The Virgin

Kingsley...she kept her mind on him. If she thought about Søren, really thought about him, she’d turn the car around and drive straight back to Connecticut. Instead, she focused her mind on Kingsley. Was he okay? She hadn’t seen him in a few days. He hadn’t offered to go with her to the doctor. He’d made the appointment for her, had the car take her. But he wasn’t there when she left, wasn’t home when she got back. If she’d asked him to come with her, he would have. She knew that. That he hadn’t volunteered was proof that he didn’t want to face it any more than she did. So she didn’t ask him. She went alone and didn’t make him more a part of it than he already was. Kingsley was more dark knight than white knight, but whatever his sins, he had one bright, pure and beautiful hope—that he would be a father someday. She wasn’t going to make him stand there and watch her put an end to that dream.

“King...I’m sorry,” she whispered as she reached a crossroads. If she drove south, she’d be in Manhattan in four hours.

Or...

Elle pulled the car over on the side of the road.

She had to do it, right? What other choice did she have except to go back? And that was no choice at all. Because if she went back she’d be admitting defeat. If she went back she would be walking straight into a different sort of prison.

Even now, her heart raced at the thought of Kingsley tracking her down and bringing her home. That wasn’t right. She should be able to leave if she wanted to leave. She should be able to go if she wanted to go without fearing someone was following her. That’s how it worked in the real world, right? Women got sick of the lives they were leading and they could do things like move out and move on and start over without an ex-assassin for the French government dragging her home by her hair.

Right?

Was it too late for her to be part of the normal world? If it wasn’t, did she really want to go there? She didn’t know the answer to either question. But she did know the longer she sat in the car, the sooner Kingsley would find her. It was nine o’clock now. The summer sun had finally set. By sunrise, Daniel would notice she—and his Benz—had disappeared. He’d call Kingsley, and Kingsley would start the search for her. She needed to be somewhere safe by morning, somewhere no one could follow.

That left only one option.

She was twenty-six years old.

She was the ex-lover of a Catholic priest.

She was recovering from an abortion.

Might as well go all in.

Goodbye, men. Goodbye, sex.

She headed west to her mother’s convent.

She didn’t look back.

5

KINGSLEY STOOD IN front of locker 1312 but didn’t open it. He couldn’t open it. Not yet. The last thing he wanted to do was open it and have every one of his fears confirmed.

At four that morning, Søren had called him looking for Elle. She wasn’t answering her phone. When Kingsley had gone to her room and found her bed made and empty, he’d known exactly what happened. Kingsley had seen this day coming since the night he’d met her. She’d finally done it. She’d left Søren.

But why? Søren wouldn’t tell him anything, only that they’d fought and Elle had driven off in Kingsley’s BMW, which she drove whenever she went to Søren’s. They’d argued. She’d driven away. Nothing new there. They’d fought before. All couples did. But this time was different and the empty bed proved it. She hadn’t come home last night.

So where the fuck was she?

He took out his keys and opened the locker.

Kingsley stared at the hastily scrawled number five on the inside of the locker. He closed his eyes and took a breath. In between the intake of air and the outtake he whispered a word to himself.

“Fuck.”

Then he saw it. Far more damning than the number inside the locker was the six-inch length of carved bone he pulled out of it.

Kingsley held it in the palm of his hand, stared at it and knew how it had got here, knew why she’d left it.

“This is why I left him,” it told him. If she’d been here he would have replied, “Good.”

Kingsley shoved it into his back pocket and slammed the locker door shut.

“You son of a bitch.” Kingsley swore under his breath. If Søren had been here, he would have said it to his face. Kingsley was thirty-eight years old and had known Søren since he was sixteen. Søren had beaten him, brutalized him and used him. He’d married Kingsley’s sister, which had precipitated her death. And never in all those years since they’d met had Kingsley felt this level of rage, of abject fury at the man he considered his truest friend and the only man he’d ever loved. Swear at him? If Søren had been here right now, Kingsley might have killed him.

