The Virgin

“It was fine after a couple days. Bad cramps, that’s all. Women are used to that.” She shrugged it off. The past was past. She still remembered the pain, but there was no reason for Kingsley to know how well she remembered it.

“We should have been more careful, you and I,” Kingsley said.

“We were fluid-bonded. It’s what we do. That’s the risk we take,” Nora said. “I don’t blame you. Or myself. Not anymore. Accidents happen, right?”

“I’m sorry you went through that alone,” Kingsley said. “I should have said that a long time ago.”

She smiled at him, grateful for the words. “You wanted kids and I knew it. It would have been too sadistic, even for me, to make you hold my hand during the whole process.”

“I thought...” Kingsley began and stopped.

“Go on,” Søren said. “We’re talking about it finally. Talk.”

“I thought I’d lost my only chance to be a father,” Kingsley admitted. “I convinced myself of that, which is why I wasn’t there for you the way I should have been.”

“You did the best you could.” Nora stretched out her leg and touched her bare toes to Kingsley’s. “We both did.”

“I didn’t,” Søren said.

“You were in Rome.” She turned to look at him. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Somewhere along the way I did something wrong. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been scared to tell me,” Søren said.

“I wasn’t scared to tell you,” Nora said, not entirely truthfully. “I didn’t want to drag you into this. And I didn’t need to talk to anyone about it. As soon as I knew, I knew what I wanted to do. No reason to talk to you about it.”

“Except you belonged to me, and you were going through a difficult time,” he said. “I would have liked to have been there.”

“And I would have liked my privacy,” she said.

Søren took her hand and kissed the back of it. His way of saying “You win this round.”

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Nora asked. “The motorcycle I heard?”

“It was.” He gave her a penetrating stare as if trying to see the woman she’d once been and reconciling her with the woman in front of him.

“Why did you come to me there?” she asked.

“I had to,” he said simply. “If there was any chance, any chance at all I could speak to you or even see you, I had to take it.”

“How did you know where I went?” she asked. “I was gone one day and by the next night, you’d found me.”

“I knew where you would go because you did what I would have done in your place,” Søren said. “If I were scared and in pain and on the run.”

“You would have gone to a convent?” she asked, smiling at the idea.

Søren smiled. “No. To my mother.”

“I would have loved to have gone to your mom’s house,” Nora said as she glanced at Kingsley who watched them both with quiet intensity. It had been her first instinct to leave the country and hide out at Gisela’s house in Denmark. She’d rejected it out of hand.

“She would have taken you in,” Søren said. “You know how much she loved you. It didn’t matter I was a priest. She considered us married.”

“I know. And I know she would have taken good care of me,” Nora said, recalling in an instant a thousand memories of Søren’s mother. Her Æbleskiver pancakes she’d made in winter. Listening to her and Søren playing piano together. The long talks she and Nora had while Søren was outside playing with his nieces. Nora sensed Gisela wanted Søren to leave the priesthood, get married and have children, but she never said a word about it. His mother respected their life together, their choices, even with all the risks they took. And Nora always loved her for not trying to change either of them.

“You might have been happier with my mother than you were with yours,” Søren said, knowing how fraught her relationship with her own mother had been. Fraught until the day Nora’s mother died over two years ago.

“Probably. But I loved your mom too much to make her pick sides between her only son and me. That wouldn’t have been fair to her,” Nora said.

“Considering how I behaved that night, it’s safe to say she would have sided with you,” Søren said. Nora wondered how her life could have changed if she’d chosen to run to Søren’s mother instead of her own. That year at her mother’s convent had changed everything, and if she’d gone to Gisela’s she probably would have returned to Søren as his submissive in a week. “He sided with you against me.” Søren nodded toward Kingsley.

“You can’t blame me,” Kingsley said without any hint of contrition. “You fucked up, and I wanted to rip your heart out with my bare hands. It feels good to say that out loud.”

Nora laughed, and shockingly so did Søren.

“I wasn’t very happy with you, either,” Søren said. “You left without a word. Didn’t tell anyone where you went, not even Calliope.”

