“Breaks my heart to know he’ll never have children,” Nora said. “And you, too. I wish they’d let priests get married. Don’t you think it’s a little weird, priests preaching about love when they’re not allowed to feel it?”

“Oh, priests know everything there is to know about love.”

“You do, do you?” she asked with a smile.

“Don’t confuse love with romance, young lady. Romance is beautiful, it’s a gesture, it’s a walk in a park with a pretty girl. Love is ugly sometimes. It’s a crawl into a war zone to save a friend. Romance whispers sweet nothings. Love tells painful truths. Romance gives an engagement ring. Love takes a bullet. I gave up marriage and children and sex and the comforts of family, because I love my Lord, and I would take a bullet for anyone in this church, including you, young lady. Now you tell me I don’t know what love is.”

Nora couldn’t tell him that because she couldn’t say a word. She leaned over the pew and took Father Mike in her arms.

“You’re flirting,” he said in a teasing tone. “My heart belongs to another.”

“I’m not flirting,” she said, her head on his shoulder. “Sometimes even a lapsed Catholic needs a hug from a priest.”

Father Mike chuckled and patted her on the back, kindly as a grandfather. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she rolled her eyes.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was me.”

“Good. Afraid it was my pacemaker.”

Nora glanced at her phone. “Well. Speak of the devil,” she said.

“Is it him?” Father Mike whispered, grinning at her like a teenage girl at a sleepover.

“It is.”

“Answer it, lass. Maybe he’s finally coming around. I would if I were him.”

Nora leaned over the pew, kissed Father Mike on the cheek and hit the answer button.

“This better be good,” she said.

“Define good,” came a sonorous voice over the line.

“I’m very busy,” she said. “I’m at St. Luke’s helping a priest friend of mine organize his hymnals.”

“If I didn’t know Mike O’Dowell, I would assume ‘organize his hymnals’ was a euphemism.”

“Not a euphemism unless you’re calling to ask me to organize your hymnals.”

“My hymnals are in perfect order already, but thank you.” His voice was cool, tempered, even. Yet she sensed something not right, a fissure in his composure.

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

“I need you.”

“Should I bring wine and wear lingerie?” she asked. “Or bring lingerie and wear wine?”

“Not necessary. I’m afraid this won’t be a particularly romantic evening.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, slipping out the side door of St. Luke’s and into the parking lot.

“There was an accident.”

“What happened?” Nora asked, her stomach sinking to the asphalt. “Was someone hurt?”

“We can discuss it tonight. I should go.”

“Søren—wait. Was anyone hurt?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding resigned and tired.

“Who?”

“We can talk about it tonight.”

“Søren,” she said again. “Please, you’re scaring me. Who was hurt?”

He sighed and Nora’s heart died a little in the sigh. That he didn’t want to tell her who was hurt meant she didn’t want to know.

“I was.”

24

Cleaning Wounds

NORA DROVE TO Sacred Heart as fast as she could praying the entire way she’d find Søren alone in the house. She parked her car behind the house in the grove that ringed the rectory. When Nora reached the side door of the rectory she found a sign taped to the window. It read “No visitors allowed. Leave Father Stearns alone. This is an order.” It was signed “Diane, Who Means Business.”

Thank God for Diane. At least she knew no one would bother her and Søren tonight.

“Søren?” she called out when she slipped through the side door and into the kitchen. No one answered. The kitchen counters were bursting with small elegant arrangements in various pots and vases of the sort one received after the death of a loved one or during a long illness. Unapologetically nosy, she peeked at a card in the nearest arrangement, a single orchid in a pale blue pot, and read the note—“Heal fast, Father S. We need you to crush First Presbyterian with us. Love, Your Sacred Heart Soccer Team.”

“Søren?” She called his name louder and raced through the house, seeking him out in every room. He wasn’t downstairs so she rushed upstairs, the soles of her navy blue sandals slapping loudly against the wood stairs.

“In here, Eleanor,” he called back. She ran to the bathroom and found him standing in front of the sink. He had a gauze bandage wrapped around his right forearm and right hand. “I could use your assistance if you don’t mind the sight of blood, which we both know you don’t.”

“Please tell me what happened,” she demanded, her heart galloping as if she’d run a four-minute mile. It hadn’t stopped since his phone call. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Sprained wrist. A few lacerations. Nothing that won’t heal.”

She stepped into the bathroom and washed her hands brusquely.

“If you could remove the gauze and then replace it, I would be in your debt,” Søren said. “It’s not easy to do with one hand.”

“How did you of all people manage to sprain your wrist?” She took his arm into her hands and started peeling back the layers of gauze. “And why couldn’t you just tell me you had a sprained wrist over the phone? You were fighting with King again, weren’t you?” If he was, she’d sprain his other wrist.

“A drunk driver ran me off the road.”

“On your motorcycle?” Nora could scarcely breathe.

“I’m afraid so. But like me, it only suffered cosmetic damage. I’m quite lucky. As a priest I should say I’m blessed, but let’s be honest, sometimes it’s nothing but luck that keeps one out of the morgue.”

“Oh, my God.” Nora could barely speak for the shock and fury. “A drunk driver ran you off the road? Who is he? I’ll kill him.”

“She, not he. She was a twenty-year-old college student, and she is already dead so I wouldn’t worry about exacting any revenge. She’s in God’s hands.”

“Jesus...you were involved in a fatal car accident, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I just told you.”

“You told me on the phone you’d been in an accident. You didn’t tell me it was a fatal car accident.”

“I know how you drive under the best of circumstances. I didn’t want you in an accident on your way to see me.”

“You would be furious at me if I’d been in a serious car accident and didn’t tell you.”

“I’m a priest, Eleanor. I can hardly call you from the hospital, can I? I do rounds there and every doctor and nurse knows me. The nurse called Diane, and as soon as the church had word of the accident, I had a dozen parishioners at the ER offering their comfort, prayers and food. Don’t take offense. I would have much preferred your company.”

“When did this happen?”

“Two nights ago.”

“Two nights?”

Søren exhaled heavily. He’d always hated having to explain himself. He did everything for a reason, he’d said time and time again. Couldn’t she simply trust that?

“I’ve had visitors all yesterday checking on me. The bishop, half a dozen Jesuits, Diane and her family, Dr. Sutton, Dr. Keighley and, of course, Claire insisted on staying the night last night. My sister is, as you know, overprotective of me.”

“Did Diane bring you home?”

“Claire did. And she’s also taking care of repairs to the Ducati. I knew you’d be worried about it.”

She couldn’t have cared less about the fucking motorcycle.

“That’s good.” Nora nodded. “I’m glad Claire was here. And you... I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I will be once the bandage is changed.”

“Right.” She took the hint and got back to work. “Sorry. I’m not used to this.”

Her hands shook as she finished unwrapping the bandage from his arm. When she peeled back the gauze pads she found road rash, raw and red but healing.