“You already agreed to the trade. You’re required to arrive at noon and remain until four o’clock. Mrs. Maywood’s farm. I’m sure you remember where it is.”

Søren untied her hands from the bed and pulled the covers over her and him. Then he lay on his pillow and closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

Nora groaned and rolled into the fetal position. Curse her and her overeager clitoris.

“Why do you hate me?” she asked.

“I love you, Little One,” he said, smiling with his eyes closed. “And you’ll have a nice time at the picnic, I promise.”

“I’d rather fist a Frenchman.”

“That can be arranged. Now go to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”

“Why are you the worst person on the planet?” she asked.

And then Søren answered exactly the way a priest would answer.

“Because God made me this way.”

“God and I are going to have words one of these days,” Nora said.

As pissed as she was at Søren for tricking her, Nora left him the second he removed her collar. She woke up the next morning in her own bed, still angry at him. She tried to hold onto that anger to keep her fears at bay. That lasted until she was in the car, driving to the farm.

Nothing good would come of her socializing with the devout Catholics of Connecticut. True, she’d started attending Sacred Heart again every Sunday at Søren’s request but she did so grudgingly. She came in, sat near the back, and snuck out as soon as the Mass ended and she’d been exhorted to go forth in peace. But she didn’t talk to anyone if she could help it, didn’t participate in anything but Communion. When she’d left Søren five years earlier, she’d left the Church as well. Wasn’t it enough she’d gone back to him? What more did he want from her?

And—this was what really scared her—what if she fucked up today? What if she fucked up and said something stupid or did something stupid and landed herself or Søren in hot water? Usually she could make it through a day without stuffing her foot into her mouth but usually she didn’t attend The 30th Annual Sacred Heart Church Picnic, held every July at Mrs. Maywood’s Connecticut farm. When she’d received the invitation from the church, sent to her by Søren’s secretary, Diane, she’d given it no more than a glance before tossing it into the trash.

Yet here she was, going to the fucking church picnic like she was a normal person who did that sort of thing and not, say, a notorious New York dominatrix who was sleeping with Sacred Heart’s beloved pastor behind everyone’s collective and clueless backs.

Nora had one thought as she turned her car onto the long, winding country road that led to the farm where the picnic was held every year.

Thank God this was a Catholic party.

At least there’d be booze.

2

Half an hour outside Wakefield, Connecticut, stood a two-hundred-acre farm called Paradise. When Nora was a kid, she’d loved the church picnics the Maywoods hosted every July for the church. She’d loved getting to run around with other kids, tromping through the twenty-acre woods, eating too much, talking too loud, and cannonballing right into the center of Paradise’s pond. Noisy, wild, and fun—it was the opposite of church and yet still church because the priest was there and the church secretary and the deacons and even a couple nuns sometimes. Why they couldn’t have church at the Maywood farm every Sunday was beyond little Eleanor Schreiber’s ken. Seemed like a great way to up church attendance.

She arrived at noon—as ordered—and parked her car at the end of a row of cars fifty or more deep. God bless Regina Maywood. Her husband had died last year and yet here she was, throwing the party like always even, though she was a seventy-year-old widow and probably had better things to do with her Saturday than watch a hundred people tearing up her lawn. Nora remembered Regina Maywood well. She’d been one of her mother’s friends from the Marian Guild, one of the nicer ones. After Nora had gotten arrested at fifteen, Mrs. Maywood had stopped by the house and given Nora a hug, told her it would be all right, that everyone made mistakes when they were young, and God would take care of her if she would let Him. Nora had agreed with her. Søren had already promised to take care of her. They’d already made their deal. And back then Søren and God were nearly interchangeable to her. Another youthful mistake, but an understandable one. Some days she still got them confused.

Reluctantly she abandoned the safety and sanctity of her car. She’d spent so much time trying to decide what to wear this morning that she’d had to remind herself she was going to a picnic, not out on a first date. She’d settled on her standby uniform of comfy, ratty jeans and her old Pearl Jam t-shirt that hugged her curves a bit tighter than it had back in high school. She remembered swimming in Paradise’s pond and wore a black bikini under her clothes in case she decided to swim—or drown herself. She’d pulled her hair up in a casual messy ponytail, applied sunblock to protect her skin and put on her dark sunglasses to protect her privacy. She could only hope she’d blend in enough to avoid attracting too much attention and too many questions. She dreaded being asked why she’d left the church five years ago—“Because I was sleeping with your priest and we broke up.” She dreaded even more being asked why she’d come back—“Because I’m in love with our priest and always will be so I might as well accept it and get on with my life. Also, he told me I had to come back to church because he likes to watch me squirm, and yes, I mean that in every possible way.” But the worst question of all, the one she least wanted to answer was likely the one she’d be asked the most—“How are you?” She hated this question because she didn’t know the answer. She’d quit working for Kingsley, which was a victory of sorts although it left her with much too much time to brood. She’d gained a massive book deal with Royal House, but she’d lost her adored editor Zach to his life and wife in London. She’d lost Wesley and that pain still smarted like a papercut on her heart. And she belonged to Søren—again. The entire foundation of her world had been rocked in the past couple of months and she still didn’t know where she stood. If someone asked her how she was she would tell them “fine.” It was either that or say, “I don’t know!” and burst into tears. That’s what happened when Kingsley had recently made the mistake of asking her how she was doing. Juliette had held Nora while she cried and chewed out Kingsley for his callousness, calling him “a brute.” Poor Kingsley had to swear on his mother’s grave he would never again dare to ask a woman how she was doing for as long as he lived.

From the backseat of her car, Nora pulled out a picnic basket. She hadn’t known what to bring to the potluck picnic so she’d brought a little of everything—a bottle of Pinot Noir, a baguette and shortbread cookies from her favorite bakery, apples, and a bouquet of daisies for Mrs. Maywood. Even packing the picnic basket had been hard for her this morning. Wesley would never have brought anything store-bought to a picnic. He could cook anything. He would have made apple pie, “Because ‘Merica,” he’d say. He knew how to make a very low-sugar but insanely delicious pie that even he could eat. But Wesley wasn’t in her life anymore and that was okay. It had to be okay, right? Not like she had any choice about it. No, she did have a choice, she reminded herself. Sending him away was her choice. Going back to Søren had been her choice. And trying to be happy versus wallowing in misery was also her choice. And it was not in Nora Sutherlin’s nature to wallow in anything but the beds of beautiful men and even more beautiful women.

Nora practiced putting on a friendly, non-threatening smile as she walked up to the front door of the farmhouse. Søren had told her she had to stay four hours at least. Four hours. She could do it. She could make it four hours without calling Søren “Sir.” She could make it four hours without sticking her tongue out at him. She could make it four hours without checking out his ass which looked unfairly attractive in the jeans he would probably be wearing today. She could make it four hours without admitting to anyone she was having a hard time being back at Sacred Heart. She could make it four hours without telling everyone who asked her what she did these days for a living that she “wrote smut and beat people up.” She could make it four hours without hitting on one of the teenage boys.

Unless Michael was here. Then all bets were off.

The farmhouse was white with faded gray shingles on the roof, and dark green doors and windows. Nora imagined it had looked just like this when it was built back in the 1880s. Her footfalls sounded hollow on the wooden steps as she walked up to the front door. She heard laughter from inside and around back of the house, voices, children yelling for no reason except they were children and that’s what children did.

It took everything Nora had to ring the doorbell instead of running back to her car. She truly did not want to be here, not at all, not one bit. She missed the safety and comfort of her dungeon at The 8th Circle. She knew who she was in her dungeon, at Kingsley’s house, at her home. But here, she didn’t know who she was here. Eleanor? Nora? Ellie? Someone else? Someone she hadn’t met before? Someone new? Or someone she’d forgotten how to be?

She hit the doorbell and paused, hit it again ten seconds later. She heard more laughter from behind the door and finally it opened. Mrs. Maywood stood across the threshold in her peach-colored polyester pants and white cotton blouse. Nora doubted Mrs. Maywood even remembered her but after a few seconds her eyes lit up. “My Lord, Ellie. Come in here and give me a hug.” She opened her arms and Nora stepped into the embrace.

“Thanks for having me over,” Nora said, trying to sound sincere.

“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Maywood said. “You know you’re always welcome here.” She pulled back and smiled. Her thin white hair was like dandelion fluff on her head. She was a gentle and genteel woman and Nora felt instantly guilty for how much she’d dreaded coming to this sweet lady’s home. “How’s your mother?”

“She was good last time I saw her,” Nora said as Mrs. Maywood ushered her inside the house. She didn’t tell Mrs. Maywood she hadn’t seen her mother in about four years.

“That’s wonderful. We were all so happy for her.”

“She loves it at the convent,” Nora said.

“Better her than you, right?” Mrs. Maywood gave her a wink.

“Truer words,” Nora said. Mrs. Maywood must have heard about her books. At least she didn’t seem offended by them. Growing up she’d known a handful of religious people who wouldn’t read anything “secular” except for the newspaper. Not even Hemingway or Faulkner or Jane Austen. Unless it had a lady in a plain dress and bonnet on the cover, then it was considered suspect. Maybe Nora could write a kinky Amish novel. She wondered if she could work the word “plowing” into the title. She’d run that idea by Zach next time she talked to him. She liked to give him heart attacks.

“These are for you,” Nora said, pulling the bouquet of daisies out of the basket.

“Aren’t you a dear?” Mrs. Maywood said, bringing her into the big old kitchen which probably hadn’t seen an upgrade since Nixon was in the White House. “You remembered.”

“Remembered what?” Nora asked as Mrs. Maywood pulled a glass vase out from under the kitchen sink and filled it with water.

“Your mother used to bring me daisies. You don’t remember?”

Nora laughed, shrugged. “I guess I forgot,” she said.

“Your brain forgot.” Mrs. Maywood tapped her forehead. “But your heart remembered. Everyone’s out back. You should go get something to snack on. You look too thin.”

“God bless you for saying that.”

“Go, go. Have a snack. I’m just finishing up the lemonade. Back door’s through there,” Mrs. Maywood pointed at the door to the mudroom.