“That was the point,” Kingsley said, rolling onto his back. “How could anyone tell you where I went if I didn’t even know where I was going? I got to the airport and bought a ticket for the next international flight out.”

“Where did you go?” Nora asked.

“Greece,” Kingsley said. “Then Japan. I spent a month in Hong Kong, a month in New Zealand. New Zealand gave me island fever. I went to the Philippines next, and after that, the French Caribbean.”

“Meanwhile I’m in upstate New York in a convent. Next time I split town, I’m going to your travel agency, King,” she said.

“No more leaving,” Søren said. Nora crawled across the bed and kissed him.

“Never again, I promise,” she said, meaning every word. They kissed again, Søren’s hand resting lightly on the side of her neck, pressing into her collar so she could feel it against her throat. She hadn’t wanted to talk about that year ever, but now that they’d opened Pandora’s box, she felt better, as if the last and final wall between the three of them was tumbling down at last. They should have talked this out years ago. She and Kingsley hadn’t ever talked about the pregnancy they’d ended, but Søren was right as he usually was. Ignorance wasn’t bliss. Ignorance was cowardice.

“Stop kissing him,” Kingsley said. “Get to the nun-fucking already.”

Nora turned her head and glared at Kingsley.

“I’ll tell you about my first night with Juliette if you tell me about your nun. It’s a good story,” Kingsley said. “Deal?”

“Fair trade,” Nora said, and held out her hand. Kingsley shook it. “But my nun didn’t show up for about eight months. Let’s see, I got there in June. It was almost spring when I saw her the first time.”

“That’s when I met Juliette, too. February in Haiti on the beach. I don’t remember the day of the week, but I know it was Valentine’s Day. Someone told me that.” He laughed at something and didn’t tell them what.

“You start,” Nora said as she slid over Søren and got out of bed. “I’m opening the wine.”

“We’re saving that for the reception,” Kingsley reminded her.

“If this storm doesn’t stop, we’ll all drown by morning and all that wine will have gone to waste.”

“You make a good point, Elle,” Kingsley said. “I’ll have a big glass. I’ll get in trouble with Jules for hiding from her. I might as well get in trouble with her for drinking, as well.”

“Why would she be mad at you for drinking?” Nora asked.

Kingsley grinned broadly. “Because she can’t have alcohol again for seven more months.”

Nora almost dropped the wine bottle.

“Juliette’s pregnant?” Nora asked.

Kingsley raised his finger to his lips. “Only you two know now.”

Nora ran to Kingsley and embraced him. “You slut,” she said, planting a kiss on both cheeks.

“She wanted two,” Kingsley said. “And le prêtre doesn’t look a bit surprised.”

“I’m trying to look surprised,” Søren said with a sly smile.

“You knew?” Nora asked.

“Juliette and I were working on something together recently. She got light-headed and almost fainted. She told me why she wasn’t feeling well in exchange for me not calling an ambulance for her.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Nora asked, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pointing at his nose. “You jerk.”

“I’m a priest. Keeping secrets is my job,” he reminded her, taking her hands off his shirt and kissing them. He looked from her to Kingsley. “I’m very happy for you. And relieved you finally said something so I could tell you that.”

“Are you happy?” Nora asked Kingsley, already knowing the answer.

“Is the pope Catholic?” Kingsley asked.

“Pope Francis is a Jesuit,” Søren said.

“And Catholic,” Kingsley said.

“Being a Jesuit takes precedence,” Søren said.

Nora sighed. “Typical. So typical.”

Søren got out of bed and stood in front of Kingsley. He grasped the back of Kingsley’s neck, bent down and kissed him. Nora went back for the wine and let them have their moment of privacy. She opened the Syrah and poured three steep glasses. She brought one to Kingsley, one to Søren and kept one for herself.

“When are you telling Nico he’s going to be a brother again?” Nora asked as she slid back onto the bed, careful not to spill any wine on the sheets. They’d already pushed their luck with fire-play and very wet sex. If she got her deposit back on this room, it would be a miracle.

“Soon,” Kingsley said. “Now that you both know, I’ll call him tomorrow. You think he’ll be happy?”

