“But…but I asked you if you were. And you said not to ask questions I already knew the answer to.”
Sutherlin nodded.
“Exactly. Of course we aren’t lovers.” Sutherlin slid on a pair of chic black sunglasses. “He’s a priest. That’s gross.”
Once more Sutherlin turned on her heel and walked away. This time Suzanne let her go.
She watched as Sutherlin reached the Porsche. Two men got out of the car. No, not two men. One man and one teenage boy. The man was Griffin Fiske. And the teenage boy was… Suzanne narrowed her eyes at him. A beautiful young man, whoever he was. Almost angelic in appearance. Shoulder-length black hair, eyes so brightly silver she could see them shining from ten feet away, pale skin, thin but only in that teenage boy way…even his wrists still had that teenage boy delicateness to them. Suzanne looked more closely at his wrists and saw they bore gauze bandages. Bandages? She made the connection finally. Michael Dimir—the boy who’d slit his wrists in the sanctuary—he would be seventeen now. Griffin Fiske and Nora Sutherlin gave each other a quick kiss as the boy, Michael, unwrapped the gauze from his wrists. Sutherlin gave his wrists a thumbs-up before she kissed him quickly on the lips. The boy leaned back against Griffin Fiske’s chest as Fiske wrapped an arm possessively around him.
Michael Dimir…with Griffin Fiske? What the hell…
“Jesus, what kind of church is this?” Suzanne asked herself out loud.
“My church,” said a familiar voice from behind her.
Suzanne only smiled as Nora Sutherlin patted the boy, Michael Dimir, on the cheek. She looked back, raised her sunglasses, gave Suzanne an arrogant wink and headed toward a BMW in the parking lot.
“Do you ever just want to beat the hell out of the woman?” Suzanne asked.
Father Stearns released a heavy, much put-upon sigh.
“Every day of my life.”
Laughing, Suzanne turned around and faced him. She found him holding a small but exquisite bouquet of white roses.
“For me?” she teased.
“No.” The slight smile left his face and he gave her a look of the deepest compassion. “For Adam. I think it’s time you visited your brother’s grave.”
Suzanne fell silent. Her throat clenched. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I will go with you. You won’t be alone,” Father Stearns said as he handed her the flowers. Suzanne held them to her chest.
“Okay,” she whispered. She looked up at him and tried to smile through her tears. “He’s buried—”
“I know where he is. I also know where he’s buried. We’ll go now. I’ll meet you there.”
Suzanne couldn’t even speak to thank him. She merely headed to her car and drove to the city cemetery where the family had laid her brother to rest. Public ground. Unconsecrated ground. When she made it to the graveside, Father Stearns was already there with his perfectly blond head bowed in silent prayer.
“I still hate the Church for refusing him a Catholic burial,” Suzanne admitted as she laid the flowers on the grave. While on her knees she pulled some stray weeds off the tombstone.
Adam Gabriel Kanter. Born July 3, 1978, died November 1, 2006. The Lord hath given him rest from all his enemies. II Samuel 7:1
“I can’t blame you,” Father Stearns said. “But I can help there.”
Suzanne looked up and saw Father Stearns pull a vial of water out of his pocket. He opened it and sprinkled it over the ground.
Holy water.
Suzanne added her own tears to the holy water that he poured onto the ground.
“You’ll pray for him, won’t you?” Suzanne asked. “I can’t. I just can’t believe enough to pray. But it would mean something to me if you did.”
“I will pray for him and for you, Suzanne, every day.”
“I’ll never see you again, will I?”
Father Stearns didn’t smile.
“I think our paths were meant to cross. And perhaps it’s best they do not cross again. Not in this life anyway.”
Suzanne took the hint.
“Thank you…for everything. For Adam. For being a good priest, a good man.”
“I’m as human and as fallible as anyone. But thank you. Your faith in me is heartening. Maybe someday you’ll find your faith in Him again.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But don’t hold your breath.”
Father Stearns nodded. He reached out and caressed the arch of her cheekbone.
“Goodbye, Suzanne. If you ever truly need me, you know where to find me.”
“War zones,” she reminded him with a smile. “I can take care of myself.”
His fingers grazed her lips like the softest kiss.
“I know you can.”
He dropped his hand and started to walk off. At the edge of a cemetery she saw a Rolls Royce waiting.
“Your trust fund,” Suzanne called out suddenly remembering one last question. “Nora Sutherlin said you gave your trust fund away. Who did you give it to?”
Father Stearns kept walking.
“Rolls Royces don’t buy themselves, do they, Suzanne?” He stopped in his tracks, turned around and winked at her before walking off again toward the Rolls.
The wink seemed so familiar. Nora Sutherlin had winked at her just like that.
Just…like…that…
And Suzanne realized she’d been had.
She stared after him, after the Catholic priest who’d single-handedly bankrolled New York’s kink Underground. The story of the century walked on and walked off. With one phone call she could ruin him, ruin the diocese, bring more shame and infamy onto the Catholic Church than all the more horrible but less torrid sex scandals combined.