And yet, he knew most of that rage was anger at himself. This was his fault, his doing. Kingsley never should have let her face Søren alone. He shouldn’t have let her face any of it alone. If he needed any further proof he wasn’t ready to be a father, it was this—he’d made her a doctor’s appointment and then abandoned her. He’d left the city for two days, lain low in Boston and done more drinking than he’d done in years. And Elle? She’d thanked him for making the appointment. That was all. “Thanks, King, I’ll take it from here.” And there’d been a pause, as if she’d been waiting for him to say, “I’ll go with you” or “Let me help you” or even “How are you?” He hadn’t said it, hadn’t said anything, and she hadn’t asked him to come with her, to be with her during it all. Kingsley knew she thought she was doing him a favor by going alone, but in the end all that it had done was make him feel like shit.

He leaned back against the row of lockers. In scenarios one through four she’d been instructed to write the name of her destination inside the locker—Canada, Maine, Seattle, somewhere else if that’s what she wanted. But in scenario five, she’d only write the number and disappear. And so she had. If he had any doubts about her determination to run away, they’d dissolved when he’d got the phone call from Daniel.

She’s here, King. And she’s not in good shape.

Kingsley was already on his way to the door when Daniel cautioned him to wait a day or two to let Elle calm down and rest. It was a smart idea even though Kingsley rebelled at the idea of leaving her alone another minute. But she wasn’t alone. Daniel had loved her once and still cared for her. Anya adored her for bringing her and Daniel together. The house was beautiful, idyllic. She would calm down out there, recover, and when Kingsley showed up in a day or two, she’d be less likely to put up a fight about coming home.

But an hour later, the second call had come.

She’s gone, King. And she stole my fucking car.

Kingsley had hung up and stared at the phone in his hand. Then he laughed. A sad tired laugh with no joy in it at all, but still, he laughed. Because of course. Of course she’d stolen Daniel’s car and driven away in the night. He should have seen that coming.

Once upon a time, he and Søren had made an idle wish to someday have a girl who was wilder than him and Søren put together.

Be careful what you wish for.

In the back of his mind he wished Sam were here. He could use a sane and rational voice of comfort right now. She was always good at helping in a crisis. But Sam had left him six years ago shortly after that first night he and Søren had topped Elle together. Sam had met someone, fallen in love, but even that might not have broken up their partnership. Except Elle had quickly become the most important woman in Kingsley’s life. She brought Søren back to Kingsley’s bed, something Sam could never do. The first time Sam had seen Elle walking around the house in one of Kingsley’s shirts, that was it.

Sam wasn’t angry, wasn’t hurt. She just knew it was time for them both to move on. Sam told him she loved him and then gave her two weeks’ notice and started packing for LA.

His sister was dead because of his love for Søren.

His Sam was gone to California because of his love for Elle.

His Elle was gone because of his love for his stupid foolish dream to have children, a dream he put before her.

They were all gone. Maybe they were on to something.

Kingsley thought about going back home, but he couldn’t face Søren right now. Søren was nearly catatonic with shock when they’d last spoken. “You’ll find her,” was all Søren had said to him before the first phone call from Daniel had come. They’d been sitting in the music room, Søren at the piano but not playing.

Kingsley had nodded. “I’ll find her.”

He wanted to ask Søren “Why did she leave?” but he also didn’t want to ask it. Søren might tell him, and the last thing Kingsley needed was to hear what fate Kingsley had abandoned Elle to. Søren out of control was a sight as rare as a volcano erupting and nearly as terrifying.

It would be easy to find her. She’d stolen Daniel’s car. All he had to do was call a few contacts in the police department with a description of the vehicle. In a few hours they’d know which direction she’d gone. From there they could extrapolate her likeliest destination. If she used one of the credit cards, they could pinpoint her whereabouts precisely. A quick jaunt on an airplane to wherever she’d gone and by tomorrow night she’d be back in Manhattan whether she wanted to be or not.