“That, I remember,” Nora said.

“Father Stearns should be here soon.”

Nora paused, stiffened.

“Oh?” Nora had no idea what to say to that. Why would Mrs. Maywood volunteer that information? What did she know? Was she testing Nora? Was she waiting to see what Nora would do or say?

“Soon as he gets here, we’ll have lunch,” Mrs. Maywood said. “Can’t eat until our priest has blessed our food, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Nora said. The knot in her stomach loosened a little. “Sorry. I’m a little out of practice at these things.”

Mrs. Maywood turned and gave her a long appraising look.

“You’ve been gone too long. It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” she said.

“You sure? You look a little pale.”

Nora decided a half-truth was better than a whole lie.

“Um…I went through a breakup a couple months ago. I’m still a little rocky.”

Mrs. Maywood gave her a look of pure sympathy.

“I know what’s that’s like. I’m a little rocky myself these days”

“I’m sorry.” Nora winced, embarrassed. “I’m talking about a breakup and you lost your husband.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to apologize for having a rough summer. Trust me, if anyone is going to sympathize with a woman going through a heartache, it’s me.”

“Thank you.” Nora’s face hurt from trying not to cry. “I just…I kind of lost my bearings.”

“And you came back to Sacred Heart to find them?”

Nora nodded.

“Then you’re looking in the right place, dear. If you can’t find them in the church, you can’t find them anywhere.”

“That’s what my mother would say,” Nora said. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. Was it four o’clock yet?

“Your mother was a very smart lady.”

“So are you,” Nora said. Then she kissed Mrs. Maywood on the cheek. She hadn’t meant to do it. It just happened.

“You were always a sweet girl,” Mrs. Maywood said. “Even if nobody noticed but me.”

Mrs. Maywood winked at her and shooed her out of the kitchen. Nora took her basket through the mudroom and out the backdoor to the deck. The food table was overflowing already with crockpots and casserole dishes covered in foil, cake pans and pie plates and cookies hidden under dishtowels. Nora put her bottle of wine with the other alcohol, her cookies on the dessert table, her baguette with the other breads. All around her various members of Sacred Heart chatted and snacked on crackers with cheese, sipping on wine and American beers, which was a crime since there were so many better options in the giant blue Igloo cooler. She found German beers, Belgian pale ales, some nice IPAs, the good stuff. She went with pear cider. When she pulled her bottle opener keychain out of her pocket to open her bottle, she heard someone laughing behind her.

“Real Catholic girls bring their own bottle openers.”

Nora turned around a saw a woman smiling at her. She had brown hair, blue eyes, and a familiar-looking smile. They had gone to high school together, hadn’t they?

“The Eleventh Commandment,” Nora said. “Thou shalt never leave home without it.” She dangled her keychain from her finger before shoving it into her pocket. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Kelly,” the woman said. “Kelly Anderson. Well, Kelly Richter in high school.”

“Kelly.” Nora snapped her fingers. “Senior English class.”

“That’s it,” she said. “I was there when you got hauled out of class for writing a dirty story and you shocked the cock off that bag of bones, Father Jones.”

“I probably took a year off his life with that story. You go to Sacred Heart?”

“Eight a.m. mass. You?”

“Definitely not eight a.m. mass,” Nora said. “Although I still make it most Sundays. Eight a.m.? You must be a masochist.” Nora winced. Why did she say that? Could she not go four hours without using kink terminology in conversation?

“I have four kids. Of course I’m a masochist.”

“Four? Jesus H. Christ,” Nora said. “You aren’t a masochist. You’re nuts.”

Kelly laughed. “You’re telling me.”

“Are they here?”

“Oh yeah. Let’s see…” They stood at the deck railing and Kelly narrowed her eyes. She pointed at a little girl in a ballet tutu. “That’s Rosalynn, she’s my youngest. She’s five.”

“Adorable,” Nora said because she was supposed to say that. And the girl was adorable.

“There’s Jacob and David over there—my twins. They’re eight. And my eldest is Charity. She’s that tall stick over there with the curly brown hair who is smiling way too much at that boy.”

“How old is she?”

“Eleven last month.”

“Eleven,” Nora said. “That’s terrifying.”

Kelly found this comment inordinately funny. “You’re telling me, lady. At least once a week I ask myself when I got old enough to have a child who can steal my clothes. What is up with that?”

“Don’t look at me,” Nora said. “I’m not a breeder.”

“I can tell. You look too well-rested.”

“Jealous?”

“Totally.” Kelly smiled when she said it and Nora knew she wasn’t jealous at all. That was fine. Nora didn’t envy Kelly’s life either. That was a good to know, good to feel. Even though things were messy right now, at least Nora knew she wouldn’t have them any other way.

“Is your husband here?” Nora asked.

“He works Saturdays. And Mondays. And Tuesdays. Basically he works all the time so I can stay home with the kids.”

“Do you ever get to see each other?”

“A few hours a week?” she said, shrugging. “But that’s life. When the kids are a little older, he can back off the six-day work weeks a little. Maybe we’ll even get to have sex again someday. I’m thinking 2016 looks pretty good.” Kelly laughed at herself.

Nora took a sip of her beer. Here she’d been feeling sorry for herself over how little time she and Søren got to spend together. Yet it seemed she and Søren, a Catholic priest, were having more sex and spending more time together than this woman and her husband who lived in the same house and slept in the same bed.

“Here’s to 2016 then,” Nora said, holding out her beer. She and Kelly clinked their bottles in a toast. “Thank God for vibrators and dirty minds.”

“Speaking of vibrators and dirty minds…” Kelly said, grinning at the unmistakable sound of a Ducati motorcycle engine roaring up the side of the house.

3

Nora tensed immediately. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and checked the time—12:30. She had three and a half hours to go before she could leave. Three and a half hours to go without saying anything stupid. Where was her ball gag when she needed it?

“So, do you send your kids to Catholic school or public school?” Nora asked. Kelly had stopped listening. She was staring at Søren as he parked his Ducati motorcycle by Mrs. Maywood’s barn and took off his helmet.

“It’s a nice bike, right?” Kelly said.

Nora sighed.

“Yeah, Ducatis are very nice bikes.”

“How does a Jesuit priest get a hold of a motorcycle like that…” Kelly said. “You have to wonder.”

Nora didn’t have to wonder. She knew exactly how he got the bike. Søren’s father gave it to him as a bribe to quit seminary and Søren took the bike and became a priest anyway.

“You could ask him,” Nora said.

“No way.” Kelly raised her hands while shaking her head. “He makes me way too nervous. Doesn’t he make you nervous?”

“Oh,” Nora said. “Not really. He’s…you know, he’s fine, I guess.”

Oh God, could she sound any stupider?

“Fine is one word for him.”

“He’s a priest,” Nora said.

“Hey, I haven’t gotten laid in a while. Let a girl dream.” Kelly sighed as Søren walked toward the deck. Well, he didn’t walk exactly. He strode. The summer sun glinted off his blond hair as he came toward the house, turning it gold. He had to stop every five feet to hug someone or return a greeting. It was miserable being out in public with him. Her body ached to run to him, to throw her arms around him, to claim him so everyone would know he was hers and she was his. Instead she forced herself to look at the pond in the distance, a spot of silver in a sea of green grass. Kelly sighed again. “I would love to ride his motorcycle, if you know what I mean.”

This was now officially the most awkward conversation of her life.

“I bet he’s got a very, very big engine,” Kelly said, grinning. Nora wanted to throw up. “Wonder what kind of thrust that engine gets.”

“Motorcycles and car motors are measured in horsepower, not engine thrust.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Nora said. “I need to find the bathroom.”

“Main floor, down the hall,” Kelly said.

Nora turned to go back into the house, and walked straight into a human wall of muscle in a fitted black t-shirt.

“Oh, sorry,” Nora said. “I didn’t mean to run into you.”

“You sure about that?” he asked, smiling down at her. She knew he expected her to say something rude like, “Out of my way, Blondie,” or “Stop being so tall, you asshole. You’re blocking the sun for the rest of us.”

Instead she could only mumble a quick, “Sorry. Bathroom.”

She slipped past him and felt his eyes on her as she made her retreat. Once inside the house she found the bathroom, shut the door, and leaned against the wall. She put her hands over her face and breathed deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Was this a panic attack? No. Not a panic attack. She was just panicking. She wanted to cry but couldn’t name a reason for why other than “everything in the entire world.” Did Søren know women at his church did that? Stared at him like that? Made dirty jokes about him behind his back? Of course he knew. One didn’t go through life as a six-foot-four blond Adonis with the body of a professional soccer player without people noticing. She knew Søren didn’t care. Usually she wouldn’t care. Usually she would have found it funny. But today she felt like an open wound and everything that touched her hurt.

Nora heard a soft knock on the door and started.

“Almost done.” She washed her hands and dried them, opened the door. Søren was there outside the door.

“All yours,” she said and started to push past him. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to him, forcing her to stand right in front of him.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” she said. “How are you?”

“You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’ll go lay on the dock and get some sun. Time to eat yet?”

“Yes. Everyone’s eating. You missed the blessing.”

“Does that mean my food will poison me?” She could only hope.

“Eleanor?”

“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

“I know.” His voice was tender, caring, his priest’s voice. “But you need to be here.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you belong here, and it’s time you realize it. No one put a Scarlet A on your chest. This church is for human beings, not saints and angels.”

One tear spilled down her cheek and Søren brushed it away with his thumb. It was probably the only time today he would touch her this intimately. All she wanted to do was lean against him, wrap her arms around him, hold him until tomorrow, hold him until forever. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed. Not here. Another reason she didn’t want to be here.

“I should go.” She tried to leave and he stopped her with his hand on the wall, blocking her exit.

“Say something, Eleanor. Talk to me.”

“I’m drowning here,” she said. “You threw me in the deep end of the pond and now I’m drowning. There. I talked to you. Now I need to go. People will notice.”

“Eleanor?”

She kept walking. Her name was not an order.

“Eleanor, turn around.” That was an order.

