Author: Tiffany Reisz

Adam, she whispered to herself.  Remember Adam.

“So no rehab trips for Father Stearns? No weirdness?”

“Only weird thing is what’s he doing here with us in the suburbs? He should be pope.”

Suzanne leaned back on her elbows and crossed her legs at the ankles. She wished she’d worn shorts or a skirt, something to show off her legs to Harrison.

“Maybe he’s got a reason for sticking around here.” She looked at Harrison out of the corner of her eye.

“Like what?”

Suzanne shrugged. “I don’t know—Nora Sutherlin?”

Harrison clamped his hand to his chest.

“God, Nora. Be still my heart. Be still my groin.”

“That hot, is she?”

Harrison turned wide eyes at her and slowly nodded.

“You’re a fan?” Suzanne asked.

Again he nodded.

“Father Stearns also a fan?”

Harrison rolled his eyes.

“He’s male and straight. I’d worry if he wasn’t a fan.”

Suzanne pulled a dandelion from the grass and caressed her bottom lip with it. Flirting with a teenager to get answers? How low could she go?

“Think they’re together?”

Harrison shook his head. “No way. Why would he still be a priest getting paid peanuts, putting up with us losers, if he had her waiting for him at home? Besides,” Harrison said, dropping his voice to a whisper. Out on the pitch, Father Stearns blocked yet another attempt at a goal. The teenagers on the team looked tired and thirsty. He’d barely broken a sweat.

“Besides what?”

“I think Nora has a thing for younger men.”

Suzanne raised her eyebrow at him.

“Got any evidence? Or just wishful thinking?” God, now she sounded like Father Stearns.

“Now I’m not one to tell tales out of school,” Harrison began. “But there’s this guy at church—Suicide Mike.”

Suzanne’s hands went cold at the mention of suicide. But she kept her face neutral.

“Suicide Mike?”

“I know. It’s horrible. I never call him that,” he said although he just had. “Michael Dimir.”

“The boy who tried to commit suicide in the sanctuary?”

“The same,” he said, nodding. “Here’s the thing about Suic…about Michael. Michael, he’s glass, breakable. Kid is scared of his own shadow. Barely talks. You say hi to him and it takes a year off his life.”

Suzanne’s stomach dropped in sympathy. Withdrawn? Anxious? Constantly on the alert? Michael sounded like a classic abuse victim to her. But where had the abuse come from? Home? Or church?

“So?” Suzanne prompted, not wanting but needing to know more.

“So Nora’s a little on the intimidating side. Famous, rich, beautiful…you’d think if she said hi to him, he’d die on the spot. But no. I’m sitting there two weeks ago, Sunday morning, staring at Nora like usual. And she looks at Michael and winks at him. I thought, ‘Oh, shit, call 9-1-1—Mike’s going to have a heart attack.’ But no, guess what he does?”

“What?”

“He stuck his tongue out at her like they were old buddies or something. She stuck her tongue out back at him, and the temperature in the sanctuary shot up twenty degrees from the heat of those two eye-fucking each other.”

Suzanne didn’t say anything at first. Father Stearns seemed rather defensive about both her and Michael Dimir. If he acted as confessor to both of them, then no doubt he knew the thirtysomething author was having an affair with a teenage boy. Together she and Harrison watched the game for a few minutes in silence. Or almost silence. Despite being sidelined, Harrison couldn’t seem to stop yelling advice and encouragements at his own team.

She didn’t know much about soccer, but she could tell that Father Stearns owned the field. His team responded to his every quiet command like well-trained soldiers. And he seemed indefatigable, running up and down the field with the fearsome long-legged agility of a jaguar.

“God, he’s good,” she said, as he weaved in between two players and scored a goal from the center line.

“Of course he’s good,” Harrison said, taking off the ice and rubbing his inner thigh. “He’s one hundred and fifty percent pure European. Got the soccer gene on both sides.”

“How can somebody be one hundred and fifty percent European?” Suzanne asked, recalling what little she’d discovered about the priest’s past.

“His father’s British, was British. Dead now. His mother’s Danish. And he went to seminary in Italy.”

Danish mother? That would explain the hair and eyes. And the inscriptions in the books and on the photo—must be Danish.

“Thought his mother was from New Hampshire.”

Harrison scoffed.

“Does that,” he said, pointing at Father Stearns, “look American to you?”

“No,” she admitted. He looked spectacular to her—masculine and handsome and so incredibly attractive. But not particularly American. “European genes—guess that’s why he’s your best player.”

“Second best.”

“Second? Let me guess—you’re the best.”

Harrison shook his head.

“No. Father Stearns’s brother-in-law comes and practices with us sometimes. He’s even better. But don’t tell Father S I said that. They’re really competitive.”

Suzanne furrowed her brow. She knew Father Stearns had a sister, but the older sister, Elizabeth, didn’t live in Connecticut.

“Brother-in-law? One of his sisters is married—”

Harrison shook his head.

“Father S was married.”

Her heart shuddered a little in her chest.

“Father Stearns was married?”