He could find her. Easily. Søren had asked him to find her, and he couldn’t tell Søren no. He wasn’t strong enough to tell him no, and he would fail her again as he’d failed himself. Over and over in his head he cursed himself. He’d gotten her pregnant and then abandoned her to deal with it on her own. Then she’d faced Søren on her own. And Kingsley had the shard of carved bone in his back pocket to prove that conversation had not gone well. He’d never met a stronger woman in his life, a woman as free and as fearless as she. If she said Søren had crossed a line with her, Kingsley believed her.

Kingsley owed her. She’d fled somewhere—he didn’t know where but he assumed she’d picked a place she felt safe. What right did he have taking her away from there if that’s where she wanted to be? But he would do it, and he would do it for Søren, and he would do it because she’d become such a part of his life he couldn’t imagine waking another morning to find her gone.

If Kingsley went back to the town house right now he’d call all his contacts and find her. Søren would be sitting there, waiting, depending on Kingsley to find her.

But.

But if he didn’t go back to his town house...

Kingsley pulled his mobile phone out of his jacket and dialed a number.

“Don’t speak,” Kingsley said before his assistant could say a word.

Silence was his answer. Good.

“Answer the next question I ask you only with a yes or a no. You understand?” Kingsley asked.

“Yes,” Calliope said. Her voice was calm, controlled. She betrayed nothing. He’d trained her well.

“Is he there?”

“No.”

“No?” Kingsley repeated. “Good. Now you can talk. Did he tell you where he went?”

“No,” Calliope said. “He told me to tell you he had an idea where she might be. Then he got on his motorcycle and drove away.”

Kingsley’s brow furrowed as he leaned back against the lockers.

“He’s not going to get her back,” Kingsley said.

“Are you going to find her then?”

Kingsley didn’t answer. He had a decision to make. Calliope made it for him.

“She wouldn’t leave him without a good reason, right?” she asked. “She wouldn’t leave him unless she had to. I know her. I know how much she loves him.”

“So do I,” Kingsley said.

“Did he hurt her? Like in the bad way?” Calliope asked, her voice awash in fear and confusion. Kingsley could sympathize.

Kingsley didn’t answer.

“King?”

He had a decision to make. He made it now.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she said.

“I need you to move into the town house. Someone needs to take care of the dogs. Can you do that for me?”

“I practically live here anyway. Dad’s not going to be thrilled, but I’m eighteen. Not much he can do about it. Sure. Anything you need.”

“You can have any room that isn’t mine or isn’t hers. There’s ten grand in cash in my bottom desk drawer. The combination is—”

“I know the combination.”

“How?”

“You hired me because I’m the sort of girl who knows combinations, remember?”

“Good point.” He almost laughed. He did know how to pick an assistant.

“Shut the house down. Close it. Cancel all the parties. Cancel everything, even the newspaper.”

“Are you going somewhere?” she asked.

“Yes. I have to leave the country. Don’t tell him I’m going. I’m not going to tell you where I’m going so you don’t have to lie when he asks you. The truth is, I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t know when I’m coming back. But you can handle things while I’m gone. Yes?”

“I can, yes,” she said again. This time he heard a tight note of fear in her voice. But she was smart, savvy. She was also barely eighteen years old, but he wouldn’t have hired her if he didn’t trust her judgment.

“I’m going now. I’ll call when I can. It won’t be for a week or two. But everything’s fine. You believe that?”

Calliope answered, “No.”

He cared about her too much to make her believe the lie.

“Me neither,” he said. “Be a good girl. I’ll call when I can. Take care of the kids for me.”

“I’ll walk them every day,” she said. “And pet them all the time.”

“Merci.”

“Come home soon.”

Kingsley hung up and tucked his phone away again.

Once more he fished his keys out of his pocket. He turned back to the lockers. Underneath the one set up for Elle was another locker. He opened it, pulled out a leather duffel and checked it for a passport and money.

For you, Elle, he said to himself as he walked through the bus station and out onto Forty-Second Street. I’m doing this for you. Or was he?

He hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take him to the airport.

Well, it was about time he fulfilled a long-held dream of his. After all, his dream of being a father was dead. But he had other dreams, dreams about seeing parts of the world he hadn’t seen yet. If he didn’t go now, would he ever?

