Author: Tiffany Reisz

But the phone never rang. And even when he called her, she never answered. And now thirteen months later, he still hadn’t heard a word from her. Was she happy? Safe? Was she with Søren right now? Was that bastard hurting her? Wesley’s heart clenched at the very thought of them together. Only his hatred of Søren burned hotter and stronger than his lingering love for Nora.

But just barely.

Wesley turned into the drive and paused to punch in the security code. The iron gates yawned open and he drove through. He checked the time—11:53 p.m. Mom and Dad had been in bed for hours, thank God. No one would bother him with questions if he ran into the main house for a few minutes.

He killed the headlights as he pulled into the circular drive. Ever since coming back home, he’d lived in the guesthouse way out back. But all the mail went to the big house. He’d applied to Tulane—great pre-med program—but wasn’t quite sure he could handle NOLA weather. Kentucky summers were bad enough.

Wesley stood in the foyer and flipped on the lamp by the big entryway mirror. Glancing at himself he still didn’t quite recognize the person reflected back. For months he’d put off a much-needed haircut. When he lived with Nora she would pounce on him about his hair when it got too long, sometimes literally. Once he’d been lying on the couch reading when he felt a weight on his chest. His book went flying and he found Nora straddling his hips with her knees; she had both hands on his chest and a pair of scissors clenched between her teeth like some kind of guerrilla hairstylist.

“What are you doing?” Wesley had demanded as Nora held him down with one hand while her right hand wielded the scissors.

“Cutting your hair. You have the most beautiful brown eyes of any guy on earth and you let your damn hair hide them. Now don’t move unless you want me to blind you.”

The scissors inched closer and he’d tunneled his head into the couch cushions as far as he could. Nora only backed off when he swore on the grave of Anaïs Nin—her personal hero—he’d get his hair professionally cut that week. Now his hair almost reached his shoulders. His mom gave him hell for his hair, but her complaining didn’t make him nearly as happy as Nora’s haircut ambushes. Secretly he thought of his long hair as a source of strength, like Samson. He hadn’t cut it just to spite Nora. She couldn’t see it, couldn’t care less. But he knew if she saw him, she’d hate how long it was. And that gave him a little dark measure of satisfaction. Stupid really. She didn’t care about him, didn’t love him, didn’t miss him. Why bother?

Wesley flipped through the mail and found nothing of interest. Nothing from Tulane yet. Still too soon probably. Only sent his stuff in two weeks ago. He dropped the mail back on the side table and noticed a large padded envelope addressed to him.

He read the return address and saw it came from somewhere in New York. Had one of his old Yorke friends sent him something? Wesley tore the envelope open.

For at least a full minute Wesley stared at the cover of the hardbound book.

The Consolation Prize by Nora Sutherlin.

With shaking fingers Wesley slowly opened the cover. He turned one blank page…then another. On the title page he found a note in familiar handwriting.

Turn the page, Wes.

Wesley took a shallow breath. His heart raced wildly in his chest. Thirteen months of nothing but the silent treatment and now…

On the next page he found the dedication.

Wesley leaned his weight against the front door. He needed something to keep him standing. The door didn’t work, and he slid to the floor. He remembered…Nora in her bed, her hair still wet, her face devoid of any makeup. And she’d never looked so beautiful. The next day was her anniversary with Søren and as usual she intended to go see him. Finally Wesley had realized the simply horrible fact of the matter.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he’d asked her.

She’d run her hands through her wet hair and let the water droplets fall to the floor.

“Many waters,” she’d said.

Many waters cannot quench love, Nor will  rivers overflow it. Song of Solomon 8:7.

In other words, yes, she still loved Søren.

Wesley stared at the dedication until his eyes watered.

To W.R. Many waters.

She’d dedicated the book to him. Not to Søren, as she had all her other books. Many waters… She still loved him too.

Underneath the dedication Nora had written him another note.

Wesley, you twerp, you could have told  me.

Could have told her? Could have told her what?

Wesley looked up. Hanging from the ceiling in the entryway to his home was a chandelier that had once hung in Versailles—the French palace, not the town in Kentucky. And the book had come straight to this address, not his old school one and then forwarded.

“Shit…” Wesley breathed. She knew who he was now. How had she found out? Well, not that hard really. She must have looked him up on Google or something. He should return the favor. The address on the envelope wasn’t anything he recognized. Maybe she’d left Connecticut, left New York City, left Søren.

Grabbing the book and the envelope, he raced through the big house and out the back door. At the guesthouse, his house, he could barely get the key in the lock. Once inside he slapped on a light, grabbed his laptop and went to Google. He typed in Nora Sutherlin and the city Guilford.

The very first hit took him to a New York City gossip site. Scanning the article he discovered Nora had gone to some S&M club as the date of a guy named Griffin Fiske. At first Wesley’s heart swelled with happiness that Nora had gone anywhere in the presence of any guy who wasn’t Søren. Maybe they’d broken up. Wesley quickly Googled Griffin Fiske and had the unpleasant shock of discovering he already knew him. Or at least knew of him. He’d seen Griffin’s name in Nora’s cell phone once and he’d casually asked her who he was.