“Thrilled and relieved,” Nora said. “The more kids you have, the less pressure he feels to have them. He’s already made Céleste the legal heir to his vineyard. But don’t tell her that. She’s only three, but I can see her attempting a coup.”

“I’m relieved I won’t have to worry about being a grandfather anytime soon,” Kingsley said with a wink at her. He pushed a pillow behind his back, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He had the legs of a professional soccer player, which the kilt displayed to marvelous affect. No wonder Juliette with her fetish and her pregnancy hormones had been all over him the past two days.

“No chance of that from me,” Nora said. “Cheers to the good Doctor Hélène Faber.” She and Kingsley clinked glasses, which was likely the first time in history two people had ever toasted to a woman’s sterilization procedure before. Then again, no two people in history had Kingsley and Nora’s history. With everything they’d put each other through, they’d had two choices—hate each other or love each other. They were so much alike, hating each other would have been like hating themselves. And both of them were rather too self-important for that sort of nonsense.

So they picked love.

“I have you to thank for my children,” Kingsley said, pointing his wineglass at her. “All two and one-third of them.”

“And why is that?”

“I would never have known about Nico if it wasn’t for you. I would never have met Juliette if you hadn’t left him.” He pointed at Søren.

“Then shouldn’t I get some credit here?” Søren asked.

“Oui, you get all the credit for being such an enormous asshole neither of us wanted to see you for a full year.”

“Thank you,” Søren said, saluting with his wineglass. “Credit where credit is due.”

“Did you know Juliette would be the mother of your children when you met her?” Nora asked.

“The opposite,” Kingsley said. “I thought she’d be a terrible mother when I saw her. In my defense, she was assaulting children. In her defense, they deserved it.”

“No wonder Juliette wouldn’t tell me about when you all met,” Nora said, pulling the sheets up around her again. She pressed close to Søren, relishing his warmth and his nearness.

“Juliette,” Kingsley began, and his voice changed subtly as he spoke. He sounded far away and Nora wondered what he was remembering and why it hurt so much. “She was in a difficult position back then. Trapped, you could say.”

“So what did you do?” Nora asked, as eager to hear Kingsley’s story of that year as they were to hear hers.

“I did what I always do when I meet a beautiful woman,” Kingsley said with a shrug. “I fucked her.”

9

2004 Haiti

KINGSLEY WOKE UP that morning and decided to fuck the first girl who’d let him. Luckily there was a girl conveniently located in his bed. Who she was he didn’t quite remember, but it didn’t really matter. She was there by his invitation and her choice. Names, dates, places—the rest was irrelevant.

Last night—that’s when he’d met her. He’d gone to a bar last night, drunk a few gallons of rum...or something. He’d met a waitress who spoke no traditional French and a little English. He spoke English and enough Creole to have her sitting on his lap by the third drink and home with him after the sixth. Home wasn’t anything more than a shack on the beach furnished with a bed and a well-stocked bar, but that hadn’t deterred her from spending the night with him and on him. Gorgeous girl. Coffee-colored skin and eyes, short curly hair that formed a halo around her face, lips like candy he clearly remembered biting.

And any minute now he’d remember her name. He rolled onto his side, spooned against her back and kissed the tip of her shoulder. Her name—it started with an S. He wanted to say Sabrina but that wasn’t quite it. She stretched out in her sleep and pushed back against him. Fuck it. He didn’t even remember his own name this morning.

She rolled onto her stomach as Kingsley ran his hand down her back. She had the soft smooth skin of a woman who spent her days naked on the sand.

“Bon maten,” she murmured as he nibbled the back of her neck that smelled lightly of citrus. Without taking his mouth off her body, he reached over the bed, pulled out a condom and rolled it on. No more accidents. No more mistakes. No more mornings like that one he’d had last year when he saw with his own eyes the consequences of his carelessness.

He pushed the thought out of his mind as he moved on top of the girl.

“Oui?” he asked. “Non?”

“Wi,” she said, Haitian Creole for yes and gave him a smile that also said yes.

He laughed in her ear, nudged her thighs apart with his knees and settled into her with a few slow thrusts. She was still wet and open inside from the sex they’d had a few hours earlier. Wet and warm and he groaned from the pleasure of it. It had been a long time since he’d let himself have vanilla sex. It felt like a vacation—lazy, easy, self-indulgent.