“Which airline?” the Caribbean-accented cab driver asked him.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” the driver repeated.

Kingsley leaned forward. “If you had all the money in the world and could use it to go anywhere you wanted, where would you go?”

“All the money, sir?” the driver asked. “I’d go everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“Everywhere,” the driver repeated. “And then I’d go home.”

“Where’s home?” Kingsley asked him. The accent was like music in his ears—French but not French, warm as white sand under the sun.

“Haiti, sir,” the driver said.

Haiti. Well, Kingsley had always wanted to go to Haiti. A tropical island, a long history with France. Maybe he would go there. Or maybe he’d do what his driver suggested. Maybe he’d go everywhere. He’d leave today and travel the world. Elle would have one less person to run from, one less man to fear.

And if Søren wanted to get his Little One back badly enough...

The bastard could do it himself.

6

Upstate New York

IN THE LAST minutes before midnight, Elle arrived at the Abbey of the Sisters of Saint Monica. It stood before her, a two-hundred-year-old stone edifice rising up three stories from the deep green earth. Spotlights shone on it, illuminating the high gray walls and the cobblestone path that led from the winding driveway to its hulking wooden front door. She knew more about this abbey than any laywoman should. Briefly she’d lived with her mother after graduating college in the hopes of repairing their fractured relationship. Her mother had let her move in for reasons unknown. Perhaps she’d harbored the same hopes. Reconciliation was a sacrament to Catholics, after all.

It was on the first day back under her mother’s roof that Elle found a white folder embossed with the initials SSM on the front. S and M Elle understood. But no, this was SSM—The Sisters of St. Monica. That place had been a foreign country to her. Soon she discovered her mother was in complete earnest about fulfilling her teenage dream to become a nun, a dream derailed when a one-night fling with a handsome older boy ended in a pregnancy, a shotgun wedding and a quickie divorce soon thereafter.

Now William “Billy” Schreiber was dead and buried and no one mourned him. Elle was an adult. And now Margaret Kohl was Sister Mary John of The Sisters of Saint Monica, a small order that consisted of five abbeys around the world, less than five hundred women in total. Their charism, according to the literature Elle had read, was to serve Christ like true brides—with love and devotion, and to pray for His church unceasingly until it found salvation, as Saint. Monica, mother of Saint Augustine, had prayed unceasingly for her son’s salvation.

The nighttime air was still warm with the day’s heat, but Elle had put on the black jacket she’d found in the duffel bag. She had no idea what to wear that would be appropriate for a convent, but she guessed the less skin she showed, the better. Under the jacket she wore a plain white T-shirt and dark jeans. At least in her black-and-white clothes she’d match the sisters in their black-and-white habits.

She left the car parked at a gas station a mile away and had walked the rest of the way here. The car would sit and sit and sit until the owner called the police and reported it. The police would run the tags and call Daniel, who would likely say he’d lent it to a friend who forgot where he’d parked it. The police would be dubious, but would say no problem, hang up and Daniel would retrieve his car.

For that moment when owner and car were reunited, Elle had left a little note in the glove compartment for him.

Dear Daniel,

I lied. I didn’t leave Søren because he asked me to marry him. I left because of what he did after I said no. If you’d been there, you would never have ratted me out to King. I hope you never have a daughter someday.

Love, Elle.

P.S. Fuck you.

P.P.S. Nice car. I dented the fender on purpose. And the driver’s side door. And the passenger side.

P.P.P.S. And the hood.

* * *

At midnight she crossed the threshold and entered the convent. Silence reigned inside the heavy stone structure. She could hear her own breathing, her own heart beating. She breathed like a wounded runner who’d had to crawl to the finish line. But she wasn’t done crawling yet. Not until she was behind the inner door. Only behind that door would she be safe. Only behind that door could she rest.