She turned around, faced him. The hall was lined with photographs from Mrs. Maywood’s life—her parents, her wedding day, her children, her grandchildren lined up on the dock in one picture, swimming in the pond in the next. Happy people. Normal people. Not her people.

“I know you’re drowning,” he said. “I’m the reason you’re here, the reason you’re struggling. Why do you think I want you to struggle?”

“Because you’re a sadist?”

“Because you need to learn how to depend on me again, to need me again.”

“You want me to be weak. Well, it’s working.”

He walked to her and she took a step back. If she could have magically made herself disappear right then and there, she would have.

“I would never want you to be weak. It’s a fool’s errand. But you’ve been a dominant so long so you’ve forgotten how to submit to me. Even worse, you’ve forgotten how to trust me. You don’t have to take care of yourself anymore. That’s my job.”

“We shouldn’t even be talking to each other.”

“I’m your priest. We’re allowed to talk to each other in public.”

“If I fuck up here, I could ruin your life.”

“You’re not going to ruin my life. You never could.” He sighed, shook his head. “Do you remember when that coach at your high school assaulted your friend Jordan?”

“Of course I remember.”

“What did you do after she told you?”

“I told her to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew we could trust you. I knew…”

“You knew I could help her.”

“Right,” Nora said. “And you did.”

“I’m still the same person I was then. And I love you even more than I did then. You can trust me to help you. Try me.”

“Is that an order?”

“Not an order. A humble request. Let me prove to you I’m worthy of your trust and your submission.”

God, why did he make everything so difficult? Was it not enough she’d given up Wesley for him? Was it not enough she wore her collar for him again? Was it not enough she slept with him again, submitted to him again, let him own her body again? She’d even given up fighting him. And that still wasn’t enough. Did he have to make her need him like she used to? It felt like going backwards. She’d fought so hard for her freedom and independence that giving them up felt like losing the war. Worse, it made her feel like a kid again and not in the good way that people talked about. Being dependent on him again, needing him…it scared her. She’d already lost so much by going back to him. If she lost her independence, would she have anything left?

“I’ve been taking care of myself for five years,” she said, staring at the center of his chest. Easier than meeting his eyes. “And I got pretty damn good at it.”

“I know. I know it’s hard to give that up and let someone else take care of you. When you were mine before, I took care of you. If you let me, I’ll do again. And this time we’ll get it right. If you let me. And that’s nothing I can order you to do. You have to give yourself to me freely. I’m not going to throw you a lifeline until you ask for it. If you want to drown, that’s your choice. But if you want my help—”

“Fine. Help me, please,” she said, looking up to meet his gaze finally.

“With what?”

“I feel out of place. I don’t have any friends here. I don’t know how to talk to anyone. I don’t know what to talk about. I’m scared people will judge me. I’m scared people will hate me when they get to know me. This is not my world anymore. It probably never was. I don’t know how to belong here. You keep saying I do, and I don’t want to disappoint you but I don’t. I just don’t belong here. And I have no idea how you can help me with that but you seem to think you can so…prove it.”

He smiled. “I will.”

Nora gave him one more look before returning to the party. She filled a plate with food—beer-battered fried fish, fruit salad, wheat rolls with honey butter. All delicious and yet it felt like sand in her mouth. She didn’t want to talk to Kelly anymore. If she mentioned Søren’s “engine” one more time, Nora might have to clock the woman. Instead she went to sit on the ground at the edge of a circle of chairs and picnic blankets. An older man in a fishing shirt stopped her and found her a lawn chair of her own. While she picked at her food, Nora and the fisherman talked about Mrs. Maywood’s farm and the pond and the weather they’d been having. That killed a few minutes. Maybe after she ate she could go for a walk in the little woods for the next—she checked the time on her phone again—three hours. After a few bland bites, she gave up on her food and walked down to the pond. The water looked inviting. Half a dozen kids were swimming there already, being watched over by twice as many parents and grandparents. It was all so tame, so vanilla, so terribly normal. Why in hell did Søren think she belonged here? Last year a man paid her ten thousand dollars to put metal sounds into his urethra and she’d done it. She’d done it and she’d enjoyed it. How was someone like her supposed to spend a day with stay-at-home moms and kids and sweet old men and Mrs. Maywood and all those people who wouldn’t know a urethral sound if they had one shoved up their, well, their urethras.

“Miss Ellie?”

Nora looked down and saw a little boy standing on the dock. He had messy black hair and wore neon yellow swim shorts.

“Owen, right?” she asked. “Didn’t I help you tie your shoes once?”

“I take the fifth.”

“Do you know what ‘taking the fifth’ means?”

“No, but dad says it to my mom.”

“I’m sure she loves that. How can I help you, Owen?”

“Father S told me to come get you.”

“What does he want?” she asked.

Owen shrugged his skinny shoulders.

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “I just work here.”

“Does your dad also say that to your mom?”

The boy nodded. “All the time.”

Nora laughed and let Owen take her by the hand and drag her up from the pond and back to the party.

“Here she is, Father S,” Owen said, breaking into a run and Nora had to jog to keep up with him. He brought her to a clearing under Mrs. Maywood’s oldest oak tree where most of the adults at the picnic and half the teenage girls had congregated. Søren sat in an Adirondack chair with a beer in his hand and a girl of about thirteen or fourteen at his elbow. They seemed to be arguing with each other about something, but Nora couldn’t say for sure, as they were both speaking in rapid Spanish.

“Sí,” the girl said.

“No,” Søren said.

“Por favor, por favor, por favor…” The girl was clearly pleading with him to do something. Søren appeared utterly unmoved by her begging.

“Amelia…”

“Ahem?” Nora said. “You summoned me?” She hoped everyone would attribute the bright blush she wore to running in the sun with Owen and not to nervousness.

“Eleanor, this is Amelia. She wants a ride on my bike,” he said. “And she won’t take no for an answer.”

“Good,” Nora said. “My kind of girl. Why won’t he take you out?” she asked the girl.

Amelia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Because, you know…”

“Rules are rules,” he said.

“Stupid rules,” Amelia said. “There are two hundred people here, Father S. If you’re going to kidnap and murder me, you wouldn’t do it in front of two hundred witnesses.”

“If you ask her very politely, Miss Eleanor might take you for a quick spin on my bike.”

“You know how to ride a motorcycle?” Amelia looked up at Nora in wonder and amazement.

“Well…yeah,” Nora said. “You do know women can ride motorcycles too, right?”

Amelia shrugged. Maybe she didn’t know that. Maybe it’s time she learned.

“Where’d you learn how to ride a motorcycle, Ellie?” Mrs. Maywood asked. She sat in the chair next to Søren’s.

“Dad,” she said. “You know he knew cars and bikes really well.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Maywood said, remembering her father well enough to say no more.

“Would you please take me for a ride on Father S’s bike?” Amelia asked. “And thank you.”

“Sure. Your parents are cool with that?” she asked Amelia.

“Mama!” Amelia screamed. Nora winced. A woman on the other side of the circle yelled something back in Spanish.

“What was that?” Nora asked.

“She said ‘Go but wear a helmet,’” Søren said.

“You only have the one helmet, right?” Nora asked.

“Yes, so be careful. Go down the main road, turn around, come back,” he said. “Let Amelia have the helmet. Stay under the speed limit. Try not to swallow too many insects.” He reached into his pocket and fished out his keys. “Also, don’t break my duke. Don’t break Amelia. Don’t break yourself. I’m trusting you.”

“That was your first mistake,” she said. “You like the beach?”

“Love the beach,” Amelia said.

“Then let’s go. We can make it to Miami by morning if we leave right now.”

Amelia whooped as she came to her feet and ran toward Søren’s motorcycle.

“Bring me my keys back,” Søren said, holding out his hand.

“Too late, sucker!” She ran off after Amelia who was already strapping Søren’s helmet on.

“You really know how to drive this thing?” Amelia asked.

“I do,” Nora said. “And this is not a thing. This is a 1992 Ducati 902 i.e.”

“Wow, it’s older than I am.”

“Yes, it’s vintage. It’s beautiful. And we’re not going to hurt it. Ducatis are also called dukes or ducks. Did you know that?”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Now you can tell people your priest rides a duck.”

“I will totally do that.”

“Now, safety lecture time. While on the bike, you put your arms around my waist and hang on for dear life. This is a motorcycle and motorcycles are dangerous. You remember when Father S got into that accident a couple years ago?”

“The one that turned his back into ground beef?”

“That one. You don’t want to be a human hamburger, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. Then you behave on the bike. Don’t let go of me. Don’t distract me. Don’t move around. If you need me to slow down, pinch my leg. If you need me to stop, pinch it twice. Got it?”

“Got it. But…can we go fast?”

Nora narrowed her eyes at the girl.

“You remember what Father S said about staying under the speed limit?”

“Nope,” Amelia said.

“Yeah,” Nora said with a grin, her first real smile of the day. “Me neither.”

4

Once Amelia was firmly in place with her skinny teenage arms around Nora’s waist, she stuck her key into the ignition, started the bike, and kicked off down the dirt driveway to the country road in front of Mrs. Maywood’s farm. The Ducati was in a good mood today, handling well. Sometimes it only wanted to behave for Søren, but today it was happy to have her in the driver’s seat. And Amelia was a good passenger. She kept her mouth shut and hung on hard. As instructed, Amelia didn’t freak out, flail around, or do anything reckless. Nora stayed close to the speed limit but it was so nice to feel the wind in her hair and so much power between her thighs that she let it ease up past sixty before bringing it back down to a rational forty-five again. They made it to the highway and Nora turned around and headed back past the farm. They made one more loop before returning. Amelia whooped again when she took the helmet off.

“That was awesome,” Amelia said. “I want one.”

“Start saving your lunch money.”

“Thanks for taking me out. That was really nice of you.”

“Any excuse to steal Father S’s bike.”

“Right? It’s so cool. How could such a dork have such an awesome bike?”

“You think Father S is a dork?”

“Maybe more a nerd than a dork. He’s got the entire Bible memorized. And the catechism. It’s disturbing.”

“Nerd I’ll give you,” Nora said. “But he’s cute, right?”

“I guess.” Amelia shrugged. “For an old guy. Thanks again for the ride. You rock.”