But he wasn’t complaining and neither was Sabatina.

Sabatina—that was her name.

Kingsley rolled his hips against hers, keeping the pace slow and easy. Her mouth opened under his, inviting his tongue in for a dozen more kisses, a dozen more bites. She tasted like white wine and pears. Lowering his head, he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked deeply while she arched underneath him. He pushed deep and her hips rose off the bed to welcome him into her. Last night...he could barely remember fucking her, although he knew he’d enjoyed it and so had she. Still, it felt like the first time with her so he took his time, relishing each push and the pleasant pressure it gave him in his stomach, thighs and back.

Her mouth curled into a smile of intoxication. She murmured softly in Creole. He didn’t understand a word of it, but the tone was definitely encouraging. He licked and kissed his way from one breast to the other. Still he moved in her, harder and deeper. She reached her arms up to wrap them around his neck. Out of pure instinct he grabbed her arms and pressed her wrists down into the bed on either side of her head and bore down on her with a brutal thrust. She gasped and cried out. Kingsley froze.

“Don’t stop,” she said in her heavily accented English. He put more weight onto her wrists, more power into his thrusts and fucked her six inches into the mattress. Spread out beneath him, she received everything he gave her without protest and with enthusiasm. He released one of her wrists and yanked her leg around his back. When he pulled out, he pulled out all the way to the tip. When he thrust back in, it was with every inch at once as far as he could go. A deep pulsing resonated inside his thighs and hips all the way to his cock. He couldn’t hold out much longer, but thankfully neither could she. He increased his pace and was rewarded with the lusty cry of her orgasm and the subsequent contractions of her vagina around him.

He dug his fingers into her flesh and let himself come at last. The relief as he collapsed on her body was profound. He wanted to close his eyes, fall asleep inside her and not wake up for days. Instead, he pulled out and lay on his side facing her.

“You liked that?” he asked.

“Non,” she said, smiling broadly. “I loved it. But...”

“No buts,” he said. “You stay. I’ll find breakfast.”

“I can’t.” She rolled up and stretched her neck left to right. From the floor she picked up her dress and pulled it on over her head. “I have to go.”

“You have to work?”

“Babysit,” she said. “Maman has to work today.” She kissed him quick and hard before sliding off the bed. She shoved her feet into her sandals and tied a ribbon in her hair to tame it. “But I can come back tomorrow night.”

“You should,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

“For how long?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Until they kick me off the island.”

“This is Haiti. You spend money here, you can stay forever.”

“Maybe I will.” His money wasn’t running out anytime soon. And the thought of returning to New York now, in winter, with no one to welcome him home but a brokenhearted priest?

“Good. I never fucked a white man before.”

“Is that why you came back here with me?”

“Wi,” she said with a wink.

Kingsley laughed. “I feel so used.”

“You want me to come back and use you again?”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “You were talking about another girl in your sleep last night.”

“I was? Who?” Kingsley hadn’t talked in his sleep in years as far as he knew. Not since that year after he moved to Manhattan and was still recovering from his gunshot wound.

“You never said her name. It was ‘she.’ Who is she?”

“I must have been dreaming. I know a lot of girls. They all have names.”

Sabatina grinned. “I’ll use you again tonight maybe. Come back to the club if you want. I can be your Valentine’s Day date.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I don’t remember what year it is.”

Laughing, she bent over and kissed him once more.

“It’s 2004. Valentine’s Day. Now I have to get home before Maman kills me.”

“You live with your parents?” Kingsley asked.

She nodded as she bent to tie the laces of her sandals.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Eighteen,” she said, standing up straight again.

Kingsley’s stomach flipped a few times. Eighteen? She was only eighteen? His last girlfriend had been twenty-seven. Somewhere deep in his psyche, his conscience reminded him it still existed.

“I have a rule. I don’t fuck women under twenty-five.”

“Then you broke your rule.” She laughed again. “It’s good. I like older men.”

She ran a hand through his hair once, and after one more kiss, a kiss he didn’t return, she left him.