“My personal trainer,” Nora had answered without batting an eyelash. Nora’s “personal trainer” was also the obscenely rich son of the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange, a former drug addict who’d had a couple stints in rehab, the grandson of the owners of Raeburn Farm, and kind of obnoxiously good-looking in a tanned and muscley sort of way. God, he looked like one of those guys in Calvin Klein ads in Vanity  Fair. Not Nora’s usual type. She went for guys like her editor Zach Easton—handsome in a distinguished sort of way, overeducated and usually older than her. Wesley had never seen Søren, not even a picture of him, but he guessed that’s what he looked like too. They’d spoken on the phone once and even Søren’s voice sounded well manicured. Yet another reason to hate the man.

Wesley took a long, slow, deep breath and ran through the facts in his mind.

Nora didn’t seem to be with Søren anymore.

Nora did seem to be keeping bad company, however.

Nora had dedicated her book to him with the words Many waters…

Wesley got up and started packing.

* * *

Suzanne stared at the ceiling and tried to become one with her sofa. Emptying her mind, she slowed her breathing and focused only on the beating of her heart. It pounded hard, almost audibly. She breathed deep again but the pounding only grew louder. Groaning she raised a hand to forehead and called out, “Go away, Patrick.”

“Open the damn door, Suz,” he called back. “I’m not leaving until you let me in or the cops come for me.” Once more he beat on the door. How the hell was anyone supposed to meditate under these conditions?

She stood up, walked to the door and threw it open.

“Fine. Come in.” Suzanne threw herself back down on the couch and closed her eyes.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Where have you been?” Patrick demanded. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know he stood next to the couch glaring at her.

“I’ve been busy. I started writing a book about my time in Afghanistan. Been living at the library.”

A long silence followed her words.

“A book…about Afghanistan. That’s why you haven’t called me back or emailed me or answered the door or anything for six fucking weeks?”

“I’m very busy. Can’t you see?”

She’d hoped the bitchiness would send Patrick running. Instead he sat down on the couch right next to her stomach.

“Suz.”

She shut her eyes tight.

“Suzanne.”

Slowly she opened them.

“What happened?” Patrick asked, brushing a lock of hair off her face. The tone of his voice was so gentle, the concern so intimate that tears sprang to her eyes. “Something happened. Tell me.”

She swallowed hard and covered her eyes with her hands.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I can’t…”

“That priest you were investigating…did something happen? Did he threaten you? Hurt you?”

Suzanne laughed miserably.

Hurt her? Well, she did have bruises the day after. Suzanne’s whole body tingled from the memory of that night a month and a half ago. She’d been such an idiot going to the rectory. Looking back she saw that she’d started to fall for Father Stearns. Maybe not fall for him. Maybe it wasn’t love. But lust definitely. Lust as she’d never experienced before in her life—blazing hot, unbearable, like a fist in her stomach and a splinter in her mind.

Suzanne, are you planning on standing in  the hallway all night staring at me? Or are you coming in?

She’d come in. And he’d turned to her. And she’d reached out and laid her hands on his chest. Underneath her hand she’d felt his heart beating slow and steady. He hadn’t been afraid or nervous. Only her. In an instant his mouth had crashed onto hers and she’d thrown herself into the kiss, body and soul. Her nails dug into his back, her breasts pressed into his chest. Nothing would have stopped her from having him that night. Not the Church or the state or her better judgment or her job or even her memories of Adam. She reached between their bodies to unbutton his pants, and a pair of hands with a viselike grip clamped down on her wrists. She found herself backed to the wall, her arms pinned above her head, and Søren’s face by hers, his eyes closed, the slightest grimace of pain on his face.

“I can’t…” he’d whispered and his hands had dug deeper into her soft skin.

And she should have left at that. But she couldn’t. In her twenty-eight years, she’d had sex, she’d liked sex, she’d enjoyed sex…but not until that moment had she needed it, needed it more than the air her lungs demanded of her.

“Please.” She’d said please once and she should have stopped there. But it came out again. “Please, Søren…please…” and over and over again. She begged for him, begged for it. Even now, six weeks later, she couldn’t think of how much she’d pleaded with him without blushing with utter shame. She would have sold her soul to feel him inside her.

Instead he’d covered her mouth with his hand to stop her words.

“Forgive me, Suzanne,” he’d said and she heard her own need echoed in his voice. “I do not belong to myself.”

And slowly he’d let her go. And once free of his shockingly strong hands, she’d run hard and fast from the rectory, back to her car, back to the city and away from him.

The next day she couldn’t stop staring at her own skin. Søren had purpled her arms from elbow to wrist. And looking at those bruises brought back such waves of desire that she’d lain in bed giving herself the pleasure he’d denied her and crying during every orgasm.

“I fucked up, Patrick,” she said finally. “I fucked up the whole investigation. I killed my credibility.”

“What did you do?”