The Virgin

“Why am I not surprised you played volleyball?”

Kyrie looked her in the eyes. “That’s a lesbian joke, isn’t it?”

“It might be.”

“I liked it. I give you two points.”

“How many points to get you to leave?” Elle asked.

“You,” Kyrie said, pointing at her. “You are a curmudgeon.”

“One point for use of curmudgeon.”

“Awesome. Now I have four points. Twenty-five of them and I get your story. Okay?”

“Fine. If you get to twenty-five points, I’ll tell you why I’m here. You’ll probably regret asking.”

“I’m sure I will. Looking forward to regretting it.”

“You can go away and leave me alone now,” Elle said. “I really do have work to do, and you are seriously distracting me.”

“I’m leaving. But I’m going to bug you until I get all twenty-five points.”

“You’re going to have to do better than a lame dick joke. I’m a tough grader, and I was telling better dick jokes than you when I was in middle school. Step up your game, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kyrie said, giving her a little salute and hopping down off the counter. “I’ll see you later tonight. You finish your work. I’ll figure out what you can do with your life.”

“Oh, you’re going to figure that out for me?”

“I am.”

“Good. One less thing for me to worry about,” Elle said, picking up another napkin, a napkin that would be used at dinner tonight, soiled on some elderly nun’s mouth, and returned tonight to be rewashed, redried, reironed and reused. Until the end of time.

“I’ll catch you later,” Kyrie said, heading for the door. “Happy ironing, Elle.”

“Hey, Kyrie?” Elle called out. Kyrie stopped and turned around.

“What?”

“I meant it. Mother Prioress really doesn’t want me bothering you all. If she finds out we’re talking too much, she might not let me stay, and I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I wouldn’t tell anybody we talked,” Kyrie said. “Your secrets you won’t tell me are safe with me. Mainly because you won’t tell them to me.”

“Thank you. Mother Prioress doesn’t really want me here. She’s doing my mom a favor.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Kyrie said from the doorway, “I want you here.”

The words, so simple and kind, hit Elle like a high ocean wave and pulled her under like a riptide. They carried her down deep under the surface and it took a few seconds before she hit open air again.

“Elle? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just...what you said—I said the exact same thing to my priest ten years ago.”

“You said ‘I want you here’ to your priest? Why?”

“Why?” Elle said, smiling. “Because I was fifteen and he was nice to me, and I would have done or said anything to make him happy.”

“Oh,” Kyrie said, nodding. “That’s funny.”

“Why is that funny?” Elle asked, meeting Kyrie’s eyes. They were the strangest color of blue—like a spring morning so bright it hurt to look at it.

“That’s the same reason I said it.”

13

Haiti

KINGSLEY WAS OUT of his element. Back in Manhattan if he met a woman he wanted to pursue, he’d find out everything he could about her and use that information to his advantage. If they were in Manhattan he’d know who Juliette was, her last name, where she came from, who she ate with, worked with and slept with. But he wasn’t in Manhattan. He was in Haiti, and he had no idea who this woman was or what she wanted with him.

And he certainly had no idea what to expect tonight. He wasn’t even certain Juliette would show up. Maybe it was a test, like making him strip naked on the beach. Asking him to take his clothes off hadn’t been much of a test. He’d take his clothes off anywhere, anytime and for nearly any reason. Especially when asked nicely. It was getting him to put his clothes back on afterward that was the real challenge.

Speaking of clothes...Kingsley looked himself up and down. He’d debated about what to wear for his second meeting with Juliette and decided to dress in a slightly cleaner version of his usual Haitian uniform of sun-bleached khakis and white button-down shirt. It was the beach, after all. He hadn’t packed any of his suits and ties and boots. The freedom of going incognito was intoxicating. Right now, as far as Juliette knew, he was nothing more than a French-American refugee, who’d come to Haiti for an inexpensive vacation. Something about Juliette, the way she talked, the way she looked at him, made him think his money and power wouldn’t impress her. What would impress her, he didn’t know. But he would find out what it was, and he would do it even if it meant getting naked in public again.

Especially if it meant getting naked in public again.

The sun had barely set by the time he made it back to the fork in the path where Juliette had said to meet her. He waited for a few minutes, and then a few minutes more. He told himself he wouldn’t wait another minute. And then another minute would pass and still he’d be there. Finally at nine-thirty he gave up and walked away. One minute later he un-gave up and walked back.

And there she was, wearing a scarlet red dress and holding a set of keys in her hand. He knew he should say something, anything. Perhaps “you’re late” would be a good start to the conversation. But he had no words. The dress she wore had a deep V-neck that stopped at the center of her chest. She had full and firm breasts, which the dress did nothing to disguise and everything to display. The wind blew a cool evening breeze on them and caught her skirt in its fingers. He saw a flash of her strong thighs, both shapely and muscular. And he saw something else too, something that made him smile.