She handed Nora the helmet and ran off to rejoin her friends.

Nora laughed as she hung the helmet back on Søren’s handlebars. An old dork with a motorcycle much cooler than he was. That’s how Amelia saw Søren. That was hilarious. She couldn’t wait to tell him he was a dork and an old dork at that. Even better, she couldn’t wait to tell Kingsley.

“How was the drive?” Mrs. Maywood asked when Nora returned to the circle of chairs.

“Good,” Nora said. “We made it halfway to Miami and then Amelia remembered she forgot her toothbrush. So we came back.”

“Can’t go anywhere without a toothbrush,” Mrs. Maywood said. Søren held out his hand for his keys and Nora dangled them over his palm.

“Eleanor. Give me my keys back.”

“Say please,” she said.

“Eleanor.” He snapped his fingers. “Keys.”

“Keys rhymes with please.”

“I thought your name was Nora.”

Both Nora and Søren turned to the girl who’d said that—a teenage girl Nora had seen around Sacred Heart. She was older than Amelia—seventeen or eighteen probably—and she wore a Sacred Heart Intramural Soccer Team shirt.

“Eleanor, meet Maxine. She’s one of the best fielders on our soccer team. Next to her is Angie—she’s my housekeeper Mrs. Scalera’s granddaughter. This is Jessika, Josefina, and Katie,” he said, pointing out the girls grouped around them on picnic blankets. “You already know Diane and Mrs. Maywood.” The teenagers smiled and gave her little waves. Diane, Søren’s secretary, gave her a wink that Nora ignored. Diane knew about her and Søren.

“You can call me Nora,” she said to Maxine. “Or Elle. He only calls me Eleanor because, well, it’s a long story.” Nora dropped her keys into his hand and sat down in her lawn chair again.

“What’s the story?” Maxine asked. The five or six girls scattered around them on the picnic blankets were following their conversation very closely.

“You want to take this one?” Nora asked Søren, scared of saying the wrong thing.

“Mrs. Maywood, you’ve been at Sacred Heart for thirty years, right?” Søren asked.

“Thirty-one years,” Mrs. Maywood said. “We threw our first picnic the year after our youngest was born.”

“Can you name someone who was at Sacred Heart before you were?” he asked.

“Easy,” she said and pointed right at Nora. “That little girl right there. She was at Sacred Heart when we started.”

“Not so little anymore,” Nora said as she stretched out her legs and crossed them at the ankles.

“Debatable,” Søren said.

“I’m not short. You’re unnecessarily tall,” she said.

“I thought you were new,” Maxine said to Nora.

“Eleanor was christened at Sacred Heart,” Søren said. “She attended very steadily until she was…how old? College?”

“College,” Nora said. “Then I came back. Then I left again a few years ago. Then I came back. The Catholic Church is a lot like the Hotel California. You can check out, but you can’t ever leave.”

“While Eleanor was gone,” Søren continued, “she began a writing career and took a pen name based on her own name. Elea-Nora. I knew her before she was Nora. Ergo she’s Eleanor to me, Nora to almost everyone else.”

“Not me,” Mrs. Maywood said. “She’ll always be Ellie to me.”

“Could be worse,” Nora said. “Father Greg used to call me Ellen.”

Maxine laughed.

“Eleanor’s been at Sacred Heart longer than anyone else on the current membership roles,” Søren said. “Except for a few housebound elderly who can’t make it into Mass anymore.”

“That’ll be me soon enough,” Mrs. Maywood said with a grin.

“Hush,” Søren said. “You’re as young as you were the day I started.” He kissed the back of her hand and Mrs. Maywood, seventy years old and counting, blushed.

“When did you start, Father S?” Maxine asked.

“Seventeen years ago. I remember it like yesterday,” he said.

“Holy shit,” Nora said.

“What?” Søren asked.

“I just realized something. I’m wearing the same shirt I had on that day you started.”

“You remember what you were wearing the day Father S started at Sacred?” Maxine asked.

“Of course I do,” Nora said and pointed at Søren. “You don’t forget the day the new pretty young priest at your church makes fun of your outfit.”

“I did not. I absolutely did not make fun of your outfit,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “Maxine, that is slander. Although…” He sat back in the chair again. “I was very pretty.”

“You did too make fun of me,” she said. “You said my clothes made me look insane. Oh, and you thought I had mold growing in my hair.”

“It was green.”

“It was green hair dye, not fungus!”

“You could have fooled me,” he said.

“You two are funny,” Maxine said. “I wish I knew Father S when he was young.”

“Did you hear that, Father?” Nora asked. “When you were young. Implying you aren’t anymore.”

“Of course I’m not young anymore,” he said. “I’ve been pastoring a church you attend for seventeen years. It’s a miracle I still have my faculties intact.”

“What’s a Pearl Jam?” Maxine asked, squinting at Nora’s faded black concert t-shirt.

Søren grinned at her. “Now who’s old?” he asked her. The glare she gave him could have melted stone. She was about to ask him to tell the class exactly what the disco era was like when a pretty dark-skinned girl with ribbons in her pigtails ran up to him with a piece of paper in her hand.

“Father S,” she said, panting. “I have to do this thing, so you’ll help me, right?”

“Tisha, try that again, please,” Diane, Søren’s secretary said. Tisha? Oh hell, she hadn’t recognized Diane’s daughter. That was embarrassing. She’d been a bridesmaid in Diane’s wedding, had attended Tisha’s christening eleven years ago, and had been gone so long from Sacred Heart she’d hadn’t realized Tisha was middle school age already.

“Father Stearns,” Tisha said. “Would you help me with my CCD homework now, please and thank you?”

“Better,” Diane said, shaking her head at her daughter.

“I can and I will,” Søren said, giving the girl his full attention. “What are we doing?”

“We have to interview a member of the clergy,” Tisha said. “There’s only like six questions.”

“What’s CCD?” Maxine asked.

“It’s like Catholic school for kids who go to public schools,” Nora said.

“So even if I didn’t go to Catholic school, I’d still have to go to Catholic school?” Maxine asked.

“Told you,” Nora said. “Hotel California.”

Søren ignored them both.

“What’s the first question?” Søren asked Tisha.

“What is your name and your title?” Tisha asked as she took a pencil out of her pocket and used Diane’s tray table as a desk.

“I’m the Reverend Doctor Marcus L. Stearns, S.J.”

“That’s a lot,” she said, making a face. “Hold on. Wait. Can I just write Rev for Reverend?”

“Yes,” he said, and Nora could tell he was trying not to laugh. “R-E-V and D-R.”

“What’s the S.J.?” she asked, looking up at him.

“It stands for Society of Jesus. That’s my religious order.”

“Oh, that’s the second question. Are you a member of a religious order?”

“You can write either ‘The Jesuits’ or ‘The Society of Jesus,’” he said.

“I’ll put down ‘Society of Jesus’ because I can spell that,” she said, pausing to write. “Next question. When did you decide to join a religious order? Oh, and why? I have to ask you why. But try to keep it snappy. They didn’t give me much room to write.”

“Yeah, keep it snappy, Father,” Nora said.

“When I was fourteen,” he began, pausing to return Nora’s glare. “I went to a Jesuit school.” He paused and looked over at Tisha’s paper. “J-E-S-U-I-T. I loved my Jesuit teachers, the brothers and priests there, and decided I wanted to be a Jesuit too. Is that snappy enough for you?”

“Super duper snappy,” she said, writing furiously. Nora eavesdropped onto the conversation intently. Søren had never really told her what had precipitated his desire to be a priest. He never talked about that time in his life. She’d like the non-snappy answer. Something told her there was a story hiding behind the super duper snappy version.

“Next question—what is your proudest accomplishment from your time as a fill-in-the-blank? Oh, I’m supposed to write ‘priest’ in that blank.”

“Interesting question,” Søren said. “I haven’t given it much thought as excessive pride is actively discouraged by the Bible.”

“Not that’s ever stopped you before,” Nora muttered behind her forkful of watermelon. The girls on the blankets all giggled.

“I heard that,” Søren said.

“What about when you started the Spanish-language Mass?” Diane asked. “Sacred Heart nearly doubled in size because of that. And the food got better at the picnics.” Diane had a plateful of Mexican food on her lap. Nora hadn’t seen that table. It looked much better than her fried fish.

“Yeah, and we don’t have to drive all the way to Westport for Mass,” Josefina said.

“I think you should say the soccer team,” Maxine said. “But I’m biased. But we’re awesome. But I’m biased. But we are awesome.”

“How about when you saved Michael’s life?” Angie asked. Nora looked at the girl for the first time. She was a mousey thing, but pretty in a bookish way. The girl blushed and Nora wondered if the girl had a crush on Michael. She couldn’t blame the girl if she did.

“Anyone would have done that,” Søren said.

“How about me?” Nora asked. “You kept me out of jail.”

“He did?” Maxine asked, wide-eyed.

“Another long story,” Nora said.

“Tisha, write that my proudest accomplishment as a priest was performing your mother’s wedding which was one of the happier days of my life,” he said. Nora shot him the quickest of glances. She remembered Diane’s weddings. Specifically she recalled cleaning the fellowship hall up after the reception and waltzing with Søren. They’d almost kissed that night for the first time. They were so close when a certain French pervert of their acquaintance had shown up and made a very sexy nuisance of himself. Oh yes, it was one of the happier days of Nora’s life too.

“Next question?” Søren asked.

“Um…What is the biggest challenge of being a priest?” Tisha asked.

“I bet I can guess,” Katie said under her breath.

“That’s only the second biggest challenge,” Søren said, glancing her way. Katie snorted and Nora had to laugh. Poor Tisha looked adorably bewildered.

“What?” she said.

“You can put this answer down,” Søren said, giving Tisha his full attention. “Not having enough time to spend with the people I love—my friends and family.”

“And what is the biggest joy of being a priest?” Tisha asked.

“Spending time with the other people I love, my church.”

“Aww…” the girls said in unison.

“You’re so sweet, Father S,” Maxine said.

Nora coughed. The cough quickly turned into choking. Her eyes watered and Diane had to slap her once on the back.

