The Virgin

“I was going to throw you a welcome home party,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. Kingsley looked up and saw a girl with bobbed brown hair skipping down the steps. “But the kids said they didn’t want to share you.”

Calliope was dressed in her usual uniform of a plaid skirt, kneesocks and an oversize cardigan. She was his devil in disguise—a wicked computer genius who looked like a schoolgirl, because she was one.

“They’re very possessive,” Kingsley said as he pulled himself off the floor. Calliope stood on the bottom step and Kingsley walked to her. “You look different.”

“It’s the haircut,” she said, tossing her head left and right. “Like it?”

“It’s très French. You look like Coco Chanel.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I said you looked French. There is no higher compliment.”

She laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Am I allowed to hug my boss?” she asked. “Or would that be weird?”

“You aren’t going to hit on me, are you?” he asked.

“No. I’ll behave.”

“Then yes, you can hug me.”

Calliope leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“You’re too skinny,” she said in his ear. “You need to eat. I’ll get us takeout from La Grenouille. And then we can watch The Matrix again.”

“I’ll need wine for that,” Kingsley said. “Lots of wine.”

“Can I have some, too?” she asked, pulling back to smile ingratiatingly at him. “S’il vous plaît, monsieur?”

“You’re underage.”

“Yes, but you’re French.”

“I am, aren’t I?” He paused and pretended to mull it over. He held up one finger. “Drink all you want then. But no driving.”

“That’s what we have Roland for, remember?” She embraced him again and for a moment Kingsley did feel what he wanted to feel upon arriving back at home after his journey—contentment, peace, happiness. But it was gone again in a flash.

“What about your Juliette?” Calliope asked. “When’s she coming?”

“She’s not,” Kingsley said.

“But what about everything I—”

“She’s not coming,” he said again. He forced a smile, but Calliope didn’t buy it.

“King, I’m so sorry.” She hugged him again, long and hard, and he let her.

“It’s fine,” he said, patting her on the back, comforting her as she tried to comfort him. “Some things aren’t meant to be.”

“Do you love her?” she asked, a child’s question. No adult would ask a question so honest.

“Yes,” he said. “But I’ll survive. That’s what I do. It’s what we all have to do whether we want to or not.”

“You better survive. I don’t want to have to get a real job.”

“This is a real job,” he said, pulling away from her. “You’re the personal assistant to a business magnate.”

“I’ve spent the last ten months having dungeons cleaned and hacking into the French governments personnel files.”

“And?”

“And I love it.” She grinned broadly at him. “So it’s good you’ll survive. And if she doesn’t see how awesome you are after all you did, she doesn’t deserve you.”

“You’re too kind. But I don’t want to talk about it. I want to play with my dogs and eat all the boeuf bourguignon in the city.”

“I’m on it,” she said, clapping her hands. “Your wish is my command. Come on, kids. Dinnertime.” She snapped her fingers and his four dogs—Brutus, Dominic, Sadie and Max—got to their feet and followed her like four huge black ducklings following their mother. He laughed at the sight of them. It was good to be home. He picked up his bag off the floor and tramped up the stairs. He’d take a long shower, shave, put on his favorite clothes, his favorite boots...then he’d feel like himself again. Or even better, he’d feel like someone else.

When he opened the door to his bedroom, he inhaled deeply. Calliope had done a good job. She’d kept the house in perfect order while he was gone. He could smell the wood polish on the bedposts, the leather polish on his boots in the closet. The air, however, carried the scent of abandonment. It was time he came home. He had the feeling his bed had missed him as much as he’d missed it.

He undressed and stood in the shower for a long time, willing the hot water to burn his misery out, willing the hot water to wash his heartbreak away. It didn’t, of course, but he felt better when he was clean again. He was only half dressed when he heard his phone ringing—the private line that rang only into his bedroom. He checked the caller ID. It wasn’t her. Would he be hoping it was her every time any phone rang?

“Edge,” he said into the phone.

“You broke a rib,” came the reply.

Kingsley laughed, his first real laugh in over a week.

“I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“How’s your face?”

“I have a bruise. Should be interesting explaining that to my church.”

“Welcome to the company of we who must lie about our bruises. Your Little One was one of our founding members.”

“I’ve never left bruises on her face.”