Like every monastery, the convent employed a doorkeeper. Søren had told her about the original doorkeeper for the Jesuit order, Brother Alphonsus Rodríguez, who joined the Jesuits after the death of his wife and his three children. According to Søren, Brother Alphonsus treated every person who knocked on the door of the Jesuit school where he was stationed as if it were God Himself at the door. He worked as nothing more than a porter, a glorified doorman for forty years. In 1888, the world’s most devoted doorman became a saint.

Elle didn’t feel like God as she walked to the porter’s window. She didn’t feel like the Devil, either. She felt tired and scared, and she wanted more than anything to wake up in her own bed at Kingsley’s to find the past week had been nothing but a dream, nothing but a nightmare. She’d wake up and find Søren next to her in bed, and she’d roll over and stretch out on his chest, press her ear to his heart and listen to it beating. He would stir and wake and stroke her hair and her bruised back until she fell asleep again. When she woke up for the day he would be long gone with only the stains on the sheets, the welts on her body and the scent of winter on his pillow to prove he’d been there.

That was the Søren she knew and loved. She had no idea who this new Søren was, the one she’d met two nights ago. But she was relieved to know she’d put several hundred miles between them. And yet, several hundred miles wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would be enough until she was behind that door in front of her, the door with a simple brass plaque that read, No Men Beyond This Point. No men allowed. Not even priests.

She rang the bell and said a prayer to Saint Monica, praying her earthly daughters would take her in and shelter her.

A wooden panel at a window that reminded her of an old-fashioned bank teller’s was pushed aside and a woman in large glasses peered out at her.

“Welcome, child. Can we help you?” she asked, her tone kind and curious.

“My mother is here. Sister Mary John,” Elle said, her voice wavering against her will. “I need to talk to her.”

“Is it an emergency, or can it wait until morning? Now is the Great Silence and nearly everyone is sleeping.”

That question utterly flummoxed her. Emergency? Nothing was burning down at the moment...except her entire life. Did that count as an emergency?

Yes. Yes it did.

“Someone’s trying to find me, and this is probably the first place he’ll look.”

The sister’s eyes widened farther behind her glasses.

“Is this person dangerous?”

“Very,” Elle said.

“I’ll find her for you.”

“Thank you,” Elle said with profound gratitude.

She closed the wooden panel at the window but she reappeared in seconds at the door.

“Come inside here,” the sister said, ushering her in. “It’s against protocol, but if someone’s coming after you, you should wait here.”

Elle could have kissed the woman for her compassion. The elderly nun trundled off down a long dimly lit hallway leaving Elle by the door. Even after the sister disappeared, Elle could hear the sound of her rosary beads and orthopedic shoes echoing off the stone floors and polished wood walls.

She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. When she was a teenager, a closed door between her and Søren had been a challenge, a hurdle and a game. If she sat outside his office door and did her homework, it was only a matter of time before the door opened. He would step out, take a seat by her on the bench and go over her homework with her. She never would have survived precalculus without him. When the work was done and she put her things away, Søren would retreat back into his office, shutting the door behind him, and she would sit there staring at the door and loving him with all her heart and dreaming of the life they would have together when he let her behind all his locked doors.

But never in any of those girlhood dreams had she ever dreamed of this moment. She never dreamed she’d be grateful for the door behind her and the sign on it barring men from entering. She never dreamed she’d be relieved Søren couldn’t get to her. She’d spent the past ten years of her life trying to get to him. Would she spend the rest of her life trying to get away?

“Ellie?”

Elle looked up and saw a woman in white coming toward her. White habit, white veil and a ghostly white face.

“Mom?”

“Of course it’s your mother.”

“Sorry, I didn’t...” She didn’t recognize her own mother. Gone was her mother’s long black hair so like her own. Gone were the khaki skirt she lived in and the navy cardigans and her ubiquitous white Keds. Elle hadn’t come to her mother’s entrance ceremony. She would have if her mother had asked, but by then Elle had moved out and they’d stopped speaking. Elle had forgotten that part, that whole not speaking to each other thing. Hopefully her mother had forgotten it, too.

“What on earth are you doing here?” her mother demanded.

“That nun let me in here behind the door.”

“No, what are you doing here? At the abbey?”