“Eleanor?” Søren said.

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat, took a sip of her beer, and patted her chest. “Choked on a little bite of irony there.”

“What?” Maxine asked. “What’s ironic?”

“You calling him sweet,” Nora said. “Of all the words in the English language—and there are over a million of them—‘sweet’ might be the last word I’d use to describe Father Stearns.”

“Why not?” Angie asked.

“Yes, Eleanor, tell us all—why not?” Søren raised his chin just slightly and gave her a look that warned her the very fate of the world might hinge upon her answer.

Nora looked at him, at the girls, back at him, back at the girls.

“They don’t know, do they?” Nora asked.

“Know what?” Søren said.

“That you’re evil.”

“I was hoping to keep that from them,” Søren said.

“Evil?” Maxine repeated. “Really?”

“You might as well tell them,” Søren said, raising his beer to his lips. “I’ll be over here drowning my sorrows.”

“Here’s the thing, girls,” Nora said. “Your priest and I have history.”

“You said he kept you out of jail?” Maxine said. “That doesn’t sound evil.”

“He did, but there was a string attached,” Nora continued. “And it’s still attached. It’s safe to say I will be in the doghouse with that man for the rest of my life.”

“What happened?” Maxine asked. “What did you do?”

“You’re being overdramatic, Eleanor,” Søren said.

“Am I?” she asked. “Let’s let the next generation here decide. So. Girls.” She met the eyes of the teenage girls arrayed around them. They all wore rapt looks. “When I was fifteen I sort of kind of accidentally on purpose stole five cars. I don’t recommend doing that. It’s a miracle I didn’t spend five to ten in juvie. The judge gave me probation supervised by that guy over there. And you better believe he made me suffer for my sins.”

“What did he do?” Katie asked.

“Quite frankly,” Nora said, “he was an asshole.”

“No way,” Maxine said. “Father S?”

Nora pointed her beer at Søren. “Remember when you made me clean the pews with that disgusting wood soap and you jacked the heat up in the sanctuary to ninety?”

“I merely wanted you to know what Hell was like so you would avoid behaviors that would send you there in the future,” he said.

“Father S, that is evil,” Maxine said. “I’m ashamed of you. She could have had heat stroke.”

“Mea culpa,” Søren said without one iota of contrition in his tone or his expression.

“What’s that mean?” Josefina asked.

“It’s Latin for ‘my bad,’” Nora said. “Also, he made me water a stick. A dead stick. But I had to water it. Every single day for six months.”

“Watering a dead stick? What the hell?” Katie said. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s an old trick many convents once employed. It teaches the postulants discipline and obedience, which Eleanor was sorely lacking,” Søren said. “Watering a stick is hardly the Spanish Inquisition.

“Then there was the dog whistling thing,” Nora said.

“What was the dog whistling thing?” Maxine asked.

“Oh, I had done something, I don’t remember what,” Nora said with a sigh. “But whatever it was, it pissed him off so much he told me he wasn’t going to treat me like a human being until I learned how to act like a human being. So for about a month after that, he wouldn’t say my name when he wanted my attention. He’d whistle the way you’d whistle to get your dog to come to heel. That incredibly loud awful obnoxious two-fingered whistle?”

“Like this?” Søren whistled and Nora flinched. She heard an actual dog start barking somewhere in the distance. Every dog in the tristate area had probably heard that whistle.

“Like that,” she said, cringing and shuddering. “And now I’m having flashbacks. I heard that sound in my sleep. For years.”

“That is a pretty horrible sound,” Maxine said, making a disgusted face as she rubbed her ear. “Wow, you’re the worst, Father. No offense.”

“None taken,” he said. “In my defense, however, Eleanor was a horribly behaved teenager. Do you remember that young man you nearly put in the hospital?”

“Which one?” Nora asked.

Søren looked at Maxine. “My point proven. She was a savage then. Still is one.”

“You were no saint either,” she said. “Remember that night when you and Kingsley got so drunk you ended up on the roof of the rectory.”

“No,” he said. “But only because I was too drunk to remember it.”

“You know Kingsley?” Maxine’s brown eyes went very very wide.

“I know Kingsley,” Nora said.

“Of course she knows Kingsley,” Søren said and she saw the smile in his eyes. “She used to—” Here the pause was nearly imperceptible. But Nora perceived it. “Date him.”

The collective jaws of every teenage girl following the conversation hit the ground in unison.

“Oh. My. God.” Maxine breathed the words. “Tell me everything everything everything about him.”

“Are you his girlfriend?” Angie asked.

“Is he a good kisser?” Jessika asked.

“Why isn’t he here? Can you get him here?” Josefina asked. “He’s on the soccer team so he should be here.”

“Oh, look, Eleanor,” Søren said with an all-too-innocent smile. “It seems I’ve made you some new friends.”

“I need another drink for this conversation.” Nora stood up and started toward the deck. She’d only taken ten steps when she stopped in her tracks at the sound of a sudden earsplitting whistle. She spun around immediately and faced Søren.

“I did have you well-trained, didn’t I?” he asked. Everyone was laughing now.

“I have one thing to say to you, Father S. One.” She held up one finger. The teenagers looked very impressed with her. Apparently they’d never seen anyone flip their priest off before and live to tell the tale.

He held up his empty Heineken bottle. “One for me too,” he said.

“Yes, master,” she said, and curtsied. She turned around and went for the huge blue Igloo cooler on the deck where all the alcohol had been stored. She dug around the chest and found a Heineken for herself and a Trappist Achel 8° Blond for Søren. While digging through the ice she had the strangest sensation. She felt…good. Good-ish? That thing on her face? A smile. The knot in her stomach? Almost gone.

She returned to the circle of chair and picnic blankets, and offered Søren his beer. He looked at it, then at her.

“It’s not open,” he said.

“Do I have to do everything for you?” Nora asked.

“Yes.”

“See?” she said to the girls. “Evil. Pure evil.”

She fished her keychain out of her pocket, opened the bottle, and gave it to him. This time he took it.

“Happy now?” she asked.

“Ecstatic,” he said. “Now I believe Maxine has been patiently waiting for you to tell her what dating my brother-in-law was like. I think we’re all waiting to hear this.”

“Nope. Not a chance,” Nora said, walking back to her chair. “I am not going down that road. There are children present. And adults. And plants and animals. Air. Light. Inanimate objects. None of them need to hear this.”

“Girls,” Søren said, pointing at the assembled female teenagers. “You know what to do.”

All at once, the teenage girls stood up, grabbed Nora by the arms, dragged her from her chair and pulled her down the hill toward the pond.

“Are you going to throw me in?” Nora asked.

“If you don’t talk,” Maxine said. “Father S said you respond well to threats.”

“Just don’t throw my beer in, okay? Or my phone. It’s in my back pocket.”

“Or you could tell us about Kingsley,” the tallest girl said, the one she thought was named Katie. “That’s all we ask.”

“Fine. Fine! I give in. What do you want to know?” They’d made it to the dock and they all sat on the wooden boards.

“You really dated Kingsley?” Maxine asked. “Like, you know…really dated him.”

“Dating is a strong word,” Nora said. “It would be more accurate to say I survived Kingsley.” And considering she’d been his Domme for the past five years, it was even more accurate to say he’d survived her.

“Is he really French?” Katie asked.

“He’s really French,” she said. “Born in Paris. Father was French. Mother was American. Next?” That was an easy question.

“Does he French kiss?” Maxine asked.

“When you’re French, all kissing is French kissing,” Nora said. Another easy question.

“Why is he so pretty?” another girl asked. Mrs. Scalera’s granddaughter Angie.

“Now that is a question only God can answer,” Nora said. “Or Satan. Very possible Kingsley sold his soul to the devil to be that pretty.”

“He really is the hottest,” Maxine said with a wistful sigh. “He wore soccer shorts one game and his calves were like, oh my God, like steel.”

“His calves are to kill for,” Katie said. “I’d give up my college fund to rub them. You know, with my tongue.”

“It was the worst game I’d ever played.” Maxine didn’t seem to broken up about it. “I was goo. I can’t play when I’m goo.”

“King can make a girl gooey,” Nora said, wishing she had something stronger than beer to drink. Perhaps formaldehyde with an arsenic garnish.

“I love it when he and Father S get in fights in French. I have no idea what they’re saying. Doesn’t matter. Who needs porn when you have that?” Jessika asked, as she rolled onto her back and smiled up at the sky.

“I need porn,” Katie said. Nora had a feeling she and Katie would get along very well.

“Is Kingsley good in bed?” Maxine asked.

“Wait. Whoa. That’s a very adult question,” Nora said.

“I’m eighteen,” Katie said. “I’m an adult.”

“Are you all eighteen?” Nora asked.

“We can pretend we are,” Maxine said. “Come on. It’s not a big deal. We can either learn about sex by having it or by hearing about it. Which would you prefer?”

“I don’t care if you have sex or not. None of my business,” Nora said, raising her hands in surrender. “But I’d prefer to not get screamed at by your parents. Or get arrested. Again.”

Maxine turned around and yelled at a woman across the pond who was toweling off a girl of about seven or eight.

“Mom! Can I gossip about Kingsley with Miss Nora? She used to date him.”

“Only if you tell me what she said later,” her mother yelled back.

“Mom has a crush on him too,” Maxine said, sticking out her tongue in disgust. “She thinks he’s gorgeous.”

“So answer the question or you go in the drink,” Katie said, pointing her thumb at the pond.

“This is not an appropriate topic of conversation for a church picnic.” Nora rubbed her forehead. “And if I’m saying it’s not appropriate, you know it is not appropriate.”

“How about this?” Angie asked. “How about you just tell us, like…what chapter in one of your books we should re-read to know what Kingsley is like, you know, after dark?”

“Re-read?” Nora asked. “Does that mean you’ve already read my books?”

The girls had the decency to at least look the tiniest bit guilty.

“Well,” Maxine said. “Kind of. All of us. We sort of have an unofficial book club going.”

“Excuse me,” Nora said, trying to stand up. “I’m going to go call Child Protective Services on myself.”