Somewhere he had a watch but he didn’t bother checking it. All he did was grab a towel, wrap it around his waist and walk out to the ocean. It must have been early. It looked early. But the temperature had to be in the eighties already. No one else was on his stretch of beach yet so he dropped his towel and dived naked into the clear waters. He swam out a hundred yards and rested on his back in the water. When was the last time he’d taken an actual bath or shower? He couldn’t remember. Who needed a porcelain bathtub when he had the ocean fifty feet from his front door?

As he floated under the morning sun, he tried to forget he’d fucked a girl twenty-one years his junior last night. Twenty-one years. He was old enough to be her father and then some. Then again, he’d lost his virginity when he was twelve or thirteen...twelve maybe. Thirteen? Whichever it was, by that math he couldn’t fuck anyone more than thirteen years younger than him. That was Elle’s age...twenty-six. For a minute he let himself think about her, something he’d been trying to avoid for months. Where had she landed? Had she given up and gone back to Søren? He doubted it. Once a week he called back to his office and spoke to Calliope. No news from her yet. The house was quiet. The city was quiet. The dogs were content and his clubs were thriving in the hands of their capable managers. Everyone missed him, Calliope said. But no one needed him.

And no one back at the house had seen or heard from Elle or Søren since Kingsley had left the country in June. Either they were tucked tenderly in Søren’s bed making up for all that happened between them, or she was still gone and he was still searching. Kingsley refused to admit that he cared which one it was. His part in their domestic drama was done. They were adults. They didn’t need him around to solve their problems for them.

Yet...

Still...

He couldn’t stop wondering.

Reluctantly he swam toward the shore and grabbed his towel off the sand. He didn’t dry off with it. No need in this heat. He’d be mostly dry by the time he reached his beach hut. Back inside, he drank a bottle of water and pulled on a pair of tattered khaki pants and a white shirt. He didn’t bother buttoning it. He put on a pair of sunglasses and walked back out into the heat of the day in search of food and alcohol and anything else that would get him through the day.

A hut on another patch of beach half a mile away sold fish and fruit to visitors. He might eat there. He might keep walking. Didn’t really matter. He wasn’t going to starve. And he had no schedule to keep. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit he was bored. Bored in Paradise. But after five weeks of sleeping on a beach, bathing on a beach, walking on a beach, eating on a beach, having sex on a beach...he’d kill for the sight of a skyscraper or a mansion or a television broadcasting a French football match. He had no idea how Les Bleus were doing this season. As long as they were beating Denmark he could sleep at night. When he called home next time, he’d ask Calliope to check the scores for him. Even in Paradise, a man had needs.

Kingsley turned a corner and smelled fish frying in the near distance. Instead of awakening his appetite, it made his stomach tighten. After all he drank last night, he wasn’t quite ready for solid food yet. Maybe in an hour or two he could eat. For now he would wander and not care where his feet took him.

He started caring very quickly where his feet took him when he realized they had taken him into a heavily touristed area. He would have been happy to go his entire stay in Haiti without setting eyes on any white Americans. So far he’d done fairly well staying away from happy families and/or businessmen trying to find a new way to exploit Haiti’s beauty and resources. Yet everywhere he looked, he saw white faces squinting behind fashionable sunglasses, teenage girls in tiny bikinis, little boys building and destroying each other’s sand castles, and bored mothers and bored fathers trying to pretend they weren’t annoyed when their children interrupted their naps or their reading.

How did people go through life being so bored and so boring without killing themselves? Never be boring was the one and only commandment he followed. All the other commandments he considered mere suggestions.

He hated to admit that maybe if he stayed here in Haiti he would turn boring, too. Sleeping with an eighteen-year-old girl by mistake had been the only not-boring thing he’d done in weeks.

Bored and boring. He did the same things every day, walked the same paths, saw the same faces give or take a few minor variations. He’d caused no trouble, started no fights, blackmailed no politicians and engaged in only the most minor and unimpressive of sexual peccadilloes. If things didn’t get more interesting fast, he’d be forced to go back to Manhattan to find a reason not to shoot himself in the head.