Sutherlin nodded.
“Exactly. Of course we aren’t lovers.” Sutherlin slid on a pair of chic black sunglasses. “He’s a priest. That’s gross.”
Once more Sutherlin turned on her heel and walked away. This time Suzanne let her go.
She watched as Sutherlin reached the Porsche. Two men got out of the car. No, not two men. One man and one teenage boy. The man was Griffin Fiske. And the teenage boy was… Suzanne narrowed her eyes at him. A beautiful young man, whoever he was. Almost angelic in appearance. Shoulder-length black hair, eyes so brightly silver she could see them shining from ten feet away, pale skin, thin but only in that teenage boy way…even his wrists still had that teenage boy delicateness to them. Suzanne looked more closely at his wrists and saw they bore gauze bandages. Bandages? She made the connection finally. Michael Dimir—the boy who’d slit his wrists in the sanctuary—he would be seventeen now. Griffin Fiske and Nora Sutherlin gave each other a quick kiss as the boy, Michael, unwrapped the gauze from his wrists. Sutherlin gave his wrists a thumbs-up before she kissed him quickly on the lips. The boy leaned back against Griffin Fiske’s chest as Fiske wrapped an arm possessively around him.
Michael Dimir…with Griffin Fiske? What the hell…
“Jesus, what kind of church is this?” Suzanne asked herself out loud.
“My church,” said a familiar voice from behind her.
Suzanne only smiled as Nora Sutherlin patted the boy, Michael Dimir, on the cheek. She looked back, raised her sunglasses, gave Suzanne an arrogant wink and headed toward a BMW in the parking lot.
“Do you ever just want to beat the hell out of the woman?” Suzanne asked.
Father Stearns released a heavy, much put-upon sigh.
“Every day of my life.”
Laughing, Suzanne turned around and faced him. She found him holding a small but exquisite bouquet of white roses.
“For me?” she teased.
“No.” The slight smile left his face and he gave her a look of the deepest compassion. “For Adam. I think it’s time you visited your brother’s grave.”
Suzanne fell silent. Her throat clenched. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I will go with you. You won’t be alone,” Father Stearns said as he handed her the flowers. Suzanne held them to her chest.
“Okay,” she whispered. She looked up at him and tried to smile through her tears. “He’s buried—”
“I know where he is. I also know where he’s buried. We’ll go now. I’ll meet you there.”
Suzanne couldn’t even speak to thank him. She merely headed to her car and drove to the city cemetery where the family had laid her brother to rest. Public ground. Unconsecrated ground. When she made it to the graveside, Father Stearns was already there with his perfectly blond head bowed in silent prayer.
“I still hate the Church for refusing him a Catholic burial,” Suzanne admitted as she laid the flowers on the grave. While on her knees she pulled some stray weeds off the tombstone.
Adam Gabriel Kanter. Born July 3, 1978, died November 1, 2006. The Lord hath given him rest from all his enemies. II Samuel 7:1
“I can’t blame you,” Father Stearns said. “But I can help there.”
Suzanne looked up and saw Father Stearns pull a vial of water out of his pocket. He opened it and sprinkled it over the ground.
Holy water.
Suzanne added her own tears to the holy water that he poured onto the ground.
“You’ll pray for him, won’t you?” Suzanne asked. “I can’t. I just can’t believe enough to pray. But it would mean something to me if you did.”
“I will pray for him and for you, Suzanne, every day.”
“I’ll never see you again, will I?”
Father Stearns didn’t smile.
“I think our paths were meant to cross. And perhaps it’s best they do not cross again. Not in this life anyway.”
Suzanne took the hint.
“Thank you…for everything. For Adam. For being a good priest, a good man.”
“I’m as human and as fallible as anyone. But thank you. Your faith in me is heartening. Maybe someday you’ll find your faith in Him again.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But don’t hold your breath.”
Father Stearns nodded. He reached out and caressed the arch of her cheekbone.
“Goodbye, Suzanne. If you ever truly need me, you know where to find me.”
“War zones,” she reminded him with a smile. “I can take care of myself.”
His fingers grazed her lips like the softest kiss.
“I know you can.”
He dropped his hand and started to walk off. At the edge of a cemetery she saw a Rolls Royce waiting.
“Your trust fund,” Suzanne called out suddenly remembering one last question. “Nora Sutherlin said you gave your trust fund away. Who did you give it to?”
Father Stearns kept walking.
“Rolls Royces don’t buy themselves, do they, Suzanne?” He stopped in his tracks, turned around and winked at her before walking off again toward the Rolls.
The wink seemed so familiar. Nora Sutherlin had winked at her just like that.
Just…like…that…
And Suzanne realized she’d been had.
She stared after him, after the Catholic priest who’d single-handedly bankrolled New York’s kink Underground. The story of the century walked on and walked off. With one phone call she could ruin him, ruin the diocese, bring more shame and infamy onto the Catholic Church than all the more horrible but less torrid sex scandals combined.