“Come on, Nora,” Maxine said, yanking Nora back down to the dock. “Or Ellie. Or Eleanor. Or whoever you are. Just one chapter. One scene. Tell us. We won’t bother you anymore after that.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Nora said.

“Me too,” Katie agreed. “How about The Red? I just read that book. Was it like, you know…the first chapter when Mona and Malcolm did it? Or was it more like the slave auction chapter? Or maybe the minotaur chapter?”

“The one with the nymphs was my favorite,” Maxine said.

“Oh yeah, that was fun,” Katie said. “I want to be a nymph.”

“You’re already a nympho,” Maxine said.

“Kill me, God,” Nora said looking up at the sky. “One bolt of lightning, right here.” She pointed at her chest.

“Nora,” Maxine said. “Just pick a chapter already.”

“Fine, fine. The riding crop chapter in The Red.”

Maxine and Katie squealed. It was nearly as earsplitting a sound as Søren dog-whistling.

“Happy now?” Nora asked.

“Very, very happy,” Katie said and Maxine agreed. The other girls chimed in their agreement as well. “I love that chapter. The way he makes her love pain in just one night? That was so sexy.”

“Kink is only sexy when done between consenting adults,” Nora said. “So don’t do any kink until you’re at least eighteen. No, twenty-one. Thirty. Thirty’s a good age to start. And do your homework. And stay in school. And don’t do drugs. God, I’m a hypocrite. Someone find me my beer. Please.”

Maxine sighed wistfully. “I love Kingsley.”

“Me too,” Katie said. “He’s so sweet too. When he comes to the games? It’s like the best time ever. Remember that jerk on the United Methodist team?”

“You mean the one who got pissed over a ref call and he kicked the ball and it bounced off the goal post and hit my freaking face?” Maxine asked. “Yeah, I remember it. It was last week.”

“I thought Kingsley would rip that dude’s head off,” Katie continued. “That was the sexiest thing ever. I know when people say ‘Pardon my French’ they’re not actually going to swear in French but Kingsley really does swear in French. It’s amazing.”

“You all know he’s forty-five years old, right?” Nora asked. “And he’s currently in love with a woman who looks like the love child of Sade and Iman?”

“Juliette,” Maxine said. “She comes to our games sometimes. She’s awesome. She might even be awesome enough for him.”

“And that’s saying a lot,” Katie said.

“Here. Let me try something.” Nora reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone. She made a call and waited for an answer. Nora put the call onto speaker phone. It rang three times and then…

“I knew you missed me, mon canard.”

5

All the girls screamed. Literally screamed when Kingsley’s unmistakable voice crooned over the line and out of her phone speaker.

“Kingsley, before you say anything that could land you or me in jail, you should know you’re on speaker phone with your fan club,” Nora said. “Did you know you had a fan club?”

“Non,” he said. “But I’m not surprised.”

Maxine either pretended to faint or actually fainted. Nora couldn’t tell. She let her lay there. If she didn’t come to in a few minutes, then she’d start to worry.

“I’m at Sacred Heart’s summer picnic and it turns out you have a lot of admirers at this church. Say hello to the young ladies of Sacred Heart’s Kingsley Edge fan club.”

“Bonjour, ladies. I’m honored by your devotion.”

“Oh my Jesus…” Katie breathed.

“To whom am I speaking?” Kingsley asked. “I need names. I have to put you all in my black book.”

“Your little black book?” Katie asked.

“Oh no,” Kingsley said. “I have a very big black book.”

“This was a bad idea,” Nora said with a heavy sigh.

“Kingsley, it’s me, Maxine. Hi.”

“Ah, Maxine. How’s your eye?” Kingsley asked.

“Good. All healed. Thanks for chewing that guy out for me.”

“He’s very lucky I let him walk away from that game. He should have been crawling,” Kingsley said. “A grown man having a tantrum at a soccer match between churches. Disgraceful.”

“He was the worst,” Maxine said. “He was just pissed because our team is so much better.”

“That’s absolutely true,” Kingsley said. “But no excuse to kick a ball into a girl’s face. Especially such a lovely face.”

“Aww…thank you, Kingsley,” Maxine said, blushing. “You’re my favorite.”

“You’re mine,” he said.

“Kingsley, behave,” Nora said.

“But…I don’t know how.”

“Hi, Kingsley, this is Jessika. You helped me with my French oral final last semester.”

“Did you pass?” he asked.

“I did. Thanks for your help. I mean, merci pour l’aide.”

“De rien. Just remember when you speak French, it’s in the lips, not the throat. It’ll improve your pronunciation. Pretend you’re puckering up for a kiss every time you speak it, and you’ll sound like a native.”

“I think I might need private tutoring,” she said and Maxine high-fived her.

“It is my duty as a Frenchman to help all young ladies improve their French orals,” he said. What a ham. Nora rolled her eyes.

“I think I need to hang up right now,” Nora said. “I hear the police sirens. They’re getting closer…”

“I love you, Kingsley!” Angie shouted.

“I love you too, darling. Maîtresse?”

“Yes, King?” Nora asked.

“Is she cute? She sounds cute,” Kingsley said.

“She’s adorable,” Nora said. “And underage.”

“You were underage when I met you the first time. And the second time.”

The girls screamed again. Nora was going to have to hang up before she lost her hearing.

“I’m not underage,” Katie said.

“Bien,” Kingsley said. “Elle, have that one washed and brought to my tent.”

Katie fainted, very possibly for real. Nora rolled her eyes.

“That’s it. Hanging up now. Say goodbye to Kingsley, ladies.”

“Bye, Kingsley!”

“Enchanté, ladies,” Kingsley said. “Next time you’re in Manhattan, stop by. My address is—”

Nora ended the call.

“Well, now are you all happy?” Nora asked the assembled young women of Sacred Heart Catholic Church.

“I think his accent got me pregnant,” Maxine said.

“I think I passed out. I need mouth to mouth. Kingsley’s mouth,” Katie said.

“I think I need a trip to Manhattan,” Jessika said. “And birth control. Lots of birth control.”

“I think you all need to go jump in the pond,” Nora said. They were all red-faced and fanning themselves, slumped over onto the dock like they’d been drinking.

“Why did he call you Maîtresse, Nora?” Jessika asked. “That means ‘Mistress,’ right?”

Nora opened her mouth, closed it again, gave that question a lot of thought.

“Well, ladies? Did Eleanor give up the goods on Kingsley?” Nora looked behind her and saw Søren striding down the wooden walkway toward them. She’d never been so happy to see him. He was barefoot and had his hands in his jeans pockets. He looked so handsome and relaxed with the sun in his hair and the smile on his face, that it caused Nora real physical pain not to be able to touch him.

“Yup,” Maxine said, fanning her face with her hand. “As you can see, we are hot messes.”

“I can see that,” Søren said. “You do realize Kingsley is forty-five, yes?”

“I told them,” Nora said.

“Age is only a number,” Angie said.

“So is sixty-nine,” Maxine said. Then she winced and looked up. “Oops. Sorry, Father S.”

“If only I had pearls so that I might clutch them,” he said dryly. “If any of you wish to confess to having impure thoughts about Kingsley, please do me a favor and find another priest. Or perhaps no priests. Write them on paper, then burn them.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Katie said. “We confess those thoughts to each other.”

“Thank God for small blessings,” Søren said. “Eleanor, are you finished corrupting the young ladies of my church yet?”

“I hope not,” Angie said. “This was the best church picnic I’ve ever been to. I’m glad you came to Sacred Heart, Nora. I remember you used to let me play with your hair during Mass.”

“That was you?” Nora asked. “I think I still have knots in my hair you put in there.”

“Sorry about that,” Angie said, grinning.

“Angie, your grandmother wants to leave soon,” Søren said. “She told me to tell you if you want to swim, do it now.”

“I definitely need to cool off,” Katie said. “I’m going to be taking cold showers for the next year.” She dragged herself off the dock, stripped down to her swimsuit and dove off the dock into the deep pond water. The other girls followed suit, apparently hoping swimming would keep them from clean-up duty.

When all the girls were gone, Søren sat on the dock next to her.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Much. Did you know all the girls have read my books?”

“Someone in the youth group, probably Michael, heard about your books from one of the parents. Word spread like wildfire. I found one book in the choir loft last year with many dog-eared pages. Surprisingly, no one came to my office to claim it.”

Nora grinned. “That was me when I was a kid. I used to bring naughty books to church to read during Mass. Until you showed up, of course. You were more fun than any dirty book.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Where is Michael anyway? I was hoping he’d come today.”

“College visit this weekend. Sarah Lawrence. Also, he hates parties.”

“I can see that about him. He’s still okay, isn’t he?” she asked. “I worry about him.”

“Don’t worry. I’m watching him closely and so is his mother. And yes, he’s doing well. Much better after a night with you. But then again, so am I.”

She buried her head in her arms a moment, hiding her smile.

“I’m going to help Mrs. Maywood clean up,” he said. “You’ll stay here and keep an eye on the girls?”

“I’ll stay,” she said. “Nobody drowns on my watch.”

“The girls like you,” he said.

“I like them. I didn’t have many girl friends when I was a teenager. Maybe I missed out on something.”

“Is that my fault?” he asked. “I worry sometimes that I kept you from having the normal high school experience.”

“Like yours?” she asked. He chuckled.

“Point taken,” he said.

“Don’t feel guilty,” she said. “My life was already fucked up by the time I met you. I don’t want to think about where I’d be if I hadn’t had you in my life back then.”

“These girls need someone like you, Eleanor. They can talk to you the way they can’t talk to me or their parents.”

“You know if I tell those girls the truth about sex and men and birth control, I’ll get into huge trouble.”

“As if that has ever stopped you before,” he said. The smile left his face and he gave her a long serious look. “You do belong here, Little One. The church is better off with you in it.”

“I just feel like…I don’t know. Like there’s a wall between me and them.”

“We all feel that way at once time or the other. I know I have. It’s a kind of pride, Eleanor, thinking you’re above these people, set apart. Even Kingsley and Juliette come to the soccer matches and enjoy themselves.”