“Yeah, when he was my age—eighteen. Legal adult,” he reminded her. “Apparently didn’t last long. She died. Some kind of accident. If I was an eighteen-year-old widower, I’d probably join the priesthood too.”

Suzanne could barely speak.

“Married…” I’m not a virgin…I wasn’t born  a priest… “Eighteen…that would have been a long time ago. He and the brother are still friends?”

“They’re either best friends or they want to kill each other. Hard to tell sometimes. They constantly swear at each other in French.”

“French?”

“Yeah. Brother-in-law’s French.”

Harrison said something else but Suzanne had stopped listening. She looked out across the field and saw the practice coming to an end. Father Stearns’s team had won 2–1. Standing up, Suzanne brushed the grass off her jeans and walked toward him.

As she came to him, he pushed his sunglasses up on his head.

“Good game,” she said. “You were married?”

Father Stearns looked over her shoulder and shot Harrison a death stare. Harrison blew a kiss at Suzanne.

“Every Thursday I devote to praying for vocations for the church,” Father Stearns said. “I pray Harrison will be called to become a Cistercian.”

“Cistercian?”

“They take vows of silence. This prayer has not been answered yet.”

Suzanne laughed and fell into step beside Father Stearns. She had to lengthen her already long strides to keep up with him.

“Yes, I was married,” he finally said. She realized with the church so close by, he likely had just walked here. She decided to walk with him until he shooed her off. “Very briefly. She died shortly after we wed.”

“Can I ask how or is that too personal?”

“Not personal,” he said as they hit the sidewalk. “Merely painful. Marie-Laure fell to her death while out in the woods. I was a mile away, lest you think my asterisk refers to a murder.”

“Beautiful name. She was French?”

“She was. A ballet dancer.”

Suzanne experienced an odd sensation then. Something like jealousy. She pictured a beautiful French ballerina and her handsome young husband. What passion they must have had for each other.

From the street they turned onto a path shrouded in darkness. A canopy of trees lined the walkway. Ahead of them she spied a small two-story Gothic cottage.

“And your mother was Danish? I thought she was from New Hampshire?”

At the gate, they paused. Suzanne stood looking at him, waiting for him to say something, do something.

“My parentage…it’s quite a long story,” he said, his gray eyes as shadowed as the path they’d just walked.

Suzanne swallowed. She should not be doing this, should not be alone with him. Not here. Not in his house.

“I’ve got time.”

* * *

A helicopter. They flew to the city in a freaking helicopter.

The entire way there, Michael sat at the window staring at the ground below, the clouds above and the horizon beyond… He couldn’t believe Griffin could conjure up a helicopter as easily as one called a cab. Griffin…Griffin must think he’s crazy. During the trip, as Michael nearly drooled over the view, Griffin only watched him with unconcealed amusement. Michael didn’t care if Griffin thought he was nuts—he couldn’t look away from the beauty of the evening at eight thousand feet.

“I’ve got my camera.” Griffin tapped Michael on the knee to get his attention. Michael loved the way Griffin looked in his aviator sunglasses with the helicopter’s headset on. “Want to take pics to send your friends?”

Michael shook his head and turned his eyes back to the vista below. After all, he didn’t have any friends to show any pictures to.

The helicopter set down on the landing pad of some building in Hell’s Kitchen as the sun finally sunk over the horizon. Michael followed Nora and Griffin as they headed for the roof door. In his plain cotton pants, white shirt and black jacket, he felt terribly undressed compared to Griffin in his black leather pants and black silk shirt. Nora wore a black suit too—fedora, suspenders, red shirt, black tie…the whole nine yards.

As they descended the stairs, Nora looked back and grinned at him.

“I’m going to keep you outta the papers, kid. Don’t worry. I’ve got a private room set up for us already. You’ll go there first while Griff and I cause a ruckus.”

“I love a good hard ruck…us,” Griffin said, grinning back as he took off his sunglasses and shoved them in his pocket. Michael blinked and forced his eyes away. He really needed to figure out how to stop staring at Griffin all the time.

They reached the bottom of the staircase and Michael heard the first strains of music. Nora went up to the door and knocked hard—three quick taps followed by two heavy ones.

“Secret code?” Michael asked in a whisper.

“Morse code for S&M.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Griffin shrugged and winked at him. “I have no idea.”

The door opened and a man stepped out into the hallway. Michael looked up at him and kept looking up. And up.

“Boys, say hello to my friend Brad Wolfe,” Nora said with an elegant and obviously facetious nod at the only man Michael had even been this close to who was taller than Father S. “Otherwise known as—”

“The Big Brad Wolfe,” Griffin completed, stepping forward and extending his hand. “You’re a legend.”

The man, who Michael guessed was about six foot six with as much muscle to him as height, took Griffin’s hand and shook it. He looked about forty years old and handsome in a way somebody like Nora would describe as “roguish.” He thought Griffin was the height of male perfection. But women seemed to like Brad’s look—chest hair and beard stubble. Nora obviously did from the way she smiled up at him.