The Saint
The golden cord knotted itself tighter.
“The blood of Christ,” he whispered, softer than he’d spoken it to anyone else, so softly she leaned in closer to hear him better.
“Amen.”
Their fingers touched as she returned the cup to him, and she soared back to her seat. She picked her novel off the floor, closed it and stuffed it in her backpack.
The Mass ended. All were exhorted to go forth in peace. But Eleanor felt no peace and she would feel no peace until she’d spoken to him.
Him? Him who? When she reached the lobby of the church, Elle realized she had no idea what the new priest’s name was. She had to know. Now.
She saw her mother whispering to a group of older women by the annex door. Probably talking about how the new priest was too young, too inexperienced, too handsome. As if there could be such a thing.
“It’s a nice day. I’m walking home,” she said to her mother and beat a hasty retreat before her mother could even say a word in argument.
The entire congregation surrounded their new priest. And yet she could still see him. He towered over most of them. He had to be six feet tall or more. Over the top of the crowd he met her eyes as if he’d been searching for her in the crowd. She mouthed, “I’ll wait for you.”
She slipped out the side door and watched the cars filing out. Soon nothing remained in the parking lot but a gleaming black motorcycle. Even on the opposite side of the parking lot she could make out the lines of it, the chrome detailing shining in the March sunlight. She’d never seen anything more beautiful in her life except for the man crossing the pavement toward it. Careful to make as little sound as possible, she stepped from the shadows and followed him to his motorcycle.
He’d abandoned the vestments for black clerics. Father Greg had always worn a plain black shirt and black jacket over it, usually without the white collar in place. But this priest had on a more formal looking and heavier black clerical shirt. It looked European to her. She’d never seen a priest who looked so … She couldn’t find the right word. Elegant, maybe?
As he reached his motorcycle, he paused but didn’t turn around.
“I was wondering where you went,” he said, taking his helmet off the handlebars. He turned around and faced her. “You said you’d wait for me.”
“You’re kind of an idiot. You know that, right?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrow at her. Elle dug her hands in her pocket and stared at him.
“Am I?”
He sat astride his motorcycle, and she stepped in front of it.
“Do you have any idea what it is you have between your legs?” she demanded.
“I’m well aware of what is between my legs.” He said the words without even breaking a smile. She narrowed her eyes at him and stepped closer, straddling the front wheel with her knees.
“Then you know that this is a Ducati. A 907 I.E.,” she said.
“Is it?”
“It’s in black. Never seen one in black before.” She walked a circuit around the bike. “Do you have any idea how much this Duck is worth?”
“A small fortune, I’d imagine.” He put the helmet back on the handlebars.
“Yeah. A small one. So where’s your lock?”
“Pardon?”
“Your disc lock. You can’t leave a Ducati sitting in a parking lot without a lock on it unless you’re criminal stupid or you want it to get stolen. Which one is it?”
“Criminally stupid.”
“So you admit it?”
“No, I’m correcting your grammar. And I didn’t realize suburban Connecticut was such a high-crime district. Should I be afraid?” He asked the question in a tone that implied he knew what fear was, but only in theory, not practice.
“If I had something that valuable, I’d lock it up.”
He smiled at her.
“I plan to.”
“That’s good. Okay, then.” She stood there not knowing what else to say. The few things that leaped to mind were a little too forward. Like “I love you” and “will you marry me?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Elle.”
“Is that short for …?”
“Eleanor. Eleanor Louise Schreiber, at your service.” She grasped the ends of her skirt and gave him her most sarcastic curtsy. “Now who the hell are you?”
“Try that again. More politely please.”
She tapped the toe of her boot on the ground.
“Well?”
“Fine. What is your name, Father?”
He studied her face for a moment and didn’t answer.
“Don’t you know your own name?”
“I’m deciding how to answer the question. In the meantime, allow me to say this. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Eleanor.”
He reached out his left hand for her to shake. She had no choice but to give him her own left hand. As soon as her hand was in his, he gripped her fingers and pulled her toward him. He pushed at her sleeve and examined the two burns on her wrist.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, trying to pull her arm back. He didn’t give an inch, merely held her in place with his impossible strength.
“You have two second-degree burns on your arm and large scrapes on your knees. Care to tell me how those came about?”
“It’s none of your business.”
The priest studied her through narrowed steel-colored eyes. He didn’t seem the least offended by her language.