“I did maybe have a little bit of fun today. It’s nice being able to have a normal conversation with you in public. I guess now that everyone knows our ‘history’ and that I ‘dated’ your ‘brother-in-law’ they won’t be suspicious of us talking to each other like this. They’ll think we’re friends or something crazy like that.”

“We are friends. Aren’t we? We used to be. Can we be that again?”

“Friends,” she said. She held out her hand and they shook hands. Then he used her shoulder to steady himself as he pushed up off the dock. He patted her head.

“Good doggy,” he said.

“Asshole!”

6

Nora stayed on the dock for the remainder of the picnic, acting as lifeguard and chatting with the girls who kept swimming up to her to ask her more questions about Kingsley and their not-so-sweet priest who was off somewhere kicking a soccer ball around with some of the boys. When the time came to wrap up the party, she was the recipient of more than a few wet hugs from the Sacred Heart Kingsley Edge Fan Club. Nora returned to the farmhouse and found nearly everyone was gone but for a few stragglers who were cleaning Mrs. Maywood’s kitchen for her. Nora grabbed a trash bag and started filling it with empty glass bottles for the recycling bin.

“You don’t have to do that, dear,” Mrs. Maywood said as she came out to the deck. “I can get it.”

“It’s okay. I got it,” Nora said.

“You were always a sweet girl.” Mrs. Maywood patted her face.

“Tell that to our priest who accused me of being a savage.”

“I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him to his face.” Mrs. Maywood held the bag open while Nora dumped bottles into it. “It’s funny about Father Stearns.”

“What is?” Nora asked.

“How much happier he’s been since you came back to church. He looks ten years younger. Then again, love will do that to a man.”

Nora froze. Her heart skipped a beat. She tried very hard not to drop the bottle in her hand.

“He’s always worried about me,” Nora said. “Too much. He’s just relieved he can keep an eye on me.”

“He worries about the people he loves,” Mrs. Maywood said. Nora’s hand shook as she emptied out a half-drunk beer onto a bare patch of ground.

“He’s a good priest,” Nora said.

“That he is. Even if he does have a girlfriend.”

Nora met her eyes.

“Mrs. Maywood, I don’t—”

“It’s all right, dear. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I think you’re mistaken. We just…we’re friends. I used to—”

“My husband and I were planning a trip to Belgium five years ago. He’d just been diagnosed with kidney disease, and he decided he wanted to see more of the world before he was gone. Father Stearns mentioned he’d been to Belgium, suggested a few places to see, even told my husband about a certain Belgian beer he loved. A Trappist beer, Achel Blond. I made sure to have some in the cooler for Father Stearns. He sent you to get his beer for him. He didn’t say what to bring him but that’s what you got. Out of twenty different kinds of beers in the cooler, you picked his favorite. I had my suspicions before, but that confirmed it.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Nora said. It was the truth.

Mrs. Maywood patted her hand.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said.

“Are you disappointed?” Nora asked, inwardly cringing. “Angry?”

“Father Stearns has given his blood, sweat, and tears to this church. If he wants to give a part of him to you, I won’t begrudge him. Genesis 2:18—it’s not good for man to be alone. I’m angry at the Church. That’s who I’m angry at. The Catholic Church is losing priests left and right—to scandal, to wives, to the Anglican Church. They’re closing churches down everywhere because there aren’t enough men to serve the faithful. Stubborn old goats in Rome thinking only of themselves. We need healthy priests, joyful priests. Not bitter, overworked, lonely and dangerous priests. So no, I’m not angry at you or him. I’d rather have a happy priest with a girlfriend than no priest at all.”

Nora took the bag from Mrs. Maywood and tied it off.

“I swore to myself I wouldn’t say or do anything stupid today,” she said. “That’s all I wanted to do was get through this day without screwing up.”

“You didn’t,” Mrs. Maywood said. “It’s not your fault. George would tell me to mind my own business, but he’s not here so here I am, not minding my own business. I imagine it’s a roller coaster, fun and terrifying.”

“That’s one way to put it. I’m thirty-three,” Nora said. “And he’ll be forty-seven this December. And yet we have to sneak around like Romeo and Juliet hiding from our parents. Fun, terrifying, and very, very exhausting.”

Mrs. Maywood walked to the deck railing and sighed. She smiled but it wasn’t a happy smile, more wistful, more longing. “It’s not good for man to be alone,” she said. “Or woman.”

“You miss your husband?” Nora asked.

“Every day. Here’s a secret of mine, one not even Father Stearns knows. George was my second husband. I don’t tell people that since I take Communion.”

“Father Stearns has never stopped a divorced and remarried Catholic from taking Communion.”

“I know, dear. But there are a lot of people out there who’d raise a stink and that would put Father Stearns into a bad position. My first marriage wasn’t even a real marriage. I was barely twenty years old and he was a drunk, a cheater, a liar. But we were Catholic and back then, fifty years ago, a divorced Catholic might as well wear a scarlet D on her chest. I was a scandal back then. A terrible scandal. My own parents didn’t speak to me for two years after I left my husband. And now…half the church is divorced and nobody bats an eyelash anymore. Isn’t that funny how quickly the world changes? I guess you two are waiting for the world to change, aren’t you?”

“I guess we’re all waiting for that,” Nora said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”

Mrs. Maywood reached out and patted the back of Nora’s hand.

“You’re a good little actress. I almost believed you earlier when you said you’d gone through a bad break-up.”

“That wasn’t an act.” Nora pushed her sunglasses up on her head. She didn’t need to hide her eyes from Mrs. Maywood anymore. “For a while I was living with someone who didn’t really approve of my life. I loved him, but…well, I loved him. No buts. I loved him, and we broke up anyway.” Nora swallowed lump in her throat. “Anyway, the good Father and I can’t seem to stay away from each other. So here we are. I don’t recommend trying to build a new life on top of the wreckage of your old one.”

“Hard, isn’t it?”

“Out of the frying pan, into the friar.”

“That pun is a worse sin than dating a priest.”

Nora laughed. “I know. I should be ashamed. Sorry.”

Mrs. Maywood shook her head.

“After the divorce from my first husband, I was in the same boat as you—building a new life on top of the wreckage of the old. I met George and married him—too soon probably. I can’t tell you how hard it was at first. I didn’t trust George though he’d given me no reason not to. Oh, I loved him, but he was too good to me. After my first husband, it was hard for me to relax, to trust any man, especially the man I loved. Part of me thought it was an act. I thought it would all go away. It was hard for me to believe I was worthy of his love and kindness when my first husband told me so many times how worthless I was. He won me over eventually.”

“What did he do to win you over?”

“One day right after we’d moved out here, I was looking out at the kitchen window. I told George it was so pretty out here, all that was missing was a pond. By August, he’d dug one out for me. He built a pond where before there had been nothing. Now that’s love, isn’t it?”

Nora nodded. “That’s love.”

“George was an atheist—a humanist, he called himself. That’s why he never came to church with me, although he never tried to stop me from going, and he was always happy to host these parties for my friends. His biggest gripe with religion was the concept of heaven, of paradise, that we could only get there after we died. He said any philosophy that cared more about life after death than life before death wasn’t anything he could believe in. That’s why he called this farm Paradise. He said Paradise was ours if we wanted it. It was ours to make in the here and now, not something out there in the future that we had to wait for. I believe in Heaven, but I tell you what—on hot summer days when I was in that pond swimming with George and our girls, that’s when I knew George might have a point about Paradise. Maybe it is ours for the making.”

“Regina?” Søren walked out the back door onto the deck. “Do you need anything else before I leave?”

“Everyone else gone?”

“They are,” he said. “You can have your house back. And thank you again for hosting us.”

“I need a hug before you go,” she said. “A good one.”

Søren smiled and came over to her, hugged her and lifted her gently off her feet before putting her down again.

“Was that good enough?” he asked.

“More fun than Disneyland,” she said. “You’re a lucky lady, Ellie.”

Søren’s eyes widened. Nora leaned and stage whispered to him, “She knows.”

“I know,” Mrs. Maywood whispered. She elbowed Søren in the ribs. “I might be old but the old eyes can still see 20/20.”

“Well,” Søren said, looking slightly dazed. “If you both will excuse me, I need to find a new career.”

“Oh, hush you.” She playfully batted his arm. “I’m no rat. I’m happy for you. And happy I know a secret no one else knows. When you’re seventy you get your jollies anywhere you can. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be moving to Florida to live with my sister soon and I’ll take my secrets with me.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better at all,” Søren said. “I’d rather have you at church every Sunday. Who is going to tell me when my homily runs long?”

“I can take over that job,” Nora said.

“See?” Mrs. Maywood said. “It’ll be fine.”

“We’ll miss you very much,” Søren said. “It won’t be the same without you.”

“It’s too lonely out here without George.”

“Are you selling the farm?” Nora asked.

“Giving it to my daughters. They’ll probably sell the land and keep the house so you better swim now if you want to. Might be your last chance.”

“I’ve had this bathing suit giving me a wedgie all day so I might as well put it to use,” Nora said.

“I remember when you used to cannonball right off the end of the dock. One year you came up without your swimsuit on,” Mrs. Maywood said. “Gave the boys quite a thrill.”

“Think you for reminding me of that,” Nora said. “I had forgotten that humiliating experience.”

“This is why churches need old ladies,” Mrs. Maywood said. “We keep you kids humble. You two stay as late as you like. I’ll be in the house doing the dishes. And no, you can’t help me.”

Mrs. Maywood gave Nora a kiss on the cheek and patted Søren on the arm as she walked past him and back inside.

“Well,” Søren said.

“Well.”

“This has turned into an interesting day.”

“It has,” she said, nodding. “I guess there’s only one thing we can do now.”

He raised his eyebrow at her. “And that is?”

“Cannonball.”

“What?”

“Last one in is a rotten vanilla!”

Nora took off running off the deck and down the hillside toward the pond. She ripped off her shirt while running and kicked off her sandals. While she was yanking her jeans down, a blur of black sped past her and when she looked up, water hit her square in the face.

“You bastard,” she said, wiping water out of her eyes. Søren was in the middle of the small pond grinning fiendishly at her. “How did you beat me here?”

“Which one of us runs five mornings a week and which one of us does not?”

“Are you still wearing your clothes?”

“I’ll air-dry quickly on the bike,” he said.

“You riding a motorcycle soaking wet is going to cause an accident. You realize this, don’t you?”

“You suggest I ride naked instead?”

“That’s one way to clear a path in traffic.”

“Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” Nora kicked off her jeans, took a few steps back and then ran for it. With a running leap, she cannonballed into the water and landed a foot in front of Søren. When she came up his hair was hanging in his face.

“That was unnecessary,” he said, slicking his hair back.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” she said before kicking off to swim across the pond and back. She hadn’t been in water in a long time. She’d always love the water, the way it held her up and surrounded her at the same time. Nora rolled onto her back and stared up at the sun, inhaled deeply and smelled the living summer all around her. Wesley…he always smelled like summer to her, like laundry dried on the line in the sun. But Wes wasn’t here and Søren was and for once he smelled like summer too, like freshly cut grass and wildflowers and the evening heat on the pond.

When Søren swam to her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and he held her as they floated in the warm water. The sun hung low in the sky and everything from the white house to the shimmering water to Søren’s blond hair glowed.

“Did I tell you yet today how beautiful you are?” he asked.

“No.”

“I’ll try to remember to do that then at some point then.”

Nora pinched his shoulder.

“Thanks for your help today,” she said. “I feel better.”

“I’m your priest. You’re my parishioner. Helping you find a place in the church is my job.”

“You’re very good at your job, Father Stearns.” She kissed his cheek and he held her closer, tighter. But not close enough. Not tight enough. “Hold on. Now I have to do something.”

“What?”

She grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt, pulled it up, and yanked it off him. It landed with a splat on the dock.

“There. That’s better,” she said. “Much better.”

“Let’s hope Regina can’t see us from the house.”

“She already knows anyway,” Nora said. “She said she suspected something was up because you were suddenly a lot happier after I started coming back to church. You’re going to have to be less happy so people will be less suspicious.”

He shook his head. “Not possible. Unless you leave me again.”

“Not planning on ever leaving you again.”

“Then I’m afraid I will be forced to remain very…” He kissed the side of her neck. “Very...” He bit the side of her neck. “Happy.”

She clung to him with all her might, running her hands up and down his wet back.

“Are you happy?” he asked softly, as if he were afraid of the answer.

“I’m…getting there,” she said.

“Are you still angry at me?”

Was she? It was a good question. After she came back from her year in hiding after leaving him, things hadn’t been great at first but eventually they’d learned to get along even though they were broken up. But then Søren had gone to Syria for three months and come home a different man. He’d always been a sadist but this was different. Something had turned him cruel. When she spent the night with him after he’d come back, he’d left bruises on her face which wasn’t a hard limit for her but something he’d rarely done. At The 8th Circle, he went out of his way to humiliate her. He’d even ordered her to never again write about him in her books even though the memories of what they’d shared together were as much her property as his. Out of spite, she’d written a book about her complicated feelings for Wesley instead. Oh the irony, it was that very book that had brought her back to Søren, that very book that had been the beginning of the end of her happy life with Wesley.

Oh yes, she had every right to be angry with Søren and yet she wasn’t. She didn’t have it in her. As hard as it had been for her the past five years, it had been far worse for him. She’d had Kingsley, she’d had Wesley, she’d had her writing career, her work. Søren had to survive their separation all on his own.

“No, I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at me. It’s not your fault. I mean, you didn’t make me…” She went silent. The knot was back in her throat, blocking her words. They backed up against that knot, a raging river pushing against a dam, and no amount of swallowing would ease the pressure.

“You can talk about him,” Søren said.

“I can’t…” Nora said, hot tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Then I’ll talk,” Søren said, cradling her head to his shoulder and she felt like a child in her father’s arms. “If there is anyone on this earth who knows what it’s like to love someone you shouldn’t, it’s me.”

“Kingsley?” she asked. She felt Søren nodding.

“Every day it hurts,” he said. “Some days worse than others. When we’re together, it’s easy to forget…”

“What?”

“It’s easy to forget that we aren’t together. It’s better to be apart if you can’t be together. I know you don’t want to believe that, but it’s the truth, and I speak from agonizing personal experience. And I would spare you that pain. I would give my own life to spare you that pain, Little One. But I can’t. I can’t because I know that if you had to choose between loving him and the pain that love caused or not loving him and no pain…”

“I would choose the pain,” she said, but what she wanted to say was that she’d choose the love. Because she loved Wesley, and the love and the pain were like a flag planted in her chest, a banner saying Wesley was here. “Just like you have.”

Nora squeezed her eyes tight in the hopes of stemming the tide of tears. She couldn’t stop shaking. The water was warm and Søren’s body even warmer but she shook like she was freezing.

“It hurts,” she said. Trying not to cry had given her a splitting headache.

“God knows I know how much it hurts. I know sending him away was the hardest thing you ever did, but I promise you, it is better this way.”

“Gotta rip the Band-Aid off, right? The slower you go, the more it hurts.” She laughed and was happy to know she still could.

“And hurts and hurts and hurts…”

“I usually love pain, but this is different,” she said. “This isn’t my body. It’s inside, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“No safe word can protect the heart,” Søren said. “If there was such a word I would have used it long ago, and then I would have given it to you.”

The tenderness in his voice was too much for her. She could hold back the river no longer. The dam burst and a strangled whimper escaped her lips. She wept. And as she wept Søren comforted her with his strong, large hands stroking her shuddering back, and his voice in her ear whispering consolation.

“You laugh as hard as you cry. And you give pain as beautifully as you take it. And when you love, you love harder than anyone I have ever known so it’s no surprise you hurt this much.”

“It hurts more than when I left you,” she said. “Somehow I always knew I’d come back to you. This feels so…so final. Like there’s no going back.”

“Have you read the book of Genesis lately?” he asked, pulling back to meet her eyes.

“Should I?”

“You should. I re-read it recently and noticed something interesting. Right after Adam and Eve are expelled from Paradise for eating from the Tree of Knowledge, they never once ask God to let them back in.”

“They don’t?”

“In the Hebrew Bible there are two verbs that are translated as ‘repent’. One is ‘nacham’ which means ‘to be sorrowful.’ The other is ‘shuv’ which means ‘to return.’ Eve blames the serpent and Adam blames Eve, but never once do they simply ask to be let back into the garden, they don’t ask to return so they never do. And then in the New Testament we have the Parable of the Prodigal Son which shows us how the story should have ended—with Adam and Eve returning to Eden and God celebrating. That’s why I never believed the concept of the ‘fortunate fall.’ Because in the past five years, if you had come to me and asked me to let you back in, I would have done so in a heartbeat. I can’t accept that an infinite God loves his children any less than I love you.”

“You did let me back in a heartbeat,” she said, remembering that moment in Sacred Heart’s sanctuary when she put her collar into Søren’s outstretched hand, that moment when his fingers curled over the white leather and he held it with the same reverence he held his rosary beads. One heartbeat. That was it. She was his again.

“Mrs. Maywood said her husband believed Paradise was ours to make, not something out there waiting for us.”

“We put each other through Hell,” Søren said. “And it was a Hell of our own making. Perhaps Paradise is of our own making too. Maybe nothing is final, even when it seems like the very end of the world.”

She rested her chin on his bare shoulder again. The water was warm and clear and the sun orange and lovely at the edge of the sky. She saw a sign in the reeds on the bank and at first thought it said “Paradise Found” but when she squinted saw it was “Paradise Pond.”

“New game now,” Søren said. “You do something nice for me and I’ll do something nice for you. This time I decide what nice thing I’ll do for you and what nice thing you’ll do for me.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“All is fair in love and sadism,” he said.

“Okay, I’m in,” she said. “What something nice am I doing for you?”

“You’re going to make me a promise—a promise that you’ll always come back to me,” he said.

Nora shrugged. “Easy. Especially since I don’t plan on ever leaving you again.”

“But if you do, you will come back?” He met her eyes. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t teasing. He was serious.

“Yes, Søren, my Sir, owner of my heart, master of my body, and keeper of my soul—I promise that I will always come back to you.”

“Good.”

“So what’s the something nice you’ll do for me in exchange?” she asked.

Søren held her tighter, held her closer, kissed her temple, and she closed her eyes, at peace once more. She could feel this strong steady heart beating against her chest and for a single moment she was back in Paradise.

“If and when the time comes,” he said softly. “You’ll know.”

About the Author

Tiffany Reisz is the author of the internationally bestselling and award-winning Original Sinners series for Mira Books (Harlequin/Mills & Boon). Tiffany’s books inhabit a sexy shadowy world where romance, erotica, and literature meet and do immoral and possibly illegal things to each other. She describes her genre as “literary friction,” a term she stole from her main character, who gets in trouble almost as often as the author herself.

She lives in Oregon. If she couldn’t write, she would die.

Follow on social media, or visit Tiffany’s website for free short stories and to subscribe to the Tiffany Reisz e-mail newsletter:

- @tiffanyreisz

- littleredridingcrop

www.tiffanyreisz.com

Books by Tiffany Reisz

Novels

THE BOURBON THIEF

Original Sinners Novels

THE SIREN

THE ANGEL

THE PRINCE

THE MISTRESS

THE SAINT

THE KING

THE VIRGIN

THE QUEEN

Novellas

THE GIFT (previously published as SEVEN DAY LOAN)

LITTLE RED RIDING CROP

IMMERSED IN PLEASURE

SUBMIT TO DESIRE

THE MISTRESS FILES

MISBEHAVING

THE LAST GOOD KNIGHT (PARTS I—V)

THE CONFESSION OF MARCUS STEARNS

THE HEADMASTER

SEIZE THE NIGHT

THE CONFESSION OF ELEANOR SCHREIBER

SOMETHING NICE

Something Nice

Copyright © 2016 Tiffany Reisz

All rights reserved. No part of this publications may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, 8th Circle Press, Portland, Oregon, U.S.A.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Andrew Shaffer

Front cover images used under license from Shutterstock.com and iStock.com.

www.8thcirclepress.com